Juhood Magazine: Volume 3, Issue 2

juhood v o l u m e

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i s s u e

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JUHOOD v o l u m e

t h i r d

Containing four essays regarding

THE MIDDLE EASTERN REGION which shall be considered to include the

NORTH OF AFRICA , TURKEY and IRAN edited by HANNAH KAPLON , and her merry team.

WE HAPPILY PRESENT this journal ;

C O N S I S T I N G O N L Y O F U N D E R G R A D U AT E W O R K , to our esteemed readers.

D U R H A M,

In the year two thousand and twenty one P u b l i s h e d

a t

D u ke U n i ve r s i t y M a g a z i n e .

b y

J u h o o d

1 Acknowledgements Editor In Chief

Hannah Kaplon

Associate Editor In Chief

Jasper Schutt Copy Editors

Ava Erfani Gianna Affi

lllustrations

Julia Sargis

Featured Artist

Lena Kassicieh | @lena.kassichieh

Our Sponsors

John Spencer Basset Fund Student Organization Finance Committee (SOFC) Duke University Middle East Studies Center

The information provided by our contributors is not independently verified by Juhood. The materials presented represent the personal opinions of the individual authors and do not necessarily represent the views of Juhood or Duke University.

Juhood: The Journal of Middle Eastern and North African Affairs Volume 3, Issue 2, Summer 2021 • Copyright © 2021 Duke University

2 Editor’s Note October 18, 2021 Dear Readers and Friends, As I sit in Vondy as a first semester senior and look out the glass windows at Duke’s gothic stone buildings, I can’t help but feel an intense nostalgia. In my short time at Duke, the world has completely changed. It’s been nearly two years since I have sat here unmasked and ignorant to the impending doom that is and was the Covid-19 Pandemic. Walking on an isolated campus my junior year, I felt like a visitor. Now, I feel a bit of culture shock, overwhelmed by the masses of students I no longer recognize, whose faces I cannot completely see. Just lots and lots of eyes.

The end of my college experience is very near, but I – and I think I can speak for many of my Class of 2022 peers when I say this – don’t feel ready. I doubt anyone is ever ready to graduate and enter the “real world,” but with a year and a half of Covid, we lost some time. I have to admit that this issue of Juhood is overdue, for a variety of reasons and setbacks that always come with the publication process, but also, mostly as a result of my procrastination. Juhood has been a defining part of my college experience, and, truthfully, I wasn’t ready to let it go.

Yet, it’s funny how things in life always seem to have a way of coming full circle. Last month, Jake and Bryan, two of Juhood’s founders, officially graduated in the Class of 2020 commencement.

Their senior year had ended like an unfinished sentence, abruptly and unexpectedly. For a brief weekend at Duke, it seemed as if it was time to pick up where we left off, and then suddenly, 2020 was officially over. It feels like just yesterday I was walking into my first Juhood meeting, Phoebe, Bryan, Jake, and Josh excited and anxious to present the organization they had been putting together for many months. I was an overly determined and enthusiastic freshman, thrilled to join the group. Little did I know that Juhood would eventually feel like home.

Now, I look back at my time on Juhood with joy and gratitude. I’m thankful for the creative outlet, the incredible platform, and the opportunity it has given me to connect with scholars, artists, and activists invested in the Middle East across the globe. But most of all, I’m thankful for the people: Phoebe, Juhood’s first Editor in Chief, artistic icon, and my inspiration to join the team. Bryan, the man with the vision, the brains behind the operation, and our number one supporter. Grayson, mother of the magazine and the giggliest ball of joy. Gianna, our sanity, organizational expert, and loyal helping hand. Hadeel, our kind-hearted leader, the glue that held us together, my ‘bookend’.

And Jake, my Juhood mentor, teacher of invaluable life lessons, ready listener, and dear friend.

Thank you for making Juhood a community I will never forget.

So now – Jasper, Rebecca, Rose, Manon, Cate, and Emily – we hand it over to you. Hadeel, Grayson, Gianna, and I are so excited to see what you and the new team members of Juhood create this upcoming year. We know it’s going to be wonderful.

-Hannah

_ 07 NASKH The Proliferation of a Distinct Ottoman Calligraphy

CATE KNOTHE DUKE

_ 31

_ 47

PLACING ZOROASTRIAN MONOTHEISM IN CONTEXT

RECONCILIATION THROUGH HUMILITY

A Comparative Analysis

DARIO DHARSI UNIV. OF BC

Ismaili and Twelver Shi’i Esoteric Journeys with Justice

ERIN ASLAMI HARVARD

_ 59 THE BINATIONAL COLONIALISM OF BRIT SHALOM

ANCHITA DASGUPTA BROWN

_ 71 ARTIST INTERVIEW

_ 77 END MATTER

NASHK

The Proliferation of a Distinct Ottoman Caligraphy

By Cate Knothe

A

8

rabesques weave across faded pages in shades of blue, green, red, and pink, filling the margins of the Islamic devotional book with implied luminance [Figure 1.1]. Yet even though the eye is drawn toward the brilliance of these designs, the focus of the work remains on the elegant black text flowing across the page. This style of calligraphy, known as naskh, was not a surprising choice for the calligrapher, Ismāʻīl al-maʻrūf bi-Baghdādī, when he penned this book between 1600 and 1799 in Ottoman Turkey. By the late 17th century, naskh had emerged as the preeminent calligraphic script used in Ottoman texts and manuscripts.

Before this, however, naskh underwent a long process of development, emerging from a complex history that was grounded in the contributions of individual masters over countless generations. In this essay, I will discuss how these individual masters shaped the emergence of naskh within Ottoman society. Furthermore, I will argue that factors such as legibility, master-student transmission, and calligraphic connections to Islamic origins were imperative in establishing naskh as an important spiritual art form that embodied messages of transcendental faith within Ottoman society.

SIGNIFICANCE OF WRITING IN ISLAM Calligraphy emerged as the predominant art form of the Islamic world due to the centrality of writing within the Islamic faitßh. One of Islam’s core ideas is that “writing is a special quality of the human race,” and many Muslims consider the pen one of God’s first creations (Schimmel 1). The centrality of the written word is apparent in the revelations that came down to Muhammad in Mecca. In the first Meccan revelation, Sura 96, Gabriel tells Muhammad that Allah “taught man by the pen.” The importance of language in early Qur’anic revelations initiated the Islamic literary tradition––one that has spread across continents and persisted over generations. A product of this Islamic literacy, calligraphy grew to become an important tradition in its own right, as even the illiterate could connect with the messages of aesthetic beauty crafted by a calligrapher’s hand. The words written in calligraphic script acted not only as a way to retell the revelations of Muhammad, but also as a way to depict these revelations through visual imagery. Thus, Muslims, both literate and illiterate, came to see the calligraphic Qur’anic script as “their most precious heirloom” (Schimmel 33).

In the Ottoman tradition, calligraphic style itself became a way to pay homage to the origins of the calligrapher’s faith. Naskh, like many other Ottoman scripts, slants slightly to the left. Scholar Nabia Abbott, one of the first to study Qur’anic scripts, considers styles that slant slightly to the left and contain a small curve at the beginning of the alif to be Meccan in origin (Schimmel 3). Several early calligraphers developed this distinct style in the holy city of Mecca, before it spread to other

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Figure 1.1 An Islamic devotional book produced by Ismā’īl al-ma’rūf bi-Baghdādī between the years 1600 and 1799 in Ottoman Turkey. These first two pages reflect the characteristic naskh text of that time period, as well as a traditional arabesque illumination. The ink smudges in the text seem to suggest Ismā’īl was not a master calligrapher. There are also noticeable spots where the he lifted the pen off the paper in order to refill ink and then returned to the stroke. See the work of masters Shaykh Hamdullah and Hafiz Osman for a comparison. They mask these areas convincingly as the characters seem to flow continuously across the page.

Ismā’īl al-ma’rūf bi-Baghdādī. Islamic Devotional Book. 1600-1799. Duke University Libraries, Durham.

10 geographic areas. Therefore, by writing in this style, Ottoman calligraphers were able to connect with the origins of their faith. Writing each character slanting slightly left reminded calligraphers of the history of the revelations and helped them to truly comprehend the religious significance of their art form. In fact, there is a saying in Turkish that refers to this relationship between Ottoman calligraphy and connecting with the Islamic heartland: “Kuran Mekke’ye indi, Misir’da okundu, Istanbul’da yazildi” or “The Qur’an was revealed in Mecca, was recited [properly] in Egypt, and was written in Istanbul” (Schimmel, 24). These calligraphers saw themselves as an important continuation of the Islamic literary tradition, cementing the teachings of Mecca in Turkey through the written word.

THE ORIGINS OF NASKH IN SECULAR AND SPIRITUAL SCRIPTS While naskh would later become one of the most important styles for religious Ottomans, the style originated as a secular script. Naskh arose from a loose amalgamation of secular cursive styles that came about with the influx of paper (Osborn 20). Originally, Arabic script was written on clay or wooden tablets. Kufic script, a more angular style of writing, was used on these surfaces. However, with increased paper usage starting in the late 600s, the predecessors to naskh emerged. These styles were slimmer than kufic and written in cursive, which made it easier to write quickly and record spoken word. In Letters of Light, J.R. Osborn claims that: the vast majority [of these scripts were] soundly bureaucratic: a script for economic transactions and sales of land, scripts of correspondence from caliph to emirs in outlying regions, scripts used for exchanges between kings of equal stature, and so on (20).

These pre-naskh styles were exclusive, using abbreviations in order to keep the messages secret and prevent forgery. As a result, only religious elites and professionally-trained scribes were able to understand and decode their messages.

The forms of script seen in these secular documents varied widely based on region and individual scribe. The beginnings of a unified naskh are rooted in the contributions of several Iraqi master calligraphers who standardized the forms of each letter. In the mid-10th century, calligrapher Ibn Muqlah established the notion of perfect proportion in the design of script. A vizier who lost his tongue and hand to his political enemies, Ibn Muqlah is said to have written his calligraphy by attaching a reed pen to the stump where his hand would have been (Osborn 15). His studies resulted in al-khatt al mansub, a system for measuring correct letter proportions.

Al-khatt al-mansub measured each of the 28 letters of the Arabic alphabet in proportion to the letter alif (looks similar to the English “l”) and used nuqta, or rhombic dots, to ensure this proportion [Figure 1.2]. Ibn Muqlah’s al khatt al-mansub “provided scribal, administrative, and educational consistency” (Osborn 36), offering the geometric foundation upon which Ottoman naskh was created. Several decades later, master calligraphers began focusing on the aesthetic qualities of calligraphy

11

Figure 1.2 Pictured above is the system of al-khatt al-mansub pioneered by Ibn Muqta. It used rhombic dots, called nuqta to ensure perfect proportion between letters. In the upper right-hand corner is the letter alif which was used as the standard for all other letters to be measured against.

Ja’far, Mustafa. 2002. Arabic Calligraphy: Naskh Script for Beginners. San Francisco: McGraw-Hill.

12 and expanded Ibn Muqlah’s perfect proportion into the realm of artistry.

Iraqi calligrapher Ibn al-Bawwab adopted Ibn Muqlah’s al khatt al-mansub at the end of the 10th century (Lings 54). Ibn al-Bawwab further developed early naskh and “rendered the method of Ibn Muqlah with elegance and splendor” (Osborn 36).

Ibn al-Bawwab’s emphasis on artistry is best seen in his application of early naskh to Qur’anic manuscripts. Although not the first calligrapher to copy the Qur’an using naskh, his work is some of the most important to the Ottoman tradition. The style of Ibn al-Bawwab contributed greatly to the popularization of naskh as a sacred—rather than purely secular—script and inspired its later adoption into the Ottoman tradition. Furthermore, Ibn al-Bawwab became the inspiration of Yaqut al-Musta’simi, a calligrapher in the late 13th century who is known as the “Sultan of Calligraphers.”

Yaqut al-Musta’simi served as the secretary to the final Abbasid caliph and devoutly practiced his calligraphy every day. He is credited with beginning the custom of cutting a slanted nib for his reed pen, transitioning from the straight nib used in the rectangular kufic script and early naskh. This slanted nib added a level of dexterity to the scribe’s hand and allowed for the more suitable creation of cursive script.

Further, as a non-Arab slave, Yaqut al Musta’simi helped shift marked the shifting of naskh creation away from privileged religious leaders and toward a “wider Muslim community” (Osborn 39). This shift towards a vernacular naskh continued during the reign of the Ottomans. Through the contributions of Yaqut al-Musta’simi, inspired by the work of Ibn Muqlah and Ibn al-Bawwab, naskh emerged as one of the most widespread styles within the calligraphic tradition, spreading throughout the Islamic world.

THE SYSTEM OF MASTER TO STUDENT TRANSMISSION Several centuries later, during the age of the Ottomans, calligraphy became an integral component of Turkish culture. In particular, Ottoman calligraphers focused on perfecting the usage of naskh and thuluth scripts, or as they are known in Turkish, nesih and sülüs (Blair 476). Mastery of script was an important business during the Ottoman rule. It is estimated that in 1682, “there were eighty to ninety thousand copyists working in Istanbul” (Blair 479).

Through a system of master-to-student transmission, calligraphic conventions were created and then passed down through the generations. With their own specific styles and flourishes, each master taught their students the designs they knew best. During the Ottoman era, many masters began documenting their work, not only in the projects they undertook, but also in helpful guides to calligraphy presented to their students [Figure 1.3]. Covering such topics as how to shape each Arabic character, these guides aided in the transmission of a standardized style of calligraphy. Therefore, even though each master calligrapher had their own individual sense of embellishment, the characteristics of the mathematically proportioned, round naskh script permeated Ottoman society as

13

Figure 1.3 A master’s guide to creating ‘perfect’ thuluth script. This illustrates the method of using dots to mathematically produce proportional script. While this copy depicts thuluth script, it is a close relative of naskh and both were taught using this method.

Illustration of the letter ya’ from an annotated copy of Tajzada’s 16th-century treatise on thuluth. Ann Arbor, Michigan, University of Michigan, Harlan/Hatcher special Collections, Kebecizade Mehmed Vasfi Efendi, Turkish MSS401, fo. 17a. Islamic Calligraphy by Sheila Blair, Edinburgh University Press, p. 478.

14 masters taught students and students carried the tradition onward. This system of transmission advanced the usage of naskh within Ottoman calligraphic circles.

The system of master-to-student transmission also acted as a bridge to the calligrapher’s faith and the foundations of naskh in sacred text. A connection can be seen between this system of transmission and the tradition of hadith. Hadith is the collection of practices, actions, and sayings of the Prophet Muhammad that acts as a form of moral guidance for many Muslims. Hadith itself is passed through Muslim communities by way of a chain of transmission, and each chain leads back to the same origin: Muhammad. Similarly, the master-to-student transmission of calligraphy models this chain, leading back to Mecca through centuries of calligraphy teachers. This helped Ottoman calligraphers perfect their scriptwriting by creating a connection to the origins of their faith as well as continue an essential literary tradition.

Another connection between the tradition of hadith and calligraphy is seen with how the behavior of a transmitter or calligrapher determined the quality of their work. Many hadith transmitters were deemed either trustworthy or untrustworthy based on their actions in life and displayed piety. Similarly, master calligraphers were also evaluated based on their behavior, as there was a common belief that in order to write the words of the divine, one must be devout: “purity of writing is purity of the soul” (Azad qtd. in Schimmel 37). Many calligraphers, especially within the Ottoman calligraphic community, were considered to be servants of God, bringing the words of the divine into the world. One master, Hafiz Osman, was known as the “prophet of penmanship” (Schimmel 74), demonstrating his position as a servant of God, tasked with bringing the words of God to the earthly Muslim community. Hafiz Osman’s epithet depicts the religious respect these masters were granted by Muslims and their elevated status within society. Indeed, it was the developmental work of these masters, two in particular, that fully ignited and encouraged the continuation of naskh transmission between generations and marked the creation of something distinctly Ottoman.

MASTER CALLIGRAPHER SHAYKH HAMDULLAH The beginnings of the distinct Ottoman naskh tradition are linked to the work of Hamdullah ibn Mustafa Dede, also known as Shaykh Hamdullah. During the late 15th century, Shaykh Hamdullah ascended to the position of “head of scribes” as he refined the Iraqi naskh to become a product of his own variety (Lings and Safadi 79). Characteristic for his “command of the naskh script in which the rounded tails swoop rhythmically across the page,” Shaykh Hamdullah’s naskh increased the popularity of this style (“Hamdullah, Şeyh.”). In his lifetime, Shaykh Hamdullah was said to have penned almost fifty Qur’anic manuscripts alongside the production of small prayers and individual vers-

15 es. In these texts, Shaykh Hamdullah reinforced the convention of using naskh script for textual calligraphy, a custom that was then emulated by his contemporaries and following generations. As Sheila Blair states in Islamic Calligraphy: ...the style of naskh canonized by Shaykh Hamdullah had a long shelf life. His style passed through his family and it became such an icon that virtually all Ottoman calligraphers trace their lineage back to this master, both verbally and visually (Blair 481).

Shaykh Hamdullah’s popularity aided in the widespread proliferation of naskh and cemented it as the standard textual script in Ottoman calligraphic tradition.

