Posts Tagged Middle East

The Silent Stallions of Libya

In Arabic we have a proverb that says beware the wrath of the patient. When Egypt rose against the tyranny, oppression, and widespread rooted corruption that had been governing it for three decades it was as if Sphinx had suddenly come to life and rose from his eternal rest. We toppled the president, a man known for his involvement in much of the plight of the Palestinians, if not his own people, but we still don’t feel that it’s over. Even before January 25, the day the revolution began, we had a series of little protests and semi-free press that criticized Egyptian domestic and foreign policies on a number of issues. Some journalists, although jailed later, criticized the person of the president. We expressed ourselves, but we were jailed, arrested, and tortured.

The Libyans have none of that. And they’ve had none of that for 42 years, not 30. I visited Libya in 2007 in a small attempt with a friend of mine to do some “Arab tourism,” visiting a fellow Arab country and seeing it through the eyes of a people who wanted to learn more about their immediate neighbors, with whom we share so much.

There was not a single day that passed without meeting a person who was either half-Egyptian or married to an Egyptian. Everyone was extremely kind, peaceful, calm. Nothing like what much of the media had tried to show of the Libyan people in many years that passed.

Posters of Qaddafi filled every street corner in such a way that made Mubarak appear quite benign, modern, civilized, and democratic. It was the 38th year of the coup d’etat which Qaddafi liked so much to refer to as a revolution. Larger than life images of him greeting his people, with the number 38 shamelessly plastered next to him.

We focused much of our trip on Benghazi, the land of the Sanoussis, the ousted royal family whom Qaddafi continued to despise, showing his hatred to the past with exaggerated and appalling neglect for the city. Streets were poorly paved, much of the buildings affected by the coastal weather were left unpainted for years. Government buildings were rundown, with broken windows left unfixed. Benghazi was a beautiful, neglected stallion ready to spring the minute it broke free of its curb.

People there were mostly silent. We were warned beforehand that it would not be wise to speak politics with any person. We were given the chance to visit the grandson of Omar Al Mukhtar, the legendary freedom fighter who fought the Italian invasion in the early twentieth century, now an elderly sheikh with an open lounge for students and visitors paying their respects. I was especially curious to listen to his views on the situation in the Middle East, especially after the 2006 war in Lebanon had just ended. The man’s eyes widened and he became extremely tense, refusing to talk to me, while men surrounding him decided that my friend and I were no longer welcome in the place.

Qaddafi does not just oppress dissent, he refuses the mere concept of opposition. Educators, professionals, writers, and many more skilled Libyans are living abroad. And outside Libya, if they oppose his regime he hunts them down and kills them. If you’ve ever tried talking to a Libyan about the truth of the Libyan regime prior to the current uprising you would know what I mean. Qaddafi haunted his opposition even in their dreams.

The more I watch the media the more evident the size of the horror gets clear to me, and that’s not just because of the sight of dead bodies or severely injured civilians. It’s because of the quivering voices of the anonymous eyewitnesses that can’t fight back their tears as they plea for help to the outside world, be they men or women, young or old. It’s in the shivering jaws and hands of the old opposition Libyans living in the UK, the US, Germany, and virtually most countries on the planet except their own, as they spoke with mixed emotions of grief and pride, their eyes wide in disbelief as they saw the liberation moment coming so close. Those silent people who couldn’t even speak about the regime even in exile were now exploding with horrors of the past they had witnessed, and appealing to the world with their plight.

I’ve seen it in my own country. If the fear is broken nothing else brings it back. If the wall of silence crumbles nothing will ever build it again. And it is crumbling everywhere in the Arab world, exposing the ugliness of the savage rule it had been subjected to for decades. And the Libyans, those amazing people who can teach the world lessons of patience, are bound to show the world how they will present their lives to the mad beast that dwells among them. It is their only gate to the world outside.

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Jan 25, 2011, the Day Fear Died in My Country

Protesters lift bars as they try to advance and join another march, tear gas shown in the distance

I’ve been feeling so trapped inside my body. There’s a bundle of emotions swirling around me, so dramatized by all I’ve seen, that I feel so drowned in its deep waters. It’s been 26 days now and I still have not been able to tell my story. But I know I need to get it out fast before the memory starts to fade away, before I finally ride up on one of the strong tides that keep pushing me adrift off and away from the shore.

Ever since it all started I’ve been shrinking in my own eyes. It’s like when a cat is suddenly face to face with a lion – wherever that might happen – and suddenly realizes its own insignificance. The silence that overcame me crept into my inside, making me doubt whatever I might want to say or share, believing it would by far be less significant than what many others had to say, or have already said.

But I will try. It’s my experience, and this is my blog, so feel free to search elsewhere if it doesn’t grab you!