A collection of hadith penned by Shaykh Hamdullah currently on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art depicts his fluid style of naskh [Figure 1.4]. Below a heading written in thuluth script, smaller lines of elegant black naskh work their way across the page. Framed by a background of marbled paper, the script becomes the main focus as the crispness of the black ink contrasts against the light pastel colors. In this work, the Ottoman calligraphy tradition’s influence is clear. The characters drawn from Hamdullah’s pen transcend into the realm of artistry, serving both a functional and visual purpose.

Through the transformation of fluid motions and sweeping letter tails, Shaykh Hamdullah became the Qiblat al-Khuttat, or the Calligrapher’s Point of Orientation, determining the direction of Ottoman calligraphic tradition (Lings 79).

Shaykh Hamdullah’s also maintained an emphasis on legibility, a contribution that resounded with Ottoman Muslim society (Osborn 55). Legibility in Arabic script is dependent upon a scribe’s inclusion of specific layers, each added as an assistance to the reader. According to J.R. Osborn in Letters of Light, there are seven distinct layers of calligraphic creation with the first two layers being required in order to deem a text ‘legible.’ [Figure 1.5] These two layers are rasm, the 14 base structures from which the 28 Arabic letters are created, and i’jaam, the “dots [that are] placed above or below the skeleton script” in order to create these 28 letters (Osborn 29). In many early texts, specifically during the 7th and 8th centuries, only the first layer, rasm, was included. It created a partially legible text, albeit one that was not easy for laypersons to read. Oftentimes, these texts were used solely by religious elites as devices to recall passages and verses they had previously memorized. The texts were not meant to provide new knowledge but rather aid those already privileged with information.

However, with the expansion of Islamic influence into new cultures where different dialects were spoken, there arose a fear that the Arabic spoken by Muhammad would change over time, an “awareness of the danger of misreading important words” (Schimmel 16). In order to standardize the Arabic of the Qur’an, “the use of diacritical marks and, in many cases, of vowel signs became more common” (Schimmel 16) in order to make texts more accessible. Soon, the higher layers of calligraphic creation emerged as a more universal feature in manuscripts. These layers, such as tashkil and tashkil-shaddah, emphasized phonetic vocalization and signs for vowels within the

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Figure 1.4 Below a title in thuluth scripture, Shaykh Hamdullah’s characteristic naskh can be seen. Here, the eye is drawn toward the elongated tails and gentle flourishes of his letters. The vocalizations are created using a gentle touch and every letter seems to be fluidly linked together. None show signs of the pen’s ink being refilled.

Hamdullah ibn Mustafa Dede, Shaykh. Album of Calligraphies Including Poetry and Prophetic Traditions (Hadith). 1500, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City.

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Figure 1.5 Arabic texts can be evaluated based on whether they include the above calligraphic layers. Each designated layer is depicted in light grey. Layers 1 and 2 are seen as necessary for legibility, however, layers 3 through 7 add significantly to reader comprehension.

Milo, Thomas. 2002a. “Arabic Script and Typography: A Brief Historical Overview.” In Language, Culture, Type: International Type Design in the Age of Unicode, edited by John D. Berry, 112–127. New York: Association Typographique Internationale (ATypI).

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Figure 1.6 Written in naskh, this manuscript fragment is a chant praising God and meant to be read aloud.

It is fully vocalized and includes punctuation marks in red ink.

Fragment of a zikr. 1500-1600. Duke University Libraries, Durham.

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Figure 1.7 This 1801 Qur’anic manuscript from an unknown location appears Ottoman in its creation. The text is written in naskh and the margins are filled with notes, many regarding recitation. It is also fully vocalized and shares many similarities with the Islamic devotional book penned by Ismā’īl al-ma’rūf bi-Baghdādī.

Al-Qur’an. 1801. Duke University Libraries, Durham.

20 text. This allowed for the Arabic to be phonetically and linguistically standardized, even as the language spread across cultures. Shaykh Hamdullah advocated for these extended forms of legibility within his own work, inspiring future manuscript calligraphers to include diacritical markings within their own texts.

Consequently, Shaykh Hamdullah’s work became the calligraphic standard to which many other Ottoman master calligraphers looked for guidance. In the Duke Rubenstein Early Manuscripts Collection, there is a fragment of a zikr manuscript written in naskh which reflects the emerging usage of these layers [Figure 1.6]. This text, an Islamic chant praising God, was written by an unknown calligrapher sometime during the 16th century, a century after Shaykh Hamdullah’s rise in popularity.

In this fragment, the naskh calligraphy is of a more angular design than the style of Shaykh Hamdullah. The script, written in a thick black ink, marches across the page in staccato strokes. It is fully vocalized with the layers of i’jaam and tashkil seen in the black markings sitting above and below the skeletal structure of rasm. Also included are punctuation marks in red. This text, a chant praising God, was meant to be read aloud. Therefore, legibility was of the utmost importance. Through the expanded layers of calligraphic creation and inclusion of punctuation, the script itself aids the reader in the recitation of the chant.

Another naskh manuscript located within the Duke Rubenstein Early Manuscripts Collection further expands upon Shaykh Hamdullah’s tradition of legibility as an important feature of Ottoman Qur’anic manuscripts [Figure 1.7]. Al-Qur’an, as this 1801 manuscript is titled, is not only fully vocalized in black and red like the fragment of zikr, but it also includes extensive marginal notes. These marginal notes are concerned almost entirely with recitation and fill the edges of each page with additional knowledge. With these notes, we can see the importance the calligrapher placed on a reader’s comprehension. Enhanced legibility became tied to religious duty as it assisted in the proper Qur’anic recitation amongst people of varied backgrounds and mother tongues. In Ottoman Turkey, where an assortment of languages such as Turkish, Farsi, Urdu, and Arabic converged, this legibility was an important and distinctive characteristic of naskh within the religious sphere.

During Shaykh Hamdullah’s career, he stressed the importance of these layers and his distinctive naskh is founded within the concept of legibility. Not only did his style of script inspire calligraphers of sacred text such as those who penned the zikr and al-Qur’an in Rubenstein’s collections, but he also brought about a resurgence of standardized naskh within the sphere of Ottoman secular documentation. After Shaykh Hamdullah revolutionized the design of naskh, the style spread through in a wide range of “scientific, legal, popular, devotional, and literary content” (Osborn 56). This was due to its “horizontal compactness and reduced curvature to accentuate clarity,” as well as a calligrapher’s ability to fit large amounts of naskh text into a smaller amount of space, economizing on paper costs (Osborn 56). This is clearly illustrated with the Duke Rubenstein Collection’s holding, Three Islamic Legal Texts

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Figure 1.8 Heavily watermarked, this Ottoman legal text is written in a compact and legible naskh. It is fully vocalized, with overlining appearing in red.

Three Islamic Legal Texts. 1582 to 1614. Duke University Libraries, Durham.

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Figure 1.9 This text covers the history of rulers and patriarchs in the ancient Greek city of Byzantium. It is written in naskh script, although the usage of brown and red colors and the more angular style of text allude to the traditional European maghribi. ‫ المسیحیین الملوك تاریخ‬/ ‫ اللغة من مستخرج ؛ بجیفاال الملقب القبرصي متى الفاضل المعلم تألیف من‬.Matthaios, Tzigalas . ‫ األب بمرسوم العربیة اللغة إلى الرومیة‬. . . ‫مكاریوس البطریرك‬ ‫الحلبي‬ 1648 to 1699. Duke University Libraries, Durham.

23 [Figure 1.8]. In this work, penned sometime between the years of 1582 and 1614, the script is an angular version of Hamdullah’s fluid naskh. On each page, 27 to 28 lines of text are inscribed––a stark departure from the average 15 lines typically inhabiting a page of a Qur’anic manuscript. However, even with the high saturation of text filling the page, the lines remain articulated through clean lines of naskh. Reader comprehension was even increased through red overlining of the text. With this legal manuscript, it is evident that Shaykh Hamdullah’s naskh became applied to a number of diverse secular documents.

Another holding within the Duke Rubenstein collection portrays the application of naskh in a completely different secular field. This holding, a history of Byzantium rulers, was penned between 1648 and 1699 in Syria, a part of the Ottoman Empire at that time [Figure 1.9]. The light brown script takes on a more fluid design than that of the legal document, filling the page with between 20 and 23 lines of text. The brown ink and red punctuation, coupled with a European style of binding, seems to suggest the influence of maghribi, which was a more European style of calligraphy often penned in brown and red, on this naskh creation. This style might be a nod to the European connection with the topic of this manuscript, which focused on the history of Byzantium, the Ancient Greek city that would eventually become Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine Empire (Eastern Roman Empire), and later Istanbul, the capital of the Ottoman Empire. Nevertheless, the naskh style standardized by Shaykh Hamdullah acted as the basis for this text, creating clear lines of script that carried knowledge from the pen of the calligrapher to the mind of the reader.

The importance of Shaykh Hamdullah’s naskh is also closely associated with Sufism. During the Ottoman time period, many master calligraphers were in some way connected to the Sufi order, as exemplified by Shaykh Hamdullah. Through devout study, he ascended to the important position of “shaykh” within the Sufi order and became authorized to teach others about the faith. During Ottoman times, Sufism explored the symbolic power of the calligraphic script. Within each written character, Sufis sought connection to the divine. The process of writing became a source of empowerment and closeness to Allah. One Sufi belief indicated that if one copied the Busiri’s Burda, an Arabic ode to the prophet, one could “acquire merit by writing the poem, but he would also be protected against fire and illness” (Schimmel 86). This depicts the increasing belief of Sufis in the power of writing scripture.

Many Ottoman calligraphers, many of whom were Sufis, believed that this calligraphic process, and in repeating these strokes over and over, was a way to connect with the divine. When Ottoman master calligraphers and secular scribes retired, many often found an increased sense of spirituality by continuing their daily ritual of copying prayers and religious text (Schimmel 61). A belief developed amongst them, as well as amongst other Ottoman Muslims, that calligraphers were the servants of God, and that “He who writes the basmala beautifully… will enter Paradise” (Schimmel 81). Under Sufism, different Arabic characters began to take on mystical meanings. In many

24 cases, when calligraphers penned decorative scripture, the letters in these creations signified something deeply and symbolically spiritual. For Ottoman Sufis, the letter waw became one of the most popular and important of these characters. When used multiple times in a row, this line of waw was said to represent the “boat of salvation” (Schimmel 101) and became a popular design throughout private and public religious spheres. Through such interpretations of text, Sufism assigned a spiritual significance to the work of Shaykh Hamdullah and other calligraphers, encouraging the spread of calligraphic forms throughout Ottoman society.

THE EMERGENCE OF A NEW MASTER AND THE EXPANDING ACCESSIBILITY OF NASKH CALLIGRAPHY Although Shaykh Hamdullah’s style of naskh dominated Ottoman calligraphy for many years, his style of calligraphy declined slightly in popularity throughout the late 16th and 17th centuries (Blair 483). However, the style quickly reemerged as the preeminent Ottoman script due to the work of Hafiz Osman (Uthman ibn Ali), another prolific Ottoman calligrapher. Born in 1642, Uthman ibn Ali memorized the entire Qur’an at a young age, earning him the lifelong title of Hafiz Osman. As an apprentice to Ali Mustafa al-Ayyubi and later Nafaszada Sayyid, Hafiz Osman received his degree as a master calligrapher at the age of 18 (“Hafiz Osman”). Later, he found great inspiration in the work of Shaykh Hamdullah and gradually began copying the script of this master calligrapher. Early samples of Hafiz Osman’s work include an inscription stating the style was “copied after the hand of Shaykh Hamdullah, may God have mercy on him” (Blair 483). Tracing the contours of Hamdullah’s naskh, Osman took the traditional style and made it his own. Among other developments, he slightly shortened the “swooping tails” that were distinctive to Shaykh Hamdullah’s work and began smoothing out the curvatures of each letter. His ability to mold the script to his individual preference and still continue the tradition of a conventional style illustrates the versatility of naskh, as well as its appeal.

After becoming a distinguished calligraphy master within Ottoman social circles, Hafiz Osman gained the patronage of wealthy elites and was tasked with teaching both Sultan Mustafa II and Ahmed III the art of calligraphy. However, even with this elevated status, Osman began teaching poor students calligraphy at no cost, spreading the rewards of scriptural mastery to a new demographic (“Hafiz Osman”).

By educating students of modest means, Hafiz Osman often aided his students in rising out of poverty and toward making a better income. Through master-to-student transmission, these students then carried his styles of calligraphy forward, spreading naskh throughout the wider Ottoman society.

The dispersion of naskh was made possible because of the Ottoman’s appreciation for Hafiz Osman’s style of scripture. In previous ages, the illuminated word had maintained a position of luxury, available only to the elite classes due to the immense sums necessary for the creation of such magnificent documents.

25 Hafiz Osman opposed this division. Not only did he encourage modest men to get involved in the calligraphic tradition, but he also inspired his successors to make innovations in spreading the written word to a wider audience. Inspired by Hafiz Osman’s work, brother calligraphers Ismail Zuhdi and Mustafa Raqim helped introduce a new style of layout known as ayat bar kinar (Blair 489). This layout encouraged the formatting of naskh in such a way as to fit a complete verse onto every page. These Qur’ans were not designed to be the artwork of the wealthy, but rather “unassuming works designed for huffaz, professional Koran reciters, religious men of modest means” (Blair 489). Although the scribes of these Qur’ans decided to forego many of the flourishes found in traditional manuscripts, their naskh remained strikingly artistic, a visual creation with a functional aim.

To many modest Ottomans, Hafiz Osman was made popular due to the beauty of his scriptural design. The aesthetic beauty was what many illiterate Muslims could appreciate most. It was a way for them to connect to their faith and to Allah, even when the message itself, to them, was unreadable. One popular Turkish story recounts the time Hafiz Osman forgot his wallet while traveling to Uskudur.

In order to continue his travels, Osman paid the illiterate ferryman with a beautifully scripted waw, the important Arabic letter to Ottoman Sufis (Schimmel 36). This anecdote not only depicts the fame of Hafiz Osman, but also the Muslim appreciation for calligraphy, whether they could read it or not.

Hafiz Osman himself encouraged this Muslim appreciation for scriptural design by making innovations in the Ottoman naskh tradition. While an avid Qur’anic manuscript calligrapher in his own right, Hafiz Osman also pioneered a new type of composition called the hilya that quickly gained momentum in Ottoman tradition (Blair 483). He designed his hilya, the decoration or adornment, as a large roundel situated in the center of the page. Within this circle, he inscribed a description of Muhammad using naskh text [Figure 1.10]. This hilya served as artistry rather than literature. It could be displayed and observed by crowds, rather than a private manuscript hidden away within the confines of a home or mosque. Hafiz Osman’s design was immensely popular. Gradually, smaller hilyas illustrating the characteristics of Muhammad became widespread additions to Ottoman Qur’anic manuscripts and prayerbooks. Calligraphers eventually used the distinctive layout of the hilya to display various other texts. The previously mentioned Ottoman devotional book penned by Ismāʻīl al-maʻrūf bi-Baghdādī contains multiple pages of hilya-inspired design [Figure 1.11]. These pages include written prayers, rather than descriptions of the Prophet. However, the structure of Ismāʻīl al-maʻrūf bi-Baghdādī’s hilya parallels that of Hafiz Osman’s. The roundel is situated in the center of the page, inscribed with naskh written in black ink. In the four corners surrounding the roundel, Ismāʻīl includes words, rather than verse. This design resembles the Hafiz Osman convention of inscribing the names of the first four caliphs in each corner. A composition from a lesser-known calligrapher, Ismāʻīl’s devotional book reflects the influence of

26

Figure 1.10 Set against a green and gold background (thought to be a later addition), Hafiz Osman’s distinct hilya layout is depicted. Within the center roundel is a description of Prophet Muhammad in naskh script.

Osman, Hafiz. Hilya al-nabi (A Description of the Prophet). 1691, Chester Beatty Library, Dublin.

27

Figure 1.11 Inspired by the design and format of Hafiz Osman’s hilya, Ismā’īl al-ma’rūf bi-Baghdādī’s Islamic devotional book uses a similar layout with different content. In the multiple pages of hilya included in this book, he writes prayers within the center roundel instead of descriptions of Muhammad.

Ismā’īl al-ma’rūf bi-Baghdādī. Islamic Devotional Book. 1600-1799. Duke University Libraries, Durham.

28

Figure 1.12 The Qur’an printed by Paganino and Alessandro Paganini in Venice between 1537 and 1538, thought to be the first printed Qur’an. This Qur’an used maghribi script and was known for its errors in spelling and clarity.

Contadini, Anna (2013) ‘Sharing a Taste? Material Culture and Intellectual Curiosity around the Mediterranean, from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Century.’ In: Contadini, Anna and Norton, Claire, (eds.), The Renaissance and the Ottoman World. Farnham, UK: Ashgate, pp. 23-61.

- Scientific Figure on ResearchGate. Available from: https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Quran-printed-by-Paganino-and AlessandroPaganini-1537-38-Venice_fig1_281686442 [accessed 22 Oct, 2020]

29

Figure 1.13 A page from one of Ibrahim Müteferrika’s printed history books that utilized a naskh-derived script. While his text had a handwritten quality, they were still much more legible in comparison to earlier prints.

Title page of a history of the Ottoman dynasty entitled Tarikh-I Rashid Efendi printed by Ibrahim Müteferrika at Istanbul in 1153/1740-41. 17a. Islamic Calligraphy by Sheila Blair, Edinburgh University Press, p. 478.

30 Hafiz Osman and how the widespread advancement of naskh through his hilya layout design “ set the model for the rest of the Ottoman period” (Blair 485). His personal innovation in the spread of calligraphy to people of all backgrounds, as well as the quality of his work, encouraged the advancement of naskh well into the next generations.

THE PRINT LEGACY OF NASKH CALLIGRAPHY The popularity of Shaykh Hamdullah and Hafiz Osman’s naskh is best exemplified by its translation into print manuscripts during the 18th century. Starting in the early 14th century, Europeans began experimenting with printing Arabic script with varying degrees of success. The first Qur’an, a product of Venetian printers, used the Western Islamic script of maghribi [Figure 1.12]. This text was full of mistakes: the spelling was inaccurate, vocalizations were uneven, and it falsely claimed Muhammad to be the author of the text (Blair 486). European attempts at printing the Qur’an continued for several centuries, though the collective of Ottoman calligraphers vocally opposed the printing industry due to the belief that it would deem their jobs insignificant. In 1727, a Hungarian convert named Ibrahim Müteferrika established the first printing press in Istanbul (Blair 487). During the production of his first print, Müteferrika rejected the use of the maghribi script that had saturated European printing for so long. Instead, he decided to employ a distinctly Ottoman script. He derived this script from “the clear and readable naskh perfected by Hafiz Osman, with the letters pitched slightly to the left and occasional sublinear flourishes” (Blair 487). This script took on a more fluid design in print than its counterpart maghribi; according to J.R. Osborn in Letters of Light, the “spirit and character [of naskh] benefit the presentation and reading of long-form texts” (71). Müteferrika’s printed text had a characteristic handwritten quality that was also clear and legible to a reader’s eye [Figure 1.13]. By employing a naskh-inspired font in early printing, Müteferrika reinforced the position of this script as the preeminent style within Ottoman calligraphic tradition. He recognized both the functional and aesthetic attributes of this style of calligraphy, cementing its position as both a prolific script of the past, as well as the style of a printed future.

Naskh script has a rich and expansive history within the Ottoman calligraphic tradition. Through the contributions of masters Shaykh Hamdullah and Hafiz Osman and master-to-student calligraphic transmission, this style was perfected into a functional, readable script that flourished within both secular and sacred manuscript creation. But the true beauty of naskh was the masters’ ability to move it past these assumptions of simple functionality and into the realm of spiritual significance. Shaykh Hamdullah and Hafiz Osman depicted a sense of divinity in every sprawling tail, soft curve, and delicate flourish, portraying letters that were not static, but rather danced fluidly across the page. This skillful execution helped to advance naskh to its position as the preeminent script of Ottoman textual writing. It became a staple of scriptural creation as it transcended to a level of divine artistry.

PLACING ZOROASTRIAN MONOTHEISM IN CONTEXT A Comparative Analysis

By Dhario Dharsi

T

32

he term monotheism refers to the idea of a singular creator God, who is all-powerful and thus worthy of worship. The term also implies that God exists distinct from the world. Zoroastrianism and Abrahamic religions such as Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are considered to be monotheistic.1 Polytheism, however, refers to the belief in multiple gods which often constitutes a larger pantheon or ensemble of deities. The religions of Ancient Greece, Rome, and Egypt, as well as Hinduism, all fall into this category.2

Zoroastrianism is considered to be one of the first and oldest monotheistic religions in the world. However, many of the philosophical and theological aspects of this ancient religion differ greatly from those in the Abrahamic religions. Many scholars have categorized Zoroastrianism as monotheistic; however, they have done so from a Judeo-Christian perspective. Further, terms such as monotheism are usually defined from an Abrahamic viewpoint.3 However, Zoroastrianism is not an Abrahamic religion and it differs greatly in some aspects from Abrahamic religions. It is thus necessary to define Zoroastrianism within its own terms and to understand the religion from its own viewpoint rather than through a Judeo-Christian or Islamic viewpoint.

In order to develop a deeper understanding of monotheism in Zoroastrianism, it is important to contrast its monotheism with Abrahamic monotheism to demonstrate its unique nature.Thus, although Zoroastrianism is considered to be monotheistic, I argue that the form of monotheism found in Zoroastrianism isunique to the faith.

Within Abrahamic religions, especially Islam, the insistence on the omnipotence of God raises the unresolved problem of dichotomy, evil, suffering, and theodicy. Theodicy is the question of why evil exists in a world that is governed by a good and omnipotent God, and why such a God permits evil. Abrahamic religions have approached the issue of theodicy with the idea of Satan, an evil entity that performs evil within creation, but nevertheless is permitted by God to do so.4 Zoroastrianism is unique in that it actively seeks to resolve the issue of theodicy. Evil exists now but is only temporary until the frashokerati (destruction of evil from the universe and triumph of good). Furthermore, Zoroastrianism places more emphasis on orthopraxy rather than orthodoxy. Orthopraxy refers to correct ethical and liturgical conduct, while orthodoxy emphasizes correct belief, the practice of rituals, and strict adherence to such rites and rituals.

1 Theodore M. Ludwig, “Monotheism” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Lindsay Jones, (Macmillan

Reference USA, 2005), 6155.

2 Iveta Leitane, “Polytheism” in Encyclopedia of Sciences and Religions, ed. Anne L. C. Runehov and Lluis Oviedo, (Springer, Dordrecht, 2013), 1796.

3 Almut Hintze. “Monotheism the Zoroastrian Way,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Ireland, vol. 24, no. 2, (2013): 227.

4 Theodore M. Ludwig, “Monotheism” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Lindsay Jones, (Macmillan Reference USA, 2005), 6160.

33

This paper analyzes the monotheistic, dualistic, and polytheistic elements of Zoroastrian theology, and how at various points in time, external influences had an impact on the prominence of these elements within the faith. I argue that the status and nature of monotheism, within Zoroastrianism, has evolved through time to become broader and more flexible. Ancient pre-Zoroastrian beliefs and concepts were reintroduced into the religion due to influences from, and on, other belief systems as well as changing socio-political circumstances throughout ancient Iranian history.

Similarly, other elements of Zoroastrian theology, like the prominence of the yazatas and dualism changed and evolved throughout time. In order to fully discuss Zoroastrian monotheism, we must take into consideration these historical changes and further explain their impact on and significance in Zoroastrian beliefs. Such impacts include the appropriation of Zoroastrianism by Mithraism, and vice versa, in addition to the development of religions and sects derived from Zoroastrianism such as Zurvanism.

My research builds upon previous inquiries into the topic of Zoroastrianism and its relationship with monotheism. I further define terms such as monotheism, polytheism, and dualism, and their meaning and significance within a Zoroastrian context, and I put forth the case that they do not necessarily contradict one another.

Such research is crucial in better contextualizing and understanding Zoroastrianism and its relation to and interaction with other faiths.

Comparative Study with Abrahamic Religions In order to make clear the similarities and differences between Zoroastrian and Abrahamic notions of monotheism, I will briefly summarize monotheism in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. All three of these religions subscribe to the monotheistic religion of the prophet Abraham, were influenced by Zoroastrianism, and trace the origins of their notions of the dichotomy between good and evil to Zoroastrianism.5 Judaism originates from the religion of ancient Israel, which was polytheistic.

The Israelites had their own gods, and other nations and tribes had different gods.6 Within the Hebrew Bible, the type of group worship in which the Israelites engaged was not monotheism, but actually monolatry. This refers to the acceptance of the existence of other gods, but only worshiping and acknowledging one God.7 Over time, the religion shifted to monotheism, and prophets such as Elijah and Hosea preached that only one God, Yahweh, was the true creator. Yahweh was still seen to be the god 5 Abbas Hamdani, “Common Ground between Judaism, Christianity, and Islam: An Islamic View of the Monotheistic Path to Morality” in Monotheism and Ethics: Historical and Contemporary Intersections among Judaism, Christianity and Islam, ed. Y. Tzvi Langermann, (BRILL, 2011) 271: Marietta Stepaniants, “The Encounter of Zoroastrianism with Islam” in Philosophy East and West, vol. 52, no. 2, (2002): 162; Marietta Stepaniants, “The Encounter of Zoroastrianism with Islam” in Philosophy East and West, vol. 52, no. 2, (2002): 162.

6 John Heath, The Bible, Homer, and the Search for Meaning in Ancient Myths: Why We Would Be Better Off With Homer’s Gods (Routledge, 2019), 82.

7 Ibid, 81.

34 of the Israelites, who could only be worshiped in Israel; however, over time, the Israelites began to perceive Yahweh as not just a tribal god, but as the universal creator God.8 Within Judaism, the relationship between Jews and Yahweh is expressed through a covenant; they are the “chosen people,” and it is thus their responsibility to obey and fulfill the commandments of Yahweh.9 In regards to theodicy in Judaism, it is believed that evil and suffering fulfill several purposes such as punishment, deterrence, and revenge.10 The purpose of these is to assist God in restoring moral balance to the world. Thus, when a human suffers, it can be interpreted as their punishment for a particular wrongdoing. However, this interpretation does not directly explain why suffering also happens to those who have not committed wrongdoing or sin.11 Christianity is built off the same foundations as Jewish monotheism; however, it has an extra dimension to it, i.e., the concept of the Trinity, according to which there is numerically just one God, while there are three entities that are called “God.”12 These three entities are the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. In Christian theology, God revealed himself through his son Jesus Christ, who is considered by Christians to be identical to God. Here, God is present in the form of the Father and the Son, and this relationship corresponds with the love God gives to his creation (the Holy Spirit).

This is, therefore, a trinity.13 Theodicy in Christianity also incorporates the concept of the Trinity. It is believed that if an individual experiences pain and suffering, it can help bring them closer to the Father (God), by understanding the experiences of the Son (Jesus). As Laura Ekstrom explains: “occasions of enduring rejection, pain and loss can be opportunities for identification with the person of Jesus Christ. Intimacy with Christ gained through suffering provides deeper appreciation of his passion.”14

Like Judaism and Christianity, Islam is also monotheistic, however, it places a greater emphasis on radical monotheism and the absolute sovereignty of a singular God. Islam rejects the Christian doctrine of the Trinity as well as Judaism’s historical polytheism,15 on the grounds that “there is no God but God,” and that therefore nothing can be likened to God. One of the greatest sins is considered to be associ8 Theodore M. Ludwig, “Monotheism” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Lindsay Jones, (Macmillan Reference USA, 2005), 6158.

9 Ibid, 6160.

10 Tyron Goldschmidt and Beth Seacord, “Judaism, Reincarnation, and Theodicy” Faith and Philosophy, vol. 30, no. 4, (2013): 396.

11 Ibid.

12 Linda Zagzebski, “Christian Monotheism” Faith and Philosophy, vol. 6, no. 1, (Jan. 1989): 3.

13 Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen, Trinity and Religious Pluralism: The Doctrine of the Trinity in Christian Theology of Religions (Routledge, 2004), 15.

14 Laura Ekstrom, “A Christian Theodicy” in The Blackwell Companion to the Problem of Evil, ed.

Justin P. McBrayer and Daniel Howard‐Snyder, (Wiley Blackwell, 2013), 270.

15 Scott Vitkovic, “The Similarities and Differences Between Abrahamic Religions.” IJASOSInternational E-Journal of Advances in Social Sciences, vol. 4, no. 11, (2018): 462.

35 ating anything else with God.16 The reason for this is that from an Islamic viewpoint, it is believed that Islam adopted monotheism from the Prophet Abraham before the emergence of Judaism and Christianity and that the Prophet Muhammad was not founding a new religion, but reviving the original monotheism preached by Abraham.17 It is furthermore believed in Islam that Allah (God) is the same entity as Yahweh in Judaism and Christianity.18 However, the term Allah predates Islam and was used by Arabs in the pre-Islamic period. Allah was the name of a deity who was part of the Semitic pantheon and the name Allah appears in Pre-Islamic poetry.19 On the issue of theodicy, Islam considers evil not to be a theoretical problem, but actually as a tool for the fruition of Allah’s purpose. Because Allah is in control of creation, evil and suffering are allowed by him as part of his overall plans for creation.

Furthermore, evil and suffering are believed to help humans realize their true potential and such hardships help them along their spiritual journey as Muslims.20 BACKGROUND AND CONTEXT The religion that came to be known as Zoroastrianism was founded by an ancient Iranian prophet named Zarathushtra. The exact time period in which Zarathushtra lived is unknown. Dates estimated by Ancient Greek historians range widely from around 6400 BCE to 600 BCE.21 However, based on linguistic and archeological evidence, many academics estimate that Zarathushtra lived sometime between 1700 BCE to 1200 BCE.22 Zarathushtra composed hymns, known as Gathas, in the Avestan language. The Gathas explain that this world, as we know it, is in the middle of a cosmic battle between good and evil, between asha (truth) and druj (lie).

All good things emanate from Ahura Mazda, the supreme being and lord of wisdom, and the positive mentality that derives from him, Spenta Mainyu. On the other hand, all evil things emanate from Angra Mainyu, the evil mentality.23 A key term often associated with Zoroastrianism is “dualism.” Different scholars have defined its place within Zoroastrianism in different ways, and the discussion usually centers around the two opposing mentalities in the religion, Spenta Mainyu and Angra Mainyu. In the Gathas 16 Theodore M. Ludwig, “Monotheism” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Lindsay Jones, (Macmillan

Reference USA, 2005), 6161.

17 Khalil Athamina, “Abraham in Islamic Perspective Reflections on the Development of Monotheism in Pre-Islamic Arabia.” Der Islam, vol. 81, no. 2, (2004): 186.

18 John Heath, The Bible, Homer, and the Search for Meaning in Ancient Myths: Why We Would Be Better Off With Homer’s Gods (Routledge, 2019), 144.

19 Khalil Athamina, “Abraham in Islamic Perspective Reflections on the Development of Monotheism in Pre-Islamic Arabia.” Der Islam, vol. 81, no. 2, (2004): 187.

20 Nasrin Rouzati, “Evil and Human Suffering in Islamic Thought—Towards a Mystical Theodicy” Religions, vol. 9, no. 2, ser. 47, (2018): 3.

21 Jehan Bagli, “Zoroastrian Theology and Eschatology” in Islam, Judaism, and Zoroastrianism, ed.

Zayn R. Kassam,Yudit Kornberg Greenberg, and Jehan Bagli, (Springer, Dordrecht, 2018), 783.

22 Ibid.

23 Richard Foltz, Iran in World History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 10.

36 this is described in the following passage: In the beginning there were two primal spirits, Twins spontaneously active, These are the Good and the Evil, in thought, and in word, and in deed.

Between these two, let the wise choose aright.

Be good, not base!24

Dualism refers to the division of something into two contrasting concepts.

Zoroastrianism has often been regarded as dualistic, in the sense that it perceives existence as being divided between two opposing mentalities. As mentioned earlier, a key concept in Zoroastrian philosophy is Asha, which represents truth, righteousness, and the natural cosmic order. The opposing principle would be Druj which is deceit, falsehood, lies, and trickery. Asha and Druj are the core principles but are represented in the form of mentalities as Spenta Mainyu (Holy Spirit) and Angra Mainyu (Ahriman). Followers of Asha are referred to as ashavans, and followers of Druj are referred to as dregvants. An ashavan is a seeker of the truth, someone who follows Asha and seeks to acquire knowledge and understanding. They seek to direct their thoughts in accordance with Vohumana (good mind) and Spenta Mainyu. A dregvant, on the other hand, is an individual who is ignorant and does not possess enough knowledge, awareness of common sense to understand the truth, and separate right from wrong.

A dregvant is also someone who has wicked intentions and seeks to deceive other people.25 There thus exists a dualistic choice for the individual, as their actions and conduct, and the choices they make, will either designate them as an ashavan or a dregvant. We can see here that dualism in Zoroastrianism does not correlate to a belief in two Gods, but to two opposing standards of moral and ethical conduct. The monotheistic, dualistic, and polytheistic elements of Zoroastrianism have been an ongoing debate amongst scholars,26 particularly over the nature and features of each of them as well as on which one takes the most prominence in the religion.

24 Dinshaw J. Irani, Understanding the Gathas, The Hymns of Zarathushtra (Ahura Publishers,

1994), 14.

25 Ardeshir Khorshidian, Answers to Zoroastrians Questions on Their Religion, trans Ardavan Pourjamasb and Parva Namiranian (Barsam Publications, 2016), 115.

26 For examples of such debates, see: Boyd, James W., and Donald A. Crosby. “Is Zoroastrianism Dualistic Or Monotheistic?” Journal of the American Academy of Religion, XLVII, no. 4, Dec. 1979, pp. 557–588., doi:10.1093/jaarel/xlvii.4.557 Hintze, Almut. “Monotheism the Zoroastrian Way.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Ireland, vol. 24, no. 2, 19 Dec. 2013, pp. 225–249., doi:10.1017/s1356186313000333 Mehr, Farhang. “One God: Ahura Mazda.” Classical and Medieval Literature Criticism, edited by Lawrence J. Trudeau, vol. 154, Gale, 2013. Literature Resource Center, http://link. galegroup.com/apps/doc/H1420114759/LitRC?u=ubcolumbia&sid=LitRC&x id=d48433ea.