I arrived back home in Cairo on January 24, one day prior to the scheduled protests on the 25th. I had been in Saudi Arabia for three weeks with my mother’s family. I had by then managed to train myself to shed off much of the pains and sorrows of the past and to wake up each morning with a fresh look towards a new day. I overate, overslept, overindulged myself in perfumes and nail polish. My busiest times were the times I sat to read a book of my choice. I had deliberately chosen to stop following political events around the world, I had started to doubt whether I actually wanted to have a career in political science or even the media to begin with. I no longer cared what happened in Egypt, because all the events sounded the same, and all the results were boringly predictable. There was the corrupt government whose mummified faces didn’t seem to be going anywhere. There was our ridiculously unprofessional state-run media blabbing away about the divine qualities of the president, his family, and his associates.

And there was the usual handful of activists, intellectuals, and professionals who wanted change.

This handful of lone protesters always seemed to be standing on an island of their own. They weren’t many when compared to a population of over 80 million people, but they were working day and night to empower the poor and the workers. Their morale did fade sometimes, their hope did become a vague, unrealizable dream, but they continued to work the way a street sweeper continued to sweep, even though passersby threw trash right after he finished.

And it was no accident that those protesters were standing on an island. They were quite literally placed on it. With police forces three times the size of our army, few Egyptian streets were void of police officers or truckloads of guards parked near a university or a mosque, ready to quell the faintest sign of ‘unlawful’ assembly. So a demonstration of 200 people would be surrounded by a thousand uniformed guards, tens of plain clothes officers, dozens of sunglasses and mobile phones, and officers of so many ranks I lost track of. It would not be allowed to march, but remain cornered in place, like caged animals in a zoo, while passing cars would slow down to try to hear what the chants were saying to no avail.

This lasted for as long as I could remember for the past 30 years of Mubarak’s regime. This was the people’s only channel to speak directly to the regime in an attempt to be seen and heard by all, not just the educated elite or even merely those who could read newspapers.

With this background I eyed the call for the January 25 protest with so much doubt and skepticism. I had the burden of the years behind me, of the scenes and the frustrations that never seemed to cease. And I did not believe that change could be brought about with an appointment, setting date and time to take the road against oppression. Revolutions didn’t happen that way. They were spontaneous. They had to be spontaneous. They weren’t a rendez-vous with freedom.

I woke up on the morning of the 25th feeling lazy, and guilty for being lazy. My friend Nadia called and insisted that I go, so I got off the bed because I knew that I would not be able to live with the guilt of not being out on the street on that day.

Massive march towards one of the oldest bridges in downtown Cairo, an entrance to Tahrir square

As I later found out, we were like many other skeptical Egyptians who were going out of a fading sense of duty. We knew there was nothing else we could do if we wanted any change. So the step now was to decide where to go to begin the demonstration. A number of places had been discussed by those who said they’d participate. Some had planned to have breakfast in a chic cafe in an upper class neighborhood and move from there – adding much to my already skeptical attitude – and others had decided to begin in Shobra, a busy, crowded neighborhood known for its mosaic of inhabitants, from Christians to Islamists. So Nadia and I opted for Shobra. We wanted hot events and we wanted to see them for ourselves.

We signaled for a taxi and got in, immediately putting on our casual girls all out for fun act. The taxi smiled and pointed to two people that had signaled for him before us. “Do you see those idiots? They stopped me and said, ‘take us to the demonstration!’ Demonstration?? I want to live!” And he laughed. “So why are you going to Shobra, young ladies?” We looked at each other and Nadia instantly replied, “We’re visiting a friend.”

I sent my first tweet that I was on my way to the demos and received a phone call from my friend Adel. “You’re going to the demonstration?” He asked with excitement. All I could think of was to control all my replies lest I horrify the taxi driver.

“Umm, yeah.”

“Cool where will you go?”

“Shobra.”

“Shobra! Why is that?”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that. Choice. Ok… maybe I’ll go in Mostafa Mahmoud, then.”

I couldn’t wait for Adel to hang up so that I could SMS him on why we wanted Shobra or why I spoke to him that way.

I could not resist taking a quick picture of this man. He was sobbing as he chanted and joined the protest.

We arrived in the main square in Shobra. Neither we nor the taxi driver had ever been to the place and we didn’t know how to find it, but the sight of an increasing police presence told us we were close. Someone pointed out to us that it was further ahead, and the minute we reached it we knew we were in the right place. Dozens of police trucks were parked on the sides, dozens of plain clothes men in dark sunglasses, dark coats, and neat haircuts had pulled up plastic chairs and sat on the sides of the road, believing that that way they could actually blend among the people. Those were the famous Amn Dawla, the humungous state security apparatus that had been terrorizing political activists for decades, bullying all dissidents whenever they felt like it. Men in uniforms of too many ranks stood talking to their radio receivers, barring some shops with iron bars and helmeted guards.

And there was not a single protester in sight.

Like many other Egyptians, the mere sight of heavy police presence unnerved us, because we knew that under the emergency law that’s been ruling the country for 3 decades, they could easily pick us up off the street and arrest us for no apparent reason other than being physically there. We kept walking back and forth with no place to go until we decided to settle in a restaurant and wait for Adel to join us. That way, maybe we wouldn’t really attract too much attention.