Originally published in The Zoroastrian Tradition, Mazda, 2003, pp. 29-46.

Rahnamoon, Fariborz. “Dualism as Presented by Zarathushtra in the Gatha.” Iran Zamin, Feb. 2001, pp. 19–26.

37 LITERATURE REVIEW One aspect that sets Zoroastrianism apart from the aforementioned Abrahamic faiths is the role that dualism plays in the religion and its relationship to monotheism. In their paper “Is Zoroastrianism Dualistic or Monotheistic?,” Boyd and Crosby analyze the dualistic and monotheistic elements of the faith and attempt to reach a conclusion regarding which one holds more prominence in the religion. Presenting the monotheistic and dualistic interpretations of Zoroastrianism, Boyd and Crosby provide evidence for both interpretations. They also include the Zurvanite view on the matter. Zurvanism is an extinct Zoroastrian sect that was prominent during the Sassanian era. Within Zurvanist beliefs, the god of time, Zurvan, produced equal but opposite twins, the good Ahura Mazda (Ohrmazd) and the evil Angra Mainyu (Ahriman). Zurvan is portrayed as an uninvolved and neutral deity in between Ohrmazd’s and Ahriman’s cosmic battle.27 Zurvanism was perceived by mainstream Zoroastrianism as heresy and presented problems for adherents of mainstream Zoroastrianism.

This is because Zurvanist beliefs called into question the view of the positive value of creation by Ahura Mazda.28 Boyd and Crosby thus offer a unique and non-mainstream Zoroastrian viewpoint on the question at hand.

I argue that Zoroastrianism does not strictly adhere to one set category that can define the entirety of its theology and that it transcends various theological boundaries. Boyd and Crosby’s view similar to my own, is that the question posed by their paper— i.e., whether Zoroastrianism is dualistic or monotheistic, poses a false dichotomy: “Zoroastrianism combines cosmogonic dualism and eschatological monotheism in a manner unique to itself among the major religions of the world. This combination results in a religious outlook which cannot be categorized as either straightforward dualism or straightforward monotheism.”29

Boyd and Crosby believe that this false dichotomy arises from the failure to understand the role that time plays in Zoroastrian theology: “Zoroastrianism proclaims a movement through time from dualism toward monotheism, i.e., a dualism which is being made false by the dynamics of time, and a monotheism which is being made true by those same dynamics of time.”30

The ultimate end goal in Zoroastrian theology is the triumph of Ahura Mazda and monotheism, so the final aim is monotheism but, in the meantime, dualism is in existence.

Further clarification of such concepts can be found in Farhang Mehr’s “One God: Ahura Mazda”. Mehr elucidates the Zoroastrian principle of monothe-

27 Garry W. Trompf and Milad Milani, “From ‘Zurvanism’ to Mazdak,” in The Gnostic World, ed.

Garry W. Trompf, Gunner B. Mikkelsen, and Jay Johnston (London: Routledge, 2018), 255.

28 Ibid, 256.

29 James W. Boyd and Donald A. Crosby, “Is Zoroastrianism Dualistic or Monotheistic?” Journal of the American Academy of Religion, no. 4, (1979): 575.

30 Ibid.

38 ism and how it serves as a crucial element of the philosophy of the religion.

As Mehr also discussed related and intertwined concepts such as dualism, the “amesha spentas” and the yazatas (personified virtues/angels), all three of which are significant aspects of the Zoroastrian philosophy. Mehr adamantly states that “nothing can detract from the monotheistic character of Zoroastrianism;”31 however, he also remarks that “nothing can disparage the profundity of dualism in that faith.”32 Referring to the work of other scholars on this topic, Mehr states that “some argue that Zoroastrianism believes in cosmic dualism; others maintain that Zoroastrianism believes in theological monotheism and ethical dualism, but all concede that Zoroastrianism is primarily an “ethical religion.”33 In the view of Farhang Mehr, the dualistic aspects of Zoroastrianism do not in any way detract from its classification as a monotheistic religion, as there the two terms are not necessarily contradictory to each other. Although he maintains the distinct nature of Ahura Mazda, from the God in Abrahamic religions, he believes that there are common features of monotheistic religions such as “the transcendence and eternity of the creator, revelation, God’s message, and life after death with reward and punishment”.34 According to Mehr, because Zoroastrianism contains these features, they affirm it as a monotheistic religion. Although the concept of Ahura Mazda is very much different from God in Abrahamic religions, Mehr gives an example of differences amongst the Abrahamic religions: Moses’ Yahweh and Mohammed’s Allah represent gods of two monotheistic religions; so does the Christian doctrine of the Trinity, which in form is different from that of Judaism and Islam. Yet Christianity, is generally considered to be as monotheistic as the other two.35,36

In contrast, Fariborz Rahnamoon maintains that “Zarathushtra has erroneously been portrayed as the preacher of dualism”.37 Rahnamoon’s main objection to the use of the term “dualism” to describe Zoroastrianism is that scholars have previously contradicted themselves by claiming that Zarathushtra preached monotheism, but also said that all bad things were the result of Ahriman (Angra Mainyu). How can there be monotheism if the existence of another entity is acknowledged? Rahnamoon argues that this misinterpretation is a result of mistranslations and misunderstand31 Farhang Mehr, “One God: Ahura Mazda,” in Classical and Medieval Literature Criticism, ed.

Lawrence J. Trudeau (Detroit: Gale, 2013), par. 51.

32 Ibid.

33 Ibid.

34 Farhang Mehr, “One God: Ahura Mazda,” in Classical and Medieval Literature Criticism, ed.

Lawrence J. Trudeau (Detroit: Gale, 2013), par. 47.

35 Not by all however. Even within Christianity there is debate over the concept of the Trinity.

36 Farhang Mehr, “One God: Ahura Mazda,” in Classical and Medieval Literature Criticism, ed.

Lawrence J. Trudeau (Detroit: Gale, 2013), par. 47.

37 Fariborz Rahnamoon. “Dualism as Presented by Zarathushtra in the Gatha,” Iran Zamin, (2001): 19.

39 ings of the Gathas of Zarathushtra.38 Furthermore, Rahnamoon believes that over time, Ahura Mazda and the Amesha Spentas had been personified as entities, and thus Ahriman was also personified as a devil figure. Therefore, a notion of dualism was created between two opposing sides: “Ahri Mana is not a spirit and is not in opposition to Ahura Mazda the Creator, but it is the negative side of the human Mind (Mana)”.39 Rahnamoon emphasizes that any notion of “dualism” in Zoroastrianism is referring to the opposition within one’s own mind between a positive and negative mentality.

Similarly, Zoroastrian priest and scholar Maneckji Nusserwanji Dhalla argues that Spenta Mainyu is not an independent entity but merely a prominent name for Ahura Mazda itself, and therefore not a created being. According to his understanding, Zarathushtra saw evil (and therefore Angra Mainyu) as utterly objective, disagreeable facts of the universe and not in any sense illusory.40 While other scholars such as Douglas Fox and Robert Charles Zaehner argue that dualism constitutes a Sasanian-era, degenerate form of Zoroastrianism, Dhalla argues that an antithesis between good and evil was present from the very beginning and subsequently strengthened in the Pahlavi writings. The German Iranologist, Walter Bruno Henning, also supports a dualistic interpretation of Zoroastrianism, claiming that the importance of humanity’s role in history is the result of the dualistic battle between good and evil, which as been in process since the beginning of time and will last till the end of the world.41 Dhalla’s and Henning’s interpretations of dualism hold merit for Boyd and Crosby, as they explain that “a dualistic account also offers a rational explanation of why God created the world - to do battle against evil, and of why he requires the aid of man’s good deeds performed in time”.42 However, Boyd and Crosby ultimately conclude that Zoroastrianism is situated somewhat in-between dualism and monotheism. This is a result of it incorporating both a cosmogonic dualism and an eschatological monotheism. As mentioned earlier, Boyd and Crosby believe that an understanding of the importance that the concept of time plays in Zoroastrian theology is crucial. The ultimate end goal in Zoroastrian theology is the triumph of Ahura Mazda and monotheism, so the final aim is monotheism but, in the meantime, dualism is in existence as evil still exists in the world. Evil exists now but is only temporary until the frashokerati which will result in the destruction of evil from the universe and triumph of good.

Building upon Boyd and Crosby’s analysis of Zoroastrian theology, and further investigating Zoroastrianism’s monotheistic traits, Almut Hintze responds to numerous attempts by other scholars who have attempted to categorize the faith as being polytheistic, monotheistic, dualistic or various combinations of these terms, by 38 Ibid.

39 Ibid, 25.

40 James W. Boyd and Donald A. Crosby, “Is Zoroastrianism Dualistic or Monotheistic?” Journal of the American Academy of Religion, no. 4, (1979): 559.

41 Ibid, 560.

42 Ibid.

40 arguing that Zoroastrianism has its own particular form of monotheism. Furthermore, according to Hintze, terms such as monotheism, polytheism, and dualism are not usually defined on a Zoroastrian basis, but rather on an Abrahamic basis. In her view, this is problematic because Zoroastrianism is not an Abrahamic religion, and therefore it is inaccurate to categorize it in terms that stem from an Abrahamic worldview, especially as polytheism has been given negative connotations while monotheism has been exalted and given positive ones. Hintze arrives at the conclusion that “notions of monotheism, dualism, and polytheism are so closely intertwined in the Zoroastrian religion that it is difficult […] to separate them from each other without causing the whole system to collapse.”43 My research further defines and contextualises the meaning and significance of terms such as monotheism, polytheism, and dualism in a Zoroastrian context. I further analyze the different elements of Zoroastrian theology, such as Ahura Mazda, dualism, and the yazatas, in order to build upon the work of previous scholars and to contribute to the academic debate regarding the appropriate designated term for Zoroastrianism and whether it can be considered to be a monotheistic religion. When focusing on these elements of Zoroastrian theology, it is crucial to conceptualize the socio-political developments within Ancient Iran at certain times and the influence of external religious and political elements on Zoroastrianism, which thus affected and changed certain beliefs. I argue that the status and nature of monotheism within Zoroastrianism has changed through time and that other elements within the theology, such as the yazatas, have similarly changed through time. In order to fully discuss Zoroastrian monotheism, we must take into consideration changes that have occurred through time, such as influences from other belief systems and the incorporation of concepts from these belief systems into Zoroastrianism, and the impact that had on the overall theology of Zoroastrianism. When discussing Zoroastrian monotheism, it is important to discuss the core concepts of Zarathushtra as outlined in the Gathas, and his conception of Ahura Mazda as the one true creator God. One particular problem with this field of inquiry is that terms such as “monotheism” and “polytheism” are usually defined from a Judeo-Christian perspective and not from a Zoroastrian perspective. They are usually considered to be two conflicting terms. Moreover, polytheism has been presented as an attribute of non-Abrahamic religions that is in direct opposition to the monotheism of the Abrahamic faiths.44 Furthermore, the understanding and concept of monotheism has been based on the Abrahamic God, and not on the different understandings of a single supreme deity as found in other theologies, such as Zoroastrianism. Therefore, it is crucial we do not approach such inquiries into faiths such as Zoroastrianism, with an internalized mo43 Almut Hintze. “Monotheism the Zoroastrian Way,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great

Britain & Ireland, vol. 24, no. 2, (2013): 244.

44 Almut Hintze. “Monotheism the Zoroastrian Way,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Ireland, vol. 24, no. 2, (2013): 226.

41 nopolar Abrahamic view on such matters, but rather try to understand the faith from its own perspective and viewpoint.

AHURA MAZDA – THE WISE LORD The beliefs of the ancient Aryans (Indo-Iranians) before the advent of Zoroastrianism were polytheistic and consisted of animism (the personification of natural phenomena). Zarathushtra transformed existing beliefs, challenged the worship of the multiple Indo-Iranian deities, and preached a monotheistic doctrine. Zarathushtra proposed the existence of one supreme God, Ahura Mazda, who is the source of universal wisdom and intelligence and is thus worthy of worship.45 Farhang Mehr summarizes Zarathushtra’s revelation as: Through a rational approach and practical reasoning, Zoroaster realized the logical necessity of the existence of an intelligent and hegemonic God. The graceful, uninterrupted round of day and night, the orderly course of the planets, the ceaseless seasonal succession, and the unfailing regularity of natural cycles point to the existence of a designer and sustainer—a creator. Reason indicates that such a creation with its regularity cannot be accidental, nor can it be the result of the concerted efforts of many deities.46

The Avestan term Ahura Mazda literally means “wise lord” and is used to describe God in Zoroastrianism. Mehr defines the etymology of this term as follows: “Ahura stems from the root Ah, meaning ‘to be, to exist,’ and Mazda from Mana, meaning wisdom and intelligence. Ahura Mazda is the Essence and Source of Being and Wisdom.”47 Ahura Mazda has six associated attributes known as the Amesha Spentas (holy/bounteous immortal), each of which is associated with an aspect of creation and can be considered as an abstract extension of Ahura Mazda. In an attempt to understand these concepts and how God interacts with creation, the six Amesha Spentas were also personified as archangels.48 They are considered to be qualities that humans should aspire to emulate, which are as follows: 1. Vohu Manah (Bahman), which literally means “good mind.” This status can be achieved by following the principles of humata, hukhta, hvarshta (good words, good thoughts, good deeds).

2. Asha Vahishta (Ardibehesht): the ultimate truth, cosmic order, the laws of nature and universal laws. Humans can follow Asha Vahishta by being righteous, truthful, benevolent, well-organized, lawful and pious.

3. Khshathra Vairya (Shahrivar): good laws, good guidance, good products and having dominion over one’s life.

45 Farhang Mehr, “One God: Ahura Mazda,” in Classical and Medieval Literature Criticism, ed.

Lawrence J. Trudeau (Detroit: Gale, 2013), par. 1.

46 Ibid, par. 24.

47 Ibid, par. 6.

48 Jehan Bagli, “Zoroastrian Theology and Eschatology” in Islam, Judaism, and Zoroastrianism, ed. Zayn R. Kassam,Yudit Kornberg Greenberg, and Jehan Bagli, (Springer, Dordrecht, 2018), 785.

42 4. Spenta Armaiti (Spandarmad): equanimity, lawful desire, and righteousness.

5. Haurvatat (Khordad): ultimate wholeness; seeking excellence and mental, physical and spiritual perfection.

6. Ameretat (Amordad): immortality (in the sense of being remembered and praised after death and in life being mentally free of the fear of death).

Ahura Mazda is a power that humans can aspire to reach through their own individual actions. By following Vohu Manah and practising humata, hukhta, hvarshta (good words, good thoughts, good deeds), one can realize Ahura Mazda through their own thoughts, speech, and deeds49. Within Zoroastrianism, there exist two opposing mentalities, Spenta Mainyu and Angra Mainyu. Spenta Mainyu is the positive and constructive mentality, that guides the individual towards Asha (truth). Angra Mainyu, however, is the negative and destructive mentality, which not only negatively impacts the individual, but those around them and their environment, by distancing the individual from Ahura Mazda and by encouraging destructive and evil behavior.50 Zoroastrians believe that Ahura Mazda exists everywhere and within each person. All elements of Ahura Mazda’s creation should be respected. Thus, elements such as water, air, soil, and fire are considered holy and should not be contaminated or polluted.51 The material world is believed to derive from the spiritual world. Therefore, it is considered legitimate to revere any of Ahura Mazda’s material and spiritual creations because they derive directly from Ahura Mazda.52 Thus, such reverence towards natural elements should not be considered polytheism or detracting from monotheism, as in Zoroastrianism, reverence towards the creations of Ahura Mazda is part of the worship of Ahura Mazda, and not a negation of monotheistic principles.

YAZATAS, SOCIOPOLITICAL TRANSFORMATIONS OF ZOROASTRIANISM, AND THE ISSUE OF POLYTHEISM The Gathas, which are in the Avestan language and are believed to have been composed by Zarathushtra himself, outline the core philosophy and beliefs of Zoroastrianism. However, there are other Zoroastrian religious scriptures that came about at a later time from other sources. These include the yashts, which are hymns of praise. It has been argued that these scriptures show a reintroduction of Indo-Iranian polytheism as they introduce new elements to the Zoroastrian religion.53 One additional element of Zoroastrian theology, which is introduced by texts like the yashts, are the 49 Patrick H. Darkhor, “Zarathushtra’s Concept of Ahura Mazda: A Study of the Gathic Texts”

(Master’s thesis, Concordia University, 1996), 50.

50 Ibid, 53.

51 Ardeshir Khorshidian, Answers to Zoroastrians Questions on Their Religion, trans Ardavan Pourjamasb and Parva Namiranian (Barsam Publications, 2016), 76.

52 Almut Hintze. “Monotheism the Zoroastrian Way,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Ireland, vol. 24, no. 2, (2013): 244.

53 Jenny Rose, Zoroastrianism: An Introduction (I. B. Tauris & Company Limited, 2011), 23.

43 Yazatas. Like the Amesha Spentas, the yazatas are another group of personified virtues of Ahura Mazda. Yazata means “a being worthy of worship”.54 One of the most notable of the yazatas is Mithra, who is considered to preside over contracts and relations, and a personification of light. He is a guardian of pastures and all creatures.55 Many of the yazatas, such as Mithra, are pre-Zoroastrian entities that were worshipped by the Ancient Aryans both before and after the advent of Zoroastrianism.56

The notion of yazata raises the important question of how such deities got absorbed into Zoroastrianism and whether their inclusion into the religion negates the religion’s monotheism can we also consider Zoroastrianism to be polytheistic because of the yazatas? The Achaemenians declared their devotion to Ahura Mazda. The Parthians were polytheists and Mithraists, though not originally Zoroastrians, they did support Ahura Mazda. It was the Sassanians who in fact made Zoroastrianism a legitimizing force for their rule and officially promoted Zoroastrianism throughout their empire.57 I argue below, that the incorporation of these older deities into Zoroastrianism was also due to socio-political reasons, and not necessarily in order to change Zoroastrian theology or detract from its monotheism. When Zoroastrianism spread throughout the Iranian plateau, and the empires of the Medians and Persians, it adapted to the pre-existing cultures and spiritualities of the various tribes and ethnicities who accepted the Zoroastrian creed. Old pre-Zoroastrian traditions continued to be practiced and new customs and ideas entered the religion due to contact with non-Aryan civilizations, such as Elam and Mesopotamia. The yazatas are an example of features from the pre-Zoroastrian Aryan religion being readmitted into the practice of Zoroastrianism.58 Kersi Shroff comments on this incorporation of yazatas into Zoroastrianism: “While Ahura Mazda still remained the supreme God, the religion lost its concept of a true monotheism in the real sense”.59 Examples of this incorporation can be found on Achaemenid inscriptions, as Shroff states: “At Persepolis he [Artxerses II] inscribed that “by the will of Ahura Mazda, Anahita and Mithra, I built this palace. May Ahura Mazda, Mithra and Anahita protect me from the evil”.60 I theorize that if the Achaemenids had attempted to enforce Zoroastrianism on its subjects, and outlaw their previous polytheistic practices, it could have 54 Jehan Bagli, “Zoroastrian Theology and Eschatology” in Islam, Judaism, and Zoroastrianism,

ed. Zayn R. Kassam,Yudit Kornberg Greenberg, and Jehan Bagli, (Springer, Dordrecht, 2018), 786.

55 Stephen E. Flowers, Original Magic: The Rituals and Initiations of the Persian Magi (Inner Traditions, 2017), 111.

56 Gherardo Gnoli, “Yazatas” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Lindsay Jones (Macmillan Reference USA, 2005), 9875.

57 Farhang Mehr, “One God: Ahura Mazda,” in Classical and Medieval Literature Criticism, ed.

Lawrence J. Trudeau (Detroit: Gale, 2013), par. 31.

58 Kersi B. Shroff, “Zoroastrianism Under the Achaemenids” (presentation, Zoroastrian Association of Metropolitan Washington (ZAMWI), September (1996), par. 14.

59 Ibid.

60 Ibid, par. 16.

44 had a destabilizing effect on the empire and led to revolts and rebellions against the empire. It should also be noted that the name of Zarathushtra is not mentioned on any Achaemenid inscriptions. Commenting on this fact, Shroff believes that “Gathic teaching, while supported in principle, was becoming diluted by pre-Zoroastrian Indo-Iranian thoughts as well as the influence of Babylonia and Egypt”.61 Nevertheless, even in Sasanian times, where Zoroastrianism was adopted as the official state religion, inscriptions still did not refer to Zarathushtra. It has thus been argued that these inscriptions are secular in nature.62 I furthermore believe that by mentioning Ahura Mazda, as well as other deities, such as Mithra and Anahita, and not Zarathushtra himself, these inscriptions are intended to have a more universal message for the subjects of the empire, that is, by being appropriate for both monotheistic Zoroastrians and those who still revered the pre-Zoroastrian deities. Therefore, while at this point other deities were undoubtedly venerated and worshiped alongside with Ahura Mazda, I maintain that due to the contextual and cultural reasons for this, as mentioned above, the veneration of other deities alongside Ahura Mazda did not challenge the core principles of Zoroastrianism or the inherent monotheism within it.

In the same manner, Stephen Flowers, argues that the later incorporation of the old deities into Zoroastrianism was not contradictory to Zarathushtra’s original message: “The individual gods and goddesses were seen as being either beneficial to humanity and the world, or they were detrimental […] The beneficial gods of antiquity were seen as pure abstract emanations of Ahura Mazda”.63

Likewise, Almut Hintze states that “rather than being cultic competitors, the Yazatas thus strengthen and support Ahura Mazda”.64 If the yazatas can be viewed as “pure abstract emanations of Ahura Mazda,” as contended by Flowers, then we could challenge those who claim that the incorporation of yazatas into Zoroastrianism makes the religion “polytheistic” or shows the reintroduction of an earlier Indo-Iranian polytheism.65

It is also important to remember that in the pre-Zoroastrian religions, the deities were seen as humanoid or anthropomorphic beings, that is, as different entities that were not necessarily all “good” in nature, but had the capacity for anger, wrath, and wrongdoing. However, after the yazatas were incorporated into and appropriated

by Zoroastrianism, they were not of the same nature as their former deities, instead, they now existed withing in a Zoroastrian framework. Therefore, they were subordinate to Ahura Mazda or seen as forms/personifications of Ahura Mazda.66 Yazatas 61 Ibid, par. 24.

62 Ibid.

63 Stephen E. Flowers, Original Magic: The Rituals and Initiations of the Persian Magi (Inner

Traditions, 2017), 59.

64 Almut Hintze. “Monotheism the Zoroastrian Way,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Ireland, vol. 24, no. 2, (2013): 240.

65 Jenny Rose, Zoroastrianism: An Introduction (I. B. Tauris & Company Limited, 2011), 23.

66 Almut Hintze. “Monotheism the Zoroastrian Way,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great

45 were thus abstract principles beneficial to the creation of the natural world, such as the four elements (earth, air, water, and fire) as well as humans, plants, and animals.

Furthermore, these creations are also considered to be yazatas.67 Flowers furthermore interprets the yazatas as merely exponents, extensions, and also messengers 68 of Ahura Mazda.69 However, Flowers ultimately states that Zoroastrianism is “both monotheistic and polytheistic and framed within a dualistic philosophy”.70

Although, when taken at surface value, the above quote by Flowers may seem somewhat contradictory, as mentioned previously, Zoroastrianism adapted throughout different socio-political atmospheres to reflect the existing views and beliefs that were in adherence at that time. Thus, polytheists continued to worship old deities, within a new Zoroastrian context and also venerated Ahura Mazda. Moreover, concerning this phenomenon, Hintze explains that Zoroastrians perceive themselves as the followers of one god, Ahura Mazda, and affirms that “In the etic perspective, polytheism is absorbed by monotheism within the framework of the Zoroastrian concept of creation. Certain old and new deities are presented as creations of Ahura Mazda and incorporated into the pantheon as yazata”.71

Therefore, when analyzing later developments in Zoroastrianism, it is important to consider the ever changing socio-political environment in Iran throughout the various dynasties and empires that controlled the region.

CONCLUSION Zoroastrianism is unique amongst the other monotheistic faiths of the world in that it actively seeks to resolve the issue of theodicy. It does this by utilizing the dynamics of time into its theology. A dualism exists within the realm of the mind, with two opposing mentalities, Spenta Mainyu and Angra Mainyu, and there is a strong and clear antithesis between good and evil. However, although this dualism is an element of the theology, it is not the defining factor of the theology, which remains overwhelmingly monotheistic, with Ahura Mazda being the sole and supreme deity.

The yazatas are extensions and emanations of Ahura Mazda, and any polytheism that was formerly associated with certain yazatas was absorbed and appropriated into the monotheistic framework of the religion. Therefore, I resolve that the designation of “monotheism” is a fairly legitimate and accurate way to categorize the Zoroastrian faith.

Britain & Ireland, vol. 24, no. 2, (2013): 240.

67 Stephen E. Flowers, Original Magic: The Rituals and Initiations of the Persian Magi (Inner Traditions, 2017), 60.

68 Because the Yazatas were seen as messengers, the origin of the concept of “angels” in the Abrahamic religions can be seen to have its roots here, as the word angel is derived from the Greek angelos, meaning “messenger” (Flowers 102).

69 Ibid, 102.

70 Ibid, 103.

71 Almut Hintze. “Monotheism the Zoroastrian Way,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Ireland, vol. 24, no. 2, (2013): 244.

“Layers and Layers”

RECONCILIATION THROUGH HUMILITY

Ismaili and Twelver Shi’i Esoteric Journeys with Justice

By Erin Aslami

T

48

he form guides the content of two esoteric texts originating from different sub-sects of Shi’ism, the Twelver and Ismaili. The content of each text is the path to religious knowledge and the way each is written reveals the teaching and learning process for each sub-sect. They both teach the nature and value of knowledge and how to navigate truth by working within their cosmologies, however the dialogical form of the Ismaili text emphasizes the content which determines the process of seeking knowledge as an interpersonal endeavor while the doctrinal form of the Twelver text emphasizes its idea that proper attainment of knowledge is of complete priority over the process.

For background, Sunni and Shia Islam are the two dominant sects of the Islamic tradition. Shi’ism was distinguished by its position on the succession of Muhammad, which would not only determine the individual to take his place but would illuminate the role of his successor then and in the future. Shi’ites supported ‘Alī, and according to scholar of Shi’ism Maria Massi Dakake in The Charismatic Community: Shiʻite Identity in Early Islam, “The declarations of allegiance to ‘Alī by his most loyal supporters recorded in these sources [the speeches of ‘Alī’s close companions as reported in both Sunni and Shi’ite historical sources] tend to be expressed in terms of their unshakeable bond of walāyah (allegiance) to him.”1 Walāyah plays a central role in Shi’i thought, taking on quranic, political, and mystical definitions including closeness/mutual aid,2 spiritual inheritance,3 and divine proximity or sanctity.4 These characteristics all were present in ‘Alī’s relationship with the Prophet. In distinguishing Sunni from Shi’i Muslims, walāyah created a basis for supporting Ali as the second Imam because of his spiritual community with Muhammad which reinforced his religious charisma.5 Further divisions within Shi’ism are diverse and, as outlined by Marshall Hodgson— a key player in the academic study of Islam— in “How Did the Early Shî’a Become Sectarian,” were for the most part originally caused by disagreements over the passing of religious authority through the Imamate (the succession of spiritual leadership through the position of Imam).6 One significant difference between Ismaili and Twelver Shi’ism is each’s process of learning religious truths to reach enlightenment. The paths further reveal where the value is in religious learning— the process or the knowledge. One of the earliest surviving Ismaili writings, Kitab al-’Alim wa’l-ghulam, translated as The Book of 1 Maria Massi Dakake, The Charismatic Community: Shi’ite Identity in Early Islam (Albany: State

University of New York Press, 2007), 6.

2 Ibid, 17.

3 Ibid, 27.

4 Ibid, 29.

5 Ibid, 23.

6 Marshall G. S. Hodgson, “How Did the Early Shî’a Become Sectarian,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 75, no. 1 (1955): 6.

49 the Master and the Disciple, is a dialogical text, meaning it is written as a dialogue between characters. Written by Yemeni Ja’far b. Mansūr al-Yaman of Yemen, the dialogue immerses readers in the Ismaili force of intersubjectivity in esoteric learning, meaning that a teacher-student dynamic is necessary to interact with religious knowledge.

The dialogical form used in The Book of the Master and the Disciple communicates that readers should consider the process of seeking knowledge as equally important as gaining knowledge. As opposed to the form and content of al-Yaman’s text, Sayyid Muhammad Husay Tabatabā’ī of Iran wrote The Kernel of the Kernel: Concerning the Wayfaring and the Spiritual Journey of the People of Intellect, a doctrinal text with anecdotal support from the Sayyid’s own Twelver spiritual process. A doctrinal text contains a body of teachings supported by an authority and is written to lead readers towards a better practice of religion or another tradition. Through both its form and content, The Kernel of the Kernel emphasizes that making it to the end of the path is what brings glory and enlightenment to a seeker—a message which is well-conducted through its authoritative style.

Each sub-sect’s learning process is related to the nature of esoteric knowledge and starts with the human desire to find one’s religion. In The Master and the Disciple and The Kernel of the Kernel, similarities between the journeys of esoteric learning are apparent from the beginning. Both texts depict a believer’s overpowering desire for metaphysical knowledge. This desire grows out of an initial effort to reach a universally-accessible divine enlightenment. The dialogue in The Master and the Disciple establishes that the universe is receptive to any person working towards it, and the quest for knowledge appeals to every person. The Kernel of the Kernel also writes that every “profane human being” will be “occasionally [caressed] by the life-giving and refreshing breeze of Divine Attraction,” even if it is “not permanent and only blows every once in a while.”7 Thus, both texts teach that the desire for metaphysical knowledge is a non-discriminatory experience every person can seize.

While the Ismaili and Twelver texts reveal similar ideas of what knowledge is and how one begins the path towards it, there remains a difference in how each sub-sect navigates this path and where it is meant to lead. Each sub-sect’s goal in pursuing truth is reflective of internal, religious differences between the Ismailis and Twelvers and shows us what each sub-sect values about the journey towards knowledge. The Master and the Disciple emphasizes seeking esoteric truths while The Kernel of the Kernel emphasizes finding them. The Ismailis value seeking religious knowledge; divine justice dictates that all sincere religious disciples—those deemed weak or strong, those aware of their religious ignorance or those who are Knowers—are entitled to the same glory. The Twelver text does not refer to divine justice and prioritizes the end of the pious individual’s religious path over the search itself. However, while the values— and therefore objectives on the path— of the Twelver and Ismaili sub7 Sayyid Muhammad Husayn Tbatabā’ī, et al, Kernel of the Kernel: Concerning the Wayfaring and

Spiritual Journey of the People of Intellect (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003), 14.

50 sects differ, both find assurance and justice through humility. Each sub-sect’s esteem for humility in the process of religious learning reconciles the differences between their approaches to the acquisition of religious knowledge. Drawing out the dynamics of humility in each text allows readers to understand how the Ismaili can value seeking knowledge even when it is not found and assure the fate of the Twelver who, on the path towards knowledge, falls short of it’s attainment.

This paper will parse the differences between how a seeker earns religious glory in the Ismaili and Twelver sub-sects. First, this paper will describe how The Master and the Disciple uses metaphysics and the inherent equality of humans to set up the idea of universal accessibility to truth. Second, it will build on that original equality as evidence of God’s divine justice, which is God’s universal will to bring every human true justice, more perfect than human justice can, according to what each individual deserves. Here, divine justice assures that everyone can seek sincerely because seekers of all capabilities will receive glory. Then, we will turn to The Kernel of the Kernel, and how its absence of divine justice pushes seekers to prioritize achievement over seeking. Overall, this paper will move beyond the differing methods and values of learning esoteric knowledge and suggest humility as the key to both the Ismaili and Twelver Shi’i spiritual paths. I hope to make knowledge of Shi’i values accessible to non-experts and students by defining the motivating forces of a journey towards enlightenment as well as the challenges and goals.

ISMAILI GUIDANCE Because of Ismaili cosmology, religious truths are physically visible and the Ismailis use guides to show them how to see it themselves. “Inner” and “outer” dual realities reveal metaphysical knowledge to guides who are able to read them. “Inner” reality is revealed only with esoteric knowledge and is the level of religious truth.

“Outer” reality is made of the physical world we experience. Some features of the outer world correspond with inner truths. The dialogue of The Master and the Disciple establishes that “‘the inner aspect (al-batin) is the religion of God (3:83; 110:2, etc.) through which the friends of God (10:62, etc.) rightly worship Him, while the outer aspect (al-zahir) is the revealed paths of religion and its symbols.’”8 Because knowledge is signaled by the outer physical features of the universe, it is available for all to see.

For example, the Knower in The Master and the Disciple teaches a young disciple that the salty water symbolizes knowledge of outer things while sweet water symbolizes inner spiritual knowledge, and that the Earth’s rivers symbolize those who call people to the good.9 However, even amongst God’s signs believers may remain ignorant, so they need proper guidance to see what is written in outer reality.

According to Ismaili doctrine, a disciple must be awakened to seek by a “re8 Ibid, 83.

9 Ibid, 89-90.

51 port.”10 Ismaili guides are able to teach disciples by pointing out the features of outer reality which correspond to inner, religious reality. The Knower, one who has esoteric knowledge and serves as a guide, in The Master and the Disciple teaches that “‘[God] has watering-places for those who move towards Him and (divine) signs whose wonders follow each other in succession, pointing to Him through their symbols (47:3).’”11 One scene of dialogue depicts the Knower teaching passionate disciples how the signs demonstrate inner and outer knowledge, explaining that, “‘His outer aspect is the reminder (6:68, etc.) and signposts for whoever is rightly guided (10:108, etc.).’”12 The Knower must guide the seeker to recognize the signs of truth which are before his eyes in the structure of the universe. Even though “‘His lofty heaven comes down close (53:8) to those who inquire after (Him)’” and “‘His earth is arranged (43:10) for those who inquire (after Him)’ and the right occasions for His guiding stars (27:7) are arranged for those who seek (Him),’”13 the Knower must also teach that a mediator is necessary for the seeker to see that arrangement. Because “‘our minds are forced by their ignorance to seek (spiritual) knowledge and abundance,’”14 believers turn to a guide. An Ismaili’s ignorance both pushes them towards knowledge while inhibiting them from finding it on their own.

Ultimately, The Master and the Disciple says that the dual nature of reality allows religious seekers to learn—with guidance—metaphysical truths. Because knowledge is signaled by “outer” reality, or physical environmental features, Ismaili cosmology directly dictates the path to knowledge. The method of seeking is tied to the nature of knowledge, and because religion is consistently signaled through outer reality— even when the believer is ignorant— the seeker must learn through a Knower how to orient their vision.

ISMAILI JUSTICE IN SEEKING In addition to the nature of knowledge, human nature plays a role in pursuing the path to knowledge. In Ismaili doctrine, each person is born equally and totally ignorant and not every person will pursue the path to its end. The Knower explains that because people are born ignorant even among the truth which is written into our surroundings, God “‘established for them a way out (65:2) of all that [ignorance and foolish behavior] by means of that instrument (of the spiritual intelligence) around which He shaped their constitution and through which He perfected their creation.’”15 This levels any hierarchy in the availability of knowledge through the equality of perceptual faculties. Yet, The Master and the Disciple depicts many regions inhabited by 10 Jaʻfar ibn Mansūr Al-Yaman and James Winston Morris, The Master and the Disciple: An Early Islamic Spiritual Dialogue (London: I.B. Tauris, 2001), 141.

11 Ibid, 67-68.

12 Ibid, 67.

13 Ibid, 67-68, emphasis in original.

14 Ibid, 69.

15 Ibid, 70.

52 ignorant people; even those who are active on their journey towards religious knowledge will not progress beyond passion and some may not come to full spiritual rank.

The Knower in The Master and the Disciple teaches that the Knowers and the ignorant are equal from birth to death because of divine justice. Everyone’s perceptive faculties are equal and “‘we know that the inner instruments (of will and understanding)’” are also the same because of “‘the pattern of (divine) justice.’”16 Justice allows the Ismailis to seek knowledge with sincerity, and justice motivates us to seek knowledge in the first place. The Master and the Disciple cites justice and respect towards the self and towards God as the reason why knowledge is crucial to seek, but that justice also saves us when we fall short. The Knower exclaims, “‘Do you think that God, despite all His bounteousness and generosity, would impose on [those who fail to use their faculties] what they are unable to perform or to bear (2:296, etc.)? But no, surely He is more just than that!’”17 The Knower invokes the concept of justice to push people towards seeking and uses it to assure mercy for those who cannot seek themselves.

The Ismaili conception of justice is further dependent on the unity of God’s will and one’s own will. It also means that the sincere path to knowledge involves respecting oneself through living for true religion (focusing on a religious lifestyle and closeness with God), and through true religion, respecting God. Indeed, two Islamic historical figures at the beginnings of Shiism Salih and Abu Malik emphasize this: Salih accuses Abu Malik of disrespecting both knowledge and himself by saying, “‘Don’t you see that in your seeking you are really aspiring for the effortlessness of blind imitation (taqlíd)? In doing so you are doing injustice to wisdom and to yourself (65:1, etc.).’”18 To progress on the path to knowledge and to practice religion with thankfulness to God brings Him justice. Ultimately, it is seeking to one’s own ability which brings God’s justice upon them—it is a balance of their own seeking to bring justice to Him by practicing religion and His justice towards them which not only created them able to do so but also accounts for God to justly reward sincerity, faithfulness, and obedience.

Justice serves as an equalizer for all those who seek: Then in His justice, He assigned to them as the ultimate outcome of their obedience that they should be joined with the people of the complete religion and the most noble actions among His servants. So He—may He be exalted!—said: And whoever obeys God and the Messenger, they are with those whom God has given blessings among the prophets, the righteous, the martyrs and the upright ones. They are the best companions.’19

Here, when God considers seekers, He is concerned with each person and the action they have taken rather than their spiritual rank. He does not prioritize those with complete religion over those who seek. This approach differs from the Twelver’s and 16 Ibid, 75.

17 Ibid, 106.

18 Ibid, 142.

19 Ibid, 108.

53 allows the Ismailis to value the process of learning while putting lower stakes on the attainment of knowledge itself.

VALUE OF SEEKING The concept of justice elucidated in this paper so far supports seekers who value seeking without knowing. These seekers paradoxically bring themselves closer to the knowing because they are motivated to reveal falsehood as much as confirm truth. It is not a shortcoming to not have reached knowledge, but rather “‘it is negligence and a shortcoming in the Knower until he shares his knowledge, and in the ignorant person until he seeks to learn.’”20 Even if one does not achieve knowledge, he can still be “rewarded rightly,”21 exactly what divine justice assures each person.

For example, the group of people under ‘Abd al-Jabbar Abu Malik bring justice to God simply by going to Salih the Prophet after debating whether Salih’s trustworthiness. If Salih turned out to have true knowledge, they would bring God justice. If it turned out Salih did not have knowledge, they proactively worked against assuming the truth of “‘what [their] knowledge did not encompass,’”22 which brings justice to God’s knowledge and the state of their own. When faced with the decision to stay put or find out what Salih knows, Abu Malik does not attempt to analyze the risk of Salih’s knowledge being true or false, but rather emphasizes the role of seeking, saying, “‘If you really knew the truth and how to receive it, and if you recognised what is false and how to show its falsity, then you wouldn’t be numbered among the seekers. Rather you’d be numbered among the (true) Knowers of prophecy and right guidance, among those who judge the people of this lower world through divine revelation.’”23 He is steadfast in speaking with Salih, proving that being a seeker is valuable in itself.

Ultimately, in Ismaili doctrine, God’s regard is rewarded to His faithful with “‘their wholehearted obedience, not for their (superlative) actions, as with the upright ones, but as a (special) loving mercy from God for them, even though they and their actions were weak.’”24 Abu Malik, a seeker, would receive the same reward as Salih, a Knower, even though Salih is his superior. Salih explains to him, “‘because of God’s justice, it is necessary that each person who obeys (Him) receives his just recompense (48:16, etc.), and He does not ask about the level of the superior or the subordinate.’”25 Thus, spiritual hierarchy is necessary for seekers to be able to seek esoteric knowledge but does not have significance beyond the navigation of the path to knowledge. Even if it is only to reject falsehood, a seeker can feel comfortable seeking, as justice will bring all those obedient to the level of the Knowers and Friends of God. Therefore, the equality embedded in the creation of humans and metaphysical 20Ibid, 133.

21 Ibid, 123.

22 Ibid, 132.

23 Ibid.

24 Ibid, 108.

25 Ibid, 154.

54 realities is maintained through the entire process of learning, no matter how far along a seeker is.

THE TWELVER JOURNEY For Twelvers, universal access to truth and justice is lost beyond the initial steps of the search for knowledge. The Kernel of the Kernel initially illustrates that the breeze of divine attraction touches every human, the spiritual journey becomes increasingly arduous throughout the text. The seeker is called to detach from the self in order to progress. This unforgivingness and separation from the self contrasts Ismaili mutual justice of respecting God through respecting oneself by seeking knowledge.

While The Master and the Disciple describes, “whoever knows the spirit finds the body pleasing” because the lower world is “sustained”26 by the inner world, The Kernel of the Kernel calls for detachment of one’s self from one’s own soul. As a result, there is a necessary “struggle against self-centeredness and elimination of this natural instinct,” which becomes “the most difficult of all difficult tasks.” Further, “Unless this passion is totally eliminated and this instinct killed, the light of God will not manifest itself in one’s heart. In other words, so long as the traveler does not free himself of himself, he will not join God.”27 This eliminates the foundation for justice which provides a reward for Ismaili both seekers and Knowers, the justice which allows Ismailis to value seeking in itself. If justice towards the self does not translate to justice towards God, then it is not the process of seeking knowledge which is worthy to God but rather its attainment.

In The Kernel of the Kernel, there is no cohesion of love for self and love for God; instead, it is necessary to transform self-love into love for God. Tabatabā’ī dictates that “he must recant this inner idol, which is the source of all vices; and consign it to oblivion once and for all so that all his deeds would be definitely for the sake of Sacred Divine Essence only, and his love for himself would be transformed into the love of God.”28 Abandoning the self “can only be attained through spiritual combat,”29 which is resolved in enlightenment. This battle can lead to the seeker’s failure: “When they face God’s trial and are confronted with temptations of the carnal soul and its effects, those roots suddenly bloom and grow, and finally defeat the wayfarer.”30 In The Master and the Disciple, failure would not defeat a seeker, for even those who fail can be rewarded. In Tabatabā’ī’s example, a failure of attainment means a failure of seeking altogether.

This loss of universal justice as an equalizer breeds a dependence on spiritual strength and achievement. There are disadvantages for remaining in spiritual weak26 Ibid, 86.

27 Ṭ ihrānī, Kernel of the Kernel, 35.

28 Ibid.

29 Ibid.

30 Ibid, 36.

55 ness in that only those who have achieved difficult spiritual feats will be rewarded by God. The Kernel of the Kernel frames a scenario of necessary spiritual achievement: “In the early stages of wayfaring, when this kind of vision [seeing nothing but the Sacred Divine Essence] is not very powerful yet and is independent of the traveler’s will, it is called a state. However, as a result of persistence in mur̄aqabah [meditation] and with Divine help it passes from a state and becomes a station (maq ̄am).” This illustrates how to progress. Next, it emphasizes both progression’s inaccessibility and importance: Obviously, a [spiritually] strong traveler is the one who is conscious of his own state while at the same time is cognizant of the world of multiplicities and conducts the affairs of both with utmost care. This is an exalted and sublime station and is attainable only with great difficulty. Perhaps it is attained only by prophets and Friends of God (awliya All ̄ah) and whomever God wills.31

If this were a passage from The Master and the Disciple, it may be irrelevant whether one truly becomes a Friend of God, because those obedient will be considered so in the end. However, in The Kernel of the Kernel, it becomes consequential to be left behind the Friends of God. RECONCILIATION THROUGH HUMILITY With divine glory at stake, a believer may wonder—after witnessing the equity of Ismaili eternal life—if there is an equivalent to Ismaili justice in Tabatabā’ī’s theology. As a final resort for those searching for enlightenment, he seems to suggest humility as a means of progressing on the path. Tabatabā’ī writes, “After much effort and search, if such a person [the mukallaf] fails to find preference [in a particular religion] and reach some degree of certainty, he must make a firm determination and persist in lamentation, weeping, and humility.”32 While it differs from justice in that it does not accept a seeker despite their lack of objective achievement, The Kernel of the Kernel provides humility as a safeguard, encouraging the seekers that he “should not hesitate to resort to beseeching and pleading until ultimately a path is opened for him as it was opened for the Prophet and his disciples; may Peace be upon him and upon our Prophet and his Progeny.”33 Affirmingly, it is humility which also motivates the men of Abu Malik in The Master and the Disciple to act justly. The men admit to him, ‘We came to you with our hearts full of wrath (9:15) against these people, ready to claim them as enemies of faith and to condemn their opinions so that we might consider licit the shedding of their blood and the seizing of their property. But now we have found our hearts inclining in humility (57:16) to what you have said in arguing on their behalf and in defending them.’34

31 Ibid, 24.

32 Ibid, 71.

33 Ibid.

34 Al-Yaman, The Master and the Disciple, 132, emphasis in original.

56 Humility allows the Ismailis to consider more turns in the journey, which deepens the process of seeking. In both texts, humility is the key to open the path to knowledge, whether that path is to seek or to find religious enlightenment.

The Ismaili and Twelver descriptions of the spiritual path towards esoteric knowledge differ in their facilitation and values. The Master and the Disciple’s idea of divine justice gives the spiritual journey a different purpose than that of The Kernel of the Kernel, which values completion of the journey over the process of seeking enlightenment. While these different objectives distinguish the two texts, the ethic of humility ultimately drives Ismaili disciples to delve further into justly seeking knowledge and allows Twelver seekers to overcome spiritual failure and persevere into a new and successful path.

THE BINATIONAL COLONIALISM OF BRIT SHALOM

By Anchita Dasgupta

I

60

n 1925, a small collective of Zionist intellectuals of mostly Eastern European origin, founded a study circle called Brit Shalom (Covenant of Peace) in Jerusalem.

Initially an organisation for research and political deliberation, through the twentieth century, Brit Shalom transformed into an unusual political organisation within the Zionist movement that often took radical political positions and promoted intiatives that were opposed by mainstream Zionists. Brit Shalom’s uncharacteristic divergence from political Zionism, because of its idealistic loyalty to the spiritual and religious motivations of Zionism, has been the subject of much scrutiny within Zionist historiography.1 Brit Shalom’s primary point of divergence with mainstream Zionism arose out of its leadership’s moralistic commitment to the principle of Arab Jewish binationalism within the Jewish national project in Palestine. These aspirations are documented in their mission statement as well as the series of memorandums, policy papers, and publications in Brit Shalom’s journal, Sh’ifotenu (1925–1933), as well as personal writings of some of its most influential members. Moreover, there is significant debate within the scholarship of Zionism regarding the extent of Brit Shalom’s departure from mainstream Zionism in its advocacy for binationalism. Scholars like Dimitry Shumsky have demonstrated that Brit Shalom’s zealous commitment to binationalism overrode their desire to create a Jewish national state in Palestine—which raises questions about whether the practitioners of Brit Shalom can be considered Zionists in the conventional sense.

Regardless of the nature of Brit Shalom’s Zionism, when juxtaposed against the scholarship of recent historians such as Ilan Pappé and Gershon Shafir it is found that the movement is no less colonial than other mainstream forms of Zionism. This appears paradoxical given the anti-imperial and anti-colonial positions of the leaders of Brit Shalom on the question of European colonisation of Asia, Africa, and Latin America. However as Shafir and Pappé argue, the desire for a nationalist realization, as in the case of Zionism, can coexist with colonialism. In this paper, Brit Shalom is seen as a case study into the latter. It is seen that Brit Shalom strove to perform the benevolence of Judaism before the indigenous Arab population in an attempt to woo them into the acceptance of European Jewish settlers and Jewish culture. Their objective is not to offset the realization of the Jewish national project; rather it is to involve the Arabs in a robust process of Judaization of Palestine by explaining to them the merits of Jewish settlement. This paper will argue that the Zionism of Brit Shalom, while binational and perhaps even benevolent in practice, can by no means be considered anti-colonial.

1 Shalom Ratsabi, ‘Introduction’, Between Zionism and Judaism: the Radical Circle in Brith Shalom, 1925-1933 (Leiden: Brill, 2002).

61 BINATIONALISM: THE IDEOLOGY THAT PRECEDED BRIT-SHALOM Brit-Shalom’s ideology was one amongst several Zionist ideologies that emerged between the Young Turks Revolt in 1908 and the First World War in 1914. It took an “integrative outlook” towards the “Arab question”—an effort to counteract and respond to the anti-Zionist sentiments expressed by the Palestinian and Syrian Arab press in the early 1900s.2 While there were many scholars who advocated for an integrative outlook, Yitzhak Epstein was the first to provoke widespread public attention.3 In a 1907 article titled The Hidden Question, Epstein strongly criticised the means by which Jewish settlers dispossessed poor Palestinian farmers and seized their land.4 Epstein’s article was one of the first widely received works of political theory by a Zionist intellectual that explicitly highlighted the moral reprehensibility of the settler colonial dispossesion of Palestinians and espoused the significance of mending Arab-Jewish relations to avert political damage to the Zionist cause. Esptein wrote that: Among the different questions raised by the idea of the renaissance of our people on its soil, there is one the importance of which outweighs all others: the question of our attitude towards the Arabs. This question, on the correct solution of which depends on the realisation of our national aspirations, has not been forgotten but rather has remained completely hidden from the Zionists, and in its true form it has found almost no mention in the literature of our movement.5

Epstein’s criticism was levelled at the European settlers who ignored the presence of Arabs in Palestine altogether until the First World War. Ahad Ha’am, another Zionist thinker and essayist and one of the forefathers of Brit Shalom, visiting Palestine in 1891, had criticized the racist and ethnocentric attitudes of the settlers: “They behave towards the Arabs with hostility and cruelty, trespass unjustly upon their boundaries, beat them shamefully without reason and even brag about it, and nobody stands to check this contemptible and dangerous tendency”.6

Between 1908 and 1925 the displacement of Palestinians extended into the realm of the labor market. This period coincided with the Second Aliyah—the second wave of emigration of eastern European Jews into Palestine.7 Many of the Jewish settlers who arrived in this wave were Marxists, who believed that productive, hands-on, agricultural labour would pave their way to the attainment of their nationalist aspirations.8 These new settlers propagated an exclusivist and western-supremacist form of 2 Yosef Gorny, Zionism and the Arabs, 1882-1948 a Study of Ideology (Oxford: Clarendon Press,

2001), 40.

3 Walter Zeev Laqueur, A History of Zionism (New York: Schocken Books, 2003), 578.

4 Gorny, 41.

5 Gorny, 41 6 Ibid 27 7 The Second Aliyah refers to the second wave of immigration of Jewish settlers from Europe to Palestine primarily from the Pale of Settlement in Russia that took place between the years 1904 and 1914.

8 Laqueur, 587

62 working-class solidarity, that sought preferential employment of Jewish labor in Jewish-owned plantations and settlements, as opposed to the cheap Arab labor that used to be employed previously.9 A consequence of the Second Aliyah was increased Jewish separatism and the displacement of Arab peasants and workers, the precise opposite of what Epstein and other integrationists had advocated for.10 This stoked sentiments of anti-Zionism within the Arab press in Palestine.11 BRIT SHALOM AND ITS PIONEERS By the early 1920s, despite the anti-Zionist fervour of prominent Palestinian newspapers like Al Karmel, Fillastin, and Al Muntada, the proponents of binationationalism founders of Brit Shalom continued to remain hopeful. In 1925, Ruppin declared at the Vienna Zionist Congress that a Zionist state would not be possible without the realisation of both Arab and Jewish national interests.12 R. Benyamin engaged in public debates with Bulus Shehadeh, an anti-Zionist editor of the Palestinian newspaper Mir’at al-Sharq in November 1925. R. Benyamin’s public writings in Mir’at al-Sharq was an effort to contest the anti-Zionist sentiment within the Palestinian civil society.

Avi-ram Tzoreff writes: “By serving as an ‘echo’ of the Arabic press, RB sought to open what he regarded as the closed ears of the Zionist Yishuv to Palestinian perceptions of Zionism”.13 Arthur Ruppin and R. Benyamin, who constituted the Zionist leadership in Ottoman Palestine before the first World War, were keenly aware of the “hidden problem” that integrationists like Epstein underscored, against which they directed their advocacy.14 Therefore, it was no coincidence that Brit Shalom came alive in Ruppin’s living room in Jerusalem.

Brit Shalom drew from the spiritual moralism of its founders, but reoriented these principles to contemporaneous Zionist politics. Shortly after its foundation in 1925, it published a mission statement that emphasized this sentiment. This four-page statement was written in the form of a letter to the Jewish supporters of Brit Shalom and evoked the spirituality of Judaism to inspire an altruistic demeanour of settler Jews towards the indigenous Arab population. The statement clarified that while the movement was motivated by a desire to edify the moral standards of the Jewish faith, it would apply Judaic morals to understand and assuage the Jewish-Arab problems in Palestine. To this end, Brit Shalom’s mission statement identified three objectives for the movement that elaborated its commitment to Arab-Jewish integration and binationalism. The first was to study the Arabs and all the inter-racial problems of 9 Ibid., 590.

10 Ibid., 591.

11 Ibid., 592.

12 Ibid., 611.

13 Ibid., 133 14 Ibid 578. The Second Aliyah refers to the second wave of immigration of Jewish settlers from Europe to Palestine primarily from the Pale of Settlement in Russia that took place between the years 1904 and 1914.

63 Palestine. The second was to work out a policy that advocated for the development of a Palestinian state based on equal adjustment of Jewish and Arab interest. The third was the drawing up and active promotion of practical measures for improvement of Jewish Arab relations.15 Specifically, the manifesto sought that Palestine should be a biracial or a binational state, with equal rights for both Jews and Arabs, and that there should be joint administrative, economic and social organisation between the Arabs and the Jews.16 The mission statement further dismissed the need for artificially creating a Jewish majority in Palestine for the purpose of building a Jewish national home.17 This was Brit Shalom’s most radical departure from mainstream Zionism—not only because it downplayed the centrality of European Jewish immigration into Palestine to the Zionist project but also because it passed over the active opportunity for Jewish migration that Palestine presented to Zionists in the 1920s.18 The anti-immigration position was buttressed by the group’s publications in Sh’ifotenu—Brit Shalom’s journal. In a 1928 article, Benyamin argued against Zionist policies designed to achieve a Jewish majority in Palestine, claiming it was the wrong political objective because it negated any cooperative approach and construed the two groups as having opposed interests.”19 Similarly, in a letter to Hans Kohn, Arthur Ruppin wrote: In the foundations of Brith Shalom one of the determining factors was that the Zionist aim has no equal example in history. The aim is to bring the Jews as a second nation into a country which already is settled as a nation—and fulfill this through peaceful means. History has seen such penetration by one nation into a strange land only by conquest, but it has never occurred that a nation will freely agree that another nation should come and demand full equality of rights and national autonomy at its side. The uniqueness of this case prevents its being, in my opinion, dealt with in conventional political-legal terms.20 In the wake of the 1929 Western Wall riots, leaders of Brit Shalom, like Judah Magnes, urged the Zionist mainstream to reorganize themselves according to pacifist lines. Magnes was willing to compromise on the dream of a Jewish majority in Palestine provided that immigration, settlement and Hebrew culture were accepted by the Arabs.21 The Arab leadership in Palestine however, was largely dismissive of Brit Shalom. In response to R. Benyamin’s 1925 piece, Shehadeh had disputed the authenticity of his Zionism, calling him an “Orthodox Jew”, who was driven more by morals than politics, whose beliefs, he correctly assessed, reflected only that of a fringe of the 15 “Brit Shalom Mission Statement” 16 Ibid.

17 Ibid.

18 Ibid.

19 Tzoreff, 139 20 Simha Flapan, Zionism and the Palestinians (London: Croom Helm, 1979), 173.

21 Laqueur, 664.

64 mainstream Zionists, and where was therefore not worthy of engagement. 22 DIVERGENCE OF BRIT SHALOM FROM MAINSTREAM ZIONISM Walter Laqueur, a contemporary Jewish American historian of political violence, writes that the early twentieth century debate between Epstein and his critics over the former’s advocacy of integrationist practices in The Hidden Question accurately captures the rift between the pacifist idealist stream of Zionism and pragmatism until the modern day. Indeed, this essay, although published nearly three decades prior to the founding of Brit Shalom, mirrors much of the criticism its ideals garnered later. Epstein’s essay had argued that Jewish altruism could give what Arabs could get from no one else, to which his critic had responded in exasperation: “To give—always to give, to the one our body, to the other, our soul, and to yet another the remnant of the hope ever to live as a free people in its historical homeland.”23 Laqueur points out that a similar kind of opposition was levelled against Judah Magnes in 1929, when he urged the mainstream to adopt pacifism.24 As an anonymous reader of Sh’ifotenu commented, there was no conviction among other Zionists that pacifism would eventually lead to the realization of a Jewish homeland, and that the Arabs would willingly accept the Jews.25 While historians like Laqueur and Yosef Gorny agree on the significant divergences between Brit Shalom and other forms of traditional Zionism, Dimitry Shumsky, another Israeli-Jewish historian directly challenges the uniqueness of Brit Shalom on multiple accounts in his piece Brith Shalom’s Uniqueness Reconsidered: Hans Kohn and Autonomist Zionism. Shumsky claims that most scholars of Zionism equate the doctrine’s exclusive demands of full political sovereignty for the Jewish people of Palestine to the realization of some form of a Jewish nation state. Employing the works of historian and philosopher Hans Kohn, another pioneer of Brit Shalom, Shumsky demonstrates that some Zionists contested the mainstream position that the exclusive end of political Zionism was Jewish statehood. This uncritical position has bled into the present-day scholarship of Zionism, which Shumsky claims, is an ahistorical argument that views Zionism’s history through the deterministic and futuristic lens of the creation of the nation-state of Israel. Shumsky goes on to situate this argument in what he calls a “a type of deterministic nation-state paradigm.” This can be seen in historiography of other contemporary modern nationalisms in Europe that emerged in the late nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries and viewed the birth of a nation-state as nationalism’s invariable end. Such theories of nationalism— predicated on the framework of sovereignty and adopted by nascent European nation-states born out of the disintegration of Czarist, Habsburg and Ottoman empires of the nine22 Tzoreff, 139.

23 Laqueur, 582.

24 Ibid., 666.

25 Ibid.

65 teenth century— sought to fit Zionism into its own straitjacket. Therefore, it would seem, Brit Shalom’s call for a binational existence of Jews and Arab within Palestine appeared to contradict not only the premise of Zionism, but also the “normative theoretical model of nationalism”.26 In other words, Brit Shalom and Hans Kohn were not alone in their non-statist imaginations of Zionism.

Shumsky points out a range of other Zionist figures, some from the opposite end of the political spectrum, who had advocated for similar binational, non-state models of a Jewish national home. Ze’ev Jabotinsky, who was at the forefront of revisionist Zionism and advocated for the use of force against Arabs to realise Jewish nationalist aspirations, outlined a program for the establishment of a federative Palestinian framework for two Palestinian autonomies—one Jewish and one Arab.27 Similar espousals of binationalism has been recorded by Ben-Gurion and Berl Katznelson from the labor wing of the Zionist movement.28 Gershon Shafir also supports these claims, stating that binationalists had many constituencies and multiple configurations. They were liberals, capitalists and socialists in turn, organizing in both small groups and larger movements. Labor movement leaders, the liberal wing of movement, as well as the general Zionists all supported and espoused binationalist goals at one time or the other.29 Shumsky reiterates that while mainstream Zionists were welcoming of binationalism at different points of Jewish settlement like Brit Shalom, they were unwavering in their goal of realising a Jewish majority in Palestine. After the 1929 riots, Brit Shalom was willing to compromise even on this core principle of mainstream Zionism.30 Therefore, according to Shumsky, Zionists differed on where they stood on binationalism and autonomy for the Arabs. However, this had to be attributed, at least in part to the different ideals of national self-determination that existed before the mid-twentieth century, where the connection between nationalism and statehood was not preclusive.

ZIONISM AND COLONIALISM Israeli revisionist historian and social activist Ilan Pappé identifies a major rift between Palestinian and Israeli interpretations of the historical motivations of Zionism. Whereas Palestinian historiography finds Zionism to be a colonial movement that sought to penetrate the Palestinian homeland with force and displace its indigenous population with expansionist ambitions, Israeli historiography views Zionism as a na26 Dimitry Shumsky, “Brith Shalom’s Uniqueness Reconsidered: Hans Kohn and Autonomist

Zionism,” Jewish History 25, no. 3-4 (December 2011): pp. 339-353, https://doi.org/10.1007/s10835011-9139-x, 340.

27 Ibid., 346.

28 Ibid.

29 Gershon Shafir, “Capitalist Binationalism In Mandatory Palestine,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 43, no. 4 (2011): pp. 611-633, https://doi.org/10.1017/s0020743811001206, 612.

30 Shumsky, 347.

66 tional liberation movement that was spurred by an idealistic nationalist and religious fervour that would return displaced Jews to their ancient homeland.31 Pappé’s historiographical analysisis is unique because it studies Zionism’s attitude towards the indigenous population of Palestine not through a positivist and empiricist approach only, as was the conventional historical practice until the 1990s, but rather through a comparative approach that merges Israeli and Palestinian positive historiography.32 This, alongside the works of historians Baruch Kimmerling and Gershon Shafir, is a stark departure from the historiography of Zionism by most other prominent scholars of the subject such as Yosef Gorny (Israeli) and Fayez Sayegh (Palestinian), who have each sought evidence that most suited their positionality and perspective. For instance, to a Palestinian positivist historian the explanation for Zionism is colonialist expansion, and to an Israeli positivist historian it is the Jewish diaspora’s desire to realise a nationalist dream. An exclusively positivist approach in the case of Palestine is bound to “serve the ideological needs of the present’’ more than satisfy scholarly interest in the past, argues Pappé.

Unlike most Israeli historians prior to 1990 who used Zionism’s nationalist motivations to repudiate the contention that the former demonstrated colonial behaviour, Pappé asserts that Zionist settlers were “motivated by a national impulse but acted as pure colonialists.33 Pappé compares the colonialist praxis of early Zionism with Catholic and Protestant colonialism in Palestine and Africa in the early nineteenth and the mid-eighteenth centuries respectively that did not fit the mold of other kinds of western contemporary colonisations.34 He does this to emphasize that unlike pure colonialist examples, which were predicated exclusively by economic considerations as was usually the case with European colonies in Asia, Africa and the Americas, the colonialism of Zionism in Palestine was disguised with the discourse 31 I. Pappé, “Zionism as Colonialism”.

32 Pappé explains in his piece “Zionism as Colonialism: A Comparative View of Diluted

Colonialism in Asia and Africa” that ever since historiography emerged as a scientific discipline, scholars have attempted to rationalize the motives behind human relocations and resettlement.

Earlier explanations explained settlement in “empiricist and positivist” terms. This meant that such scholars believed human action has a concrete explanation that is best provided by those who performed the action. Such historiography of Zionism was disrupted by the scholarship of social historians whose fields of study led them to new conclusions despite studying the same phenomenon. This was the transition that took place in Zionist historiography in the 1990s.

Until the 1990s, Israeli scholarship of Zionism saw the movement as “a national liberation movement with a strong socialist past,” whereas Palestinian scholarship of the same movement saw it as “a colonialist movement that penetrated the Palestinian homeland by force”. Both sets of scholars relied on testimonies and diaries of Jewish settlers and indigenous Palestinians to arrive at their conclusions—a historiographical technique of empiricism that believed human action had to be explained by those who performed it. Scholars like Pappé, Gershon Shafir and Baruch Kimmerling offered an alternative historiography that merged the Israeli and Palestinian techniques of scholarship and presented a new framework of analysing Zionism— social history(Pappé, 611-12).

33 Pappé, 612, 631.

34 Ibid.

67 of “modernization and religious morality, and later even by the adoption of an-anti colonial self-image.”35 Pappé goes on to emphasize that a comparison of Zionism with colonialism, a method Zionists historians are reluctant to support, does nothing to weaken its nationalistic nature. The violence of dispossesion that Palestinian historiography attributes to colonialism is, in fact, better explained by Zionism’s nationalistic motivations.36 Gershon Shafir, an Israeli sociologist based in the United States, has also made a similarly persuasive sociological case that Zionism has adopted and combined different European colonial models throughout different points of history to exist in Palestine. While Israeli understandings and expressions of Zionism, and modes of settlement may have differed through the three Aliyahs, as well as before and after 1967, the narrative of colonialism is constant when scrutinized through the lens of Palestinian experience. This aligns with Pappé’s assertion on positivist historiography that best finds a concrete explanation by those who performed the action. 37 BRIT SHALOM AND COLONIALISM Shafir, in claiming that all expressions of Zionism are colonial in nature, does not spare Brit Shalom. His categorisation of Brit Shalom’s Zionism as colonialism stems from the society’s silence on the Zionist mainstream’s effort to separate the Arab labor force from the Jewish labor force.38 The movement emphasizes integration in the spheres of education, social affairs and medicine. In the economic sphere it called for the integration of various economic organizational units. It also forwarded some wage equalization suggestions for Arabs and Jews employed for the same work. But as Shafir’s works underscore, Brit Shalom was very careful to not explicitly address the question of labor market separation, the bedrock of the Zionist settler colony at least after the Second Aliyah.39 Shafir also writes that Brit Shalom repeated the prototypical modernization and development logic of colonialism that the colonized and the colonizer would equally benefit from economic development.40 Brit Shalom argued that Jews and Arabs had a common interest in the flow and absorption of Jewish immigrants into Palestine ever since the Jews arrived with the purpose of reconstructing a Jewish homeland, rather than the colonial exploitation and political domination of Arabs.41 As historian Pappé has argued elegantly, Zionism ensured that these occurred simultaneously. Furthermore, Epstein’s argument in The Hidden Question, the precursor to Brit 35 Ibid, 614.

36 Pappé, 616.

37 Gershon Shafir, “Zionism And Colonialism: A Comparative Approach,” The Israel/Palestine Question, November 2002, pp. 81-94, https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203003763-13.

38 Ibid 39 Shafir, “Capitalist Binationalism In Mandatory Palestine,” 616-17.

40 Ibid, 616.

41 Ibid, 616.

68 Shalom’s binationalism, also borrowed heavily from the colonial logic of modernization. Epstein recommended that friendly relations between Jews and Arabs could be spurred by “raising the living standards of the peasants”. He claimed that they needed to open up Jewish infrastructure to them and help Arabs “find their own identity”.

The better quality of infrastructure would also draw Arab immigration from neighboring Arab majority countries which would help the Jews assimilate better. 42 Therefore, drawing from Shafir and Pappé’s analysis of Zionism, it would appear that while Jewish-Arab integration and assimilation in Palestine appeared to have benevolent connotations, its premise was largely colonial. The rationale for binationalism was to pacify the indigenous population which in turn would ease the creation of a Jewish nationalist home in Palestine. The emphasis, even on building fraternal relations, arose from the desire to consolidate Jewish control, to the point of compromising Jewish nationalistic ideals for the purpose of peace with the Arabs.

As Pappé, Shafir and others point out, the various forms of nationalism that Zionists desired, to which Brit Shalom’s binationalism belonged, were each colonial in their expression. Brit Shalom’s moralistic beliefs of nationalism did not absolve their movement’s colonial temperament. More importantly, Brit Shalom, like other strands of political Zionism, did not acknowledge the innate colonialism that belies the Jewish national project.

A strong anti-colonialism counter to Brit Shalom is forwarded by Tzoreff in his aforementioned piece. For the members of Brit Shalom, he claims, “repudiating any reliance on imperial power (...) was a critical precursor for creating an alternative political model for Palestine’s Jews.”43 In addition to the promulgation of a multinational state that gives equal rights to Jews of Sephardi and Ashkenazi origins, as well as Palestinians, R. Benyamin had also called for the participation of Jews in a larger Arab geographical entity that would allow Jews to identify with the anticolonial struggles of the East against Western imperialism.44 It was a critical moment for Zionism, he claimed, that would decide whether Zionism was “with us (Arabs)” or “against us”.45 Hugo Bergmann had earlier written that Israel was becoming an integral part of the east by sharing the aspirations of the Arabs in Davar in 1925.46 Zohar Moar, another Israeli scholar of Brit Shalom, points out anti- colonial criticisms in the writings of Hans Kohn, Hugo Bergmann and Gershon Scholem. 47 The anti-imperial character of these writings is distinct, especially as members of Brit Shalom explicitly disparaged the Treaty of Versailles’s extension of polit42 Laqueur, 576.

43 Tzoreff, 133.

44 Ibid.

45 Ibid.

46 Ibid., 132.

47 Maor, Zohar. “Moderation from Right to Left: The Hidden Roots of Brit Shalom.” Jewish Social Studies 19, no. 2 (2013): 79. https://doi.org/10.2979/jewisocistud.19.2.79.

69 ical rights to European peoples while reducing the East to a “second-grade people.”48 However, Shafir and Pappé have succinctly explained the unique nature of Zionist colonialism in Palestine. The deliberate orientalization of Zionism in an effort to situate the Jewish national homeland into the East (the Orient), despite the European roots of most Zionist settlers, and solidarity with anti-imperial struggles against European states would however, not salvage the economic exploitation and discrimination that Zionism was predicated upon. Neither would it undo the histories of the Aliyahs that led to Jewish immigration, settlement, and colonization. Besides, despite its many divergences from mainstream Zionism, Shumsky has shown that Brit Shalom members identified as Zionists and recognised the nationalist goal of Zionism which was inherently imbued in colonialism. Therefore, argues Shafir, while Brit Shalom’s high moral propulsions obviate its need for explicit imperialist support, allowing it to reject British and European colonialism and encourage the employment of democratic processes for solving disputes. However, like Pappé highlights, Brit Shalom, like all other forms of Zionism, participated and profited from this unconventional colonialism.

CONCLUSION To conclude, Brit Shalom’s ideological anti-colonial positioning acted as a smoke screen that misled historians of Zionism to overestimate its difference with mainstream Zionism. A cursory glance at the humanistic ideals espoused by Brit Shalom’s leaders falsely depicts a Zionism that is divorced from its colonial implications.

In reality, Zionism in all its divergent forms requires colonialism to reach fruition. Brit Shalom’s attempt to strike a middle ground by humanizing Zionism therefore was an ethical paradox. Juxtaposing scholarly debates on Brit Shalom’s Zionism and Zionism’s relationship with colonialism, not only yields a clearer understanding of Brit Shalom’s character, but also crystallises the inseparability of nationalism and colonialism within Zionism.

48 Tzoreff, 134.

“Waiting in a River Bed”

Interview with Cover Artist Lena Kassicieh Hi Lena, thanks so much for joining us today!

Thanks so much for having me!

To get started, can you tell us a bit about your background in art, specifically where your love of art came from and how it has been shaped throughout your life? I know you are a ceramicist, photographer, and mixed media artist. Why do you gravitate towards those mediums of art in particular?

I’ve always, even as a kid, really liked making things.

I remember I would grab the entire stacks of printer paper that my dad had on his desk and lock myself in my room and draw comics, locking my sister out of our shared room like a weirdo. I didn’t grow up in a household of artists. My dad’s a doctor.

All my siblings are doctors. So, I’m the only one who kind of went on a different path. And I think it’s something that I’ve naturally been interested in my whole life. I remember when I was in school and I thought about going to art school, it was not really encouraged. It was very much like, no, you need to study something so that you will actually be able to get a job or make money – encouraging science or law or journalism or engineering. And so that’s what made me want to study political science. I was interested in people.

And while I was doing all these things, I was still creating stuff. I just never owned the title “artist.”

For the longest time, I felt so pretentious saying that. It was only until I moved to Jordan after finishing my bachelor’s degree and was working at a magazine in which we talked about art and culture and I got to know so many amazing Palestinian artists in that scene in Amman, that I started thinking, okay, maybe I could also do this. And then I met people who were encouraging and taught me that you don’t need to study art to be able to be an artist. You just need to practice your craft and spend time on it. So, I started feeling more comfortable five years ago saying, okay I can be an artist. I can put myself out there. And that’s when I really started exploring different things and seeing what I liked and putting things out there and getting feedback and seeing what I felt resonated with people and what didn’t.

Then I went back and did my master’s in anthropology. That was an interesting experience because it was very cultural, so it felt like it was creative in

its own way. It’s not art for sure, but it allowed me to find ways where I can marry my interests with culture, people, and creative practice.

Every time I would come back to New Mexico for Christmas – I had been living in Jordan, so I had been out of the US for the last 12 years – I would go to a ceramic studio and work on that. It was just something I enjoyed doing and I would give them away as gifts. Then people started seeing pictures of the things I was doing, and they were like, “Those are really nice. Maybe you should focus a little bit more on that.” And then I just started pouring more energy into ceramics and developed my own style.

It just happened naturally. For some reason, ceramics are the thing that people seem to like the most, which is unfortunate because they take the most time and are the most labor-intensive craft ever.

I think for that reason, I also started getting into digital art, which I was very against at the beginning because I believed art should be tangible.

You should be able to feel whatever you’re making and work with your hands. And then a friend recommended trying to illustrate on an iPad. It could open doors for me in terms of accessibility and what I am able to do project wise. I was very hesitant, but I got the iPad, I think four years ago.

And I have to say, it’s really nice because I move around so much, and I don’t have to have a dedicated studio space. I always make a small corner in my apartment, but the iPad allows you to draw and create things when you have 20 minutes waiting in line or you’re at a café and you just have an idea.

It’s opened up a lot of doors for me and I have done

a lot of illustration projects. The Institut du Monde Arabe in Paris reached out to do a few illustrations for books they are doing as well as some projects in the US. For me, it’s really hard to stick to one thing because I think I am a curious person. The collage thing is something that came about because I had random stuff around and it was like, okay, I want to make art, but I don’t have tons of materials. I have 20 old magazines and 3 newspapers, let me make something. And then people liked it. I’m still as a point of my career where I’m shocked when people really like it. I’m getting better at accepting compliments but I’m like, “oh I made that, and you like it?”

My partner is also a doctor. In trying to explain to him my inspiration, sometimes it’s not even that there’s an inspiration. It’s just that art is also therapy. It’s how you get out things that you are feeling intrinsically. Sometimes I go into a transitive state and I’m just making something, feeling an emotion.

It’s not like I saw a sunset that really inspired me.

For some projects you have to be inspired by certain things to do work. But most of my ceramics and artwork that you’re going to feature was very much like therapy for me. In lockdown, I was anxious about the future. I only had limited materials. I needed to make something because I felt so anxious. And that piece [the cover art] came from it.

That’s the story. I was feeling scattered by so many thoughts and maybe those little pieces on the collage are just physical manifestations of all the little anxieties I was having.

That’s why I love your style. And so did all the team members on Juhood. We were so excited when we found your art last semester, because we had been looking for a while for an artist that fit our general vibe and young, colorful aesthetic and we’re so excited to feature you. And I definitely see coherent themes throughout your art.

I know its mixed media and different, but I really love the colors and style you use. Does your Palestinian heritage and background influence your art? And if so, how?

I would say it’s something that is always there because it’s such an important part of who I am.

Especially now, I’m working on a project. My family is from Jerusalem. My grandfather was an avid journaler so he kept journals every year from 1946

to 2000. Recently, in the past couple of years, my aunt showed me these journals. I had always seen him having a journal in his little pocket with a pen, but I had never seen the actually journals and he’s passed away now. My aunt was like, “You know Sitta (Sitta is the name for my grandma) kept all of these journals and we have all of them.”

I always knew he also loved taking photos. He has a huge archive of photos from time in Jerusalem, from when the family moved to Jordan. And then I saw the link between the photos and the journals.

The journals are really interesting because they are daily journals. They are these tiny ones that people used to keep that would have addresses in the beginning and then daily agendas. And he would write everything in a very fact-based way. When I was going through them I would find things like “we were invited to a dinner at this persons house” and then the next day “Israel bombed this city.”

You could see how life was woven into what was happening to them. And I realized I need to do a book about this. I need to find a way to capture our family story.

I’m really tired of Palestinians being seen as either terrorists or victims or poor refugees. So this story, for me, is a way to celebrate our Palestinian family. And we are Christian, so a minority Palestinian family, because the majority is Muslim. Most of the world thinks the whole Arab world is Muslim. And it’s like, no, we are Christian too – we are the original Christians!

So, I am working on that. My Palestinian side is

coming out more in that I’m doing more projects that are involved with that specific identity. You can look at my Instagram, but I shared a few artworks that are specifically Palestinian based. I think for the longest time so many Palestinians, at least for my friends and for me, it was like, this is an ongoing thing. We don’t want to shove it down people’s throats. But with what’s been happening in the past couple of months, I’ve realized that the only thing we really have is our identity and our heritage and I really want to celebrate that and continue talking about it. I think for the longest time, most of us have thie weird guilt. I don’t have Palestinian identification because I wasn’t born there. My dad was born in Jordan. We don’t have the direct connection. But then I realized, that’s what the occupation wants, right? Is for so many of the new generation to be removed from Palestine so that they are like “I’m American now” or “I’m Jordanian now” or “I’m Chilean now” or wherever the diaspora is that they are. And only recently have I realized, no, I’m going to own that. For a long time, I would actually say I am Jordanian. And my dad would say, “You are not Jordanian!” But I that was my lived experience, that’s the passport. But now, I’m like no I’m Palestinian! And even saying that is a political thing now.

ize” but when the media only shows a kid that has half an arm blown off in Gaza and all that people think about when they think of Palestine is war and trauma – I want to show to show them, no there’s generations of Palestinian history that are happy and proud and also normal just moving around the region and doing normal things. That’s kind of where I want to focus my art, celebrating the things that make our history and identities unique.

Now my work is becoming more focused on Palestine in a celebratory way. I really want to celebrate my family history, the heritage that I’m really proud to be a part of, and also the things about us that people don’t know. I think it’s so important to humanize – I hate that I have to say “human-

Yeah, so once I discovered all of these materials, I decided I need to do a book. I applied for a grant in the UAE to two different institutions. I don’t know if you know, but there’s Art Jameel and Warehouse421 which is in Abu Dhabi. They are both contemporary art institutions that support regional and international art and they have exhibitions. So I pitched to both of them and they both gave me grant money for this book. Once the book is done – it’s a slow, rolling process – it will be available in both of those places and then, in my ideal world, at the Palestinian museum in Ramallah as well, because it’s an archival book. It will have scans of photos, scans of the journals. I’m going to write captions about the stories.

We are not the same as every other Arab. I’m also sick of the monolith of the “Arab World”. There are so many different specifics within the Arab world – dialect and ways of thinking and ways of doing and very Palestinian idioms. So I’m trying to celebrate that though my art now, and I’m not going to make only that kind of art, but it is definitely a huge part.

I think that’s come with the new wave of conversation that’s happening about Palestinian and this is really important. I told my partner, our kids will have Palestinian names. I am doing all that I can to celebrate who we are and talk about it with people, especially in the US. I thinks that’s really important.

That’s amazing and really interesting to hear. So you are putting a book together?

That is going to be amazing. I’m so excited to see it when its finished! And that’s so cool that you have all your grandfather’s journals.

I always knew he did these but I didn’t kn0w we have of them. I feel like some part of hi, was like, I better save this stuff because so many of my friends that are Palestinian say they don’t have any family photos. They were either destroyed or left in the house. And for Sitto, he thought, even when

You touched on this a bit before, but what were you feeling when you are making the piece that’s going to be featured on the cover of this edition of Juhood, Things That Float?

“Things That Float”

we emigrate even when we moved to Jordan, even when we travel – because he also moved to Tunisia and Lebanon – he brought it with him every time.

He has his marriage certificate, his birth certificate, everything that says Government of Palestine. I have all the documents now. He used to work with the Government of Palestine when it was under the British mandate. I found the other day in his files, the paper in which he was relieved from his role in the government. It says “Cause of termination: end of British mandate of Palestine May 1948.” So that when the Brits basically gave Palestine over to Israel. I have historical documents that when I saw them, I got goosebumps. I knew I had to do something with this. They couldn’t just sit in a folder in my house.

That’s incredible. I’m really excited to see how the project turns out.

Yes, I will definitely send it to you once I have it at the end of this year. It’ll be ready hopefully!

That piece is definitely a very emotional piece for me. I made it in the beginning of lockdown in 2020.

I was alone in my apartment in Dubai. We were sent home from work. And I was really scared about what was happening. We’ve never experienced something like this. We don’t know where it’s going or what’s going to happen to us. I had all of these old magazines and newspapers around in my apartment and no other art supplies. And I remember just sitting on the floor. I had markers, paper, scissors, and I was just cutting and listening to music, and I just really needed to zone out. I had been so stuck to Instagram, reading the news, or, you know, watching what was happening around the world with the pandemic and checking the map that was keeping track of the numbers. I needed to disconnect, I needed to not stare at a screen, not talk about it at all. I wanted to just go into a meditative state and work on something. And I genuinely think that’s why the piece is so good, because I wasn’t thinking too much. I was just going with the flow of what I was feeling because I wasn’t really planning.

I literally sat and did line by line across the whole paper. I had nothing to do. The weekend was just at home. I had all the time in the world. And in some ways that was really nice. I think sometimes we get so caught up in the day to day of our lives that we don’t make time for art. So, yeah, I just went into a medicative state for hours just really needing to unpack and let go of some things I was feeling and just do the lines and cut the pieces.

I think the manifestation of that final emotion was this thing that is very much, when I look at it, all the little pieces that represent my millions of thoughts I had about what was happening, like a million little tabs in my mind. If I lose my job, what do I do next?

And then what about my family and my parents? I think those represented kind of clusters of thought without me intending it to be that way. But when I look at it, that’s what was definitely happening when I made that piece. So it’s a very personal piece for me.

I love that piece. But now, knowing the background story, I love it so much more because I

started it and it circulated around Jordan. And then we had a friend of mine take it from Amman to Dubai. Then Nashla, who was one of the co-founders was living in Dubai and she took it and gave it around to different artists in the UAE community and then brought it back to Jordan. So it was always a very personal experience. Someone’s carrying the book in their backpack. And one of us would go and deliver it to the next artist. It was never shipped in the mail. It was always delivered in the back seat of a Kadeem or an Uber. It was always a very intimate process. By the end of the sketchbook, you saw each artist’s work on four pages and two of those pages are collaborative. I wish I had the book with me, but it’s in Dubai. You leave half the page empty with space, so the next artist can come in and do whatever they want. We saw this amazing thing where artists have very different styles but there’s this really amazing, cohesive story that was told throughout the book, because the artists before you would inspire the work that you did and vice versa. That would be how it went. All three of us founders were also in that first one. You can see the inspiration or de-inspiration of artists in the book.

can visualize what you felt in the piece. For my last question, can you tell us a bit about your art collective Daftar Asfar and what it’s about? What inspired it and what do you all do?

Daftar Asfar, which means “yellow notebook” in Arabic, was started by me and two of my Jordanian friends in 2017. We were first inspired by the sketchbook library in Brooklyn. There’s a library that has sketchbooks from different artists. You can send in your sketchbook and they’ll catalog it in a library format. So we saw that and one of my friends posted it on Facebook four years ago. And then I commented saying, “This is such a cool idea.

I wish we could start something like this in Jordan.”

And then another friend said, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

And then we started a Facebook Messenger chat and tried to figure out how we could do something like this in Jordan. And then we were like, why don’t we just do a collaborative sketchbook? One of them had a yellow sketchbook. So we decided to start it and just pass it around the community. We can call it Daftar Asfar because it’s a yellow sketchbook. It was very basic and simple and we thought it would be fun.

We felt that the community in Jordan was so disjointed in a way, like everybody knows of everyone else, but hasn’t worked together on projects. So we thought it would be a nice way to connect the bridge between different artists and mediums. We

Then the project kind of grew from there and we started doing digital editions. We did collaborations. We exhibited at Art Dubai in 2019. We got several art grants. We got the Arab Fund for Art and Culture based in Lebanon. I think it what it showed was the region really needed and people really resonated with the idea with collaborative art and hadn’t seen a project like that before.

Now, when I was back here, I started a New Mexico edition, and we did half the book in New Mexico.

Then I brought it back with me to the UAE, so now UAE artists are collaborating with New Mexico artists. It’s become this international project. It’s really cool to see the differences in styles between the artists who are based here and there and how they either diverge or are similar. We were just interviewed by WeTransfer and yeah, its crazy. It’s a passion project that, somehow, we really stuck to and we’re super organized and diligent about it. We have weekly meetings and a Google Drive with all the archives.

“Sing for the Sea”

77 Bibliographies NASKH: THE PROLIFERATION OF A DISTINCT OTTOMAN CALIGRAPHY

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