Adel arrived and asked the police to allow him into the restaurant, signaling with his hand that he wanted to buy a sandwich. We were all oblivious to the oddity of people deciding to just hang out in a restaurant under police siege.

Time passed and nothing was starting. Action was already beginning in that upper middle class cafe we had rejected, however. Nadia learned that our friends there were arrested right out of that cafe and carried in police trucks, only to be released in a far suburb away from the center of the city. We figured that plans where we were might have changed. Nadia was always inseparable from her mobile phone, following everything on Twitter. So she read that a protest was actually growing in downtown Cairo. We immediately took the decision to go there. We stopped the taxi and continued on foot, when suddenly we found ourselves in an overwhelming crowd of people marching in the streets, chanting against the government and calling for the fall of the president. This was the first time I had ever seen a protest allowed to actually march in the streets of Cairo.

An army of guards surrounds the state television building for fear of the protesters reaching it.

We kept walking along with it, and people were standing in their balconies in all buildings watching. Others stood on the sides of the street like they were looking at a parade. It felt like one to me, because I had never seen such young fresh faces calling for freedom before. They were the kind of people that I only saw when Egypt won a soccer game. Suddenly those young men were rallying for change. Suddenly they were out, risking everything, for the right reasons.

This march did not appear to have any leaders. Hundreds were growing into thousands, and the young were carried on shoulders in many groups, shouting the regime down. They seemed to come from every street, every alley. And the more time passed the more crowded it became. My heart was beating fast. The sounds of the crowds almost shattered the walls. And the protesters looked up to the windows, calling upon the people watching to come down and join them. They called for every person standing by to join. I could see people beaming at the protesters, eyes lit up, filled with joy and hope, yet standing pinned down to the ground, too afraid. As I walked along I could hear hums very near to me. I turned and found a middle aged man in tears and a look of disbelief chanting the national anthem. He had decided to join the march.

Nadia and I began to run from one end to another in each rally, trying to figure out the size of the crowds, then I began to see the hesitant faces that had previously stood by now in the midst of the marches, shouting off the top of their lungs, “Down, down with Mubarak!”

The destination of the marches in different parts of Cairo was Tahrir, or liberation, square. Being the largest in Cairo, the place holds special significance for both the people and the government alike. It was as if those who controlled it held the upper hand and were seen and heard by all. And as the crowds began to grow and the police tried to isolate marches from each other, I knew that there was no way the police would allow a soul into Tahrir.

The larger the number the safer and more assured most people began to feel. They challenged the police to continue their marches to join those on the other side, and when they failed they spontaneously changed direction, in thousands, to another path leading to the same destination.

The coordination was perfect. An advanced row would begin to shout to the back “Go back!” And it would be transferred from one row to another until an entire batch of at least a thousand or more people would change direction with no clash or division.

Not being bound by a single group, Nadia and I were able to penetrate even to the side of the police, changing our occupations and purposes of being in the street as we went along depending on who asked us. One minute we were journalists, the other we were trying to get home. I could see that the situation was extremely tense on their side. I overheard an officer speaking on the phone, “This is only getting worse! We can’t handle these numbers!” The minute I heard that sentence I knew that the time had come. This was the time to do it. If not now then the chance wouldn’t come again, not for another 30 years.

The crowds were finally able to enter Tahrir, pushing the police toward the ministry of interior building, by which time the police had redeployed throughout the street that led to it, pointing water hoses and using tear gas to disperse the crowds. Suddenly there were rocks flying in the air. We took shelter in a corner right at the street where the battle began. The further the protesters advanced the more cheerful they became, and soon they were joined by thousands more coming into Tahrir from all directions. Tahrir had become theirs.

I stood speechless. I left my home that day expecting a few hundred to be surrounded by an army of black-cloaked helmeted guards, and I found scores of people from all walks of life chasing the police out of Tahrir! I had never ever imagined a protest of this size or magnitude.  And the amazing contrast of moods between the crowds and the police was what struck me the most. The minute I was among the protesters there was nothing but defiance and determination, yet among the police there was nothing but horror and panic.

Something very big had happened in my country. The people were no longer afraid, the regime was.

 

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A Lebanon Chronicle (Part II): A District of Lullabies

By Arwa Mahmoud

My first visit to the southern district of Beirut was an organized field trip by the conference I was there to attend.
The conference was an assembly of activists and professionals who came from different parts of the world to show their solidarity with the Lebanese resistance and to discuss future civil resistance strategies to carry out back at home. The mosaic of cultures and backgrounds was wonderful. Many of them had never been to Lebanon or the Middle East, yet they had done so much in support of the rights of civilians who suffered directly from the ramifications of war. Many came with so much emotion and conviction, and many were stirring examples of kindness and commitment to people they share nothing with except the fact that they were human, not subjects.

(Click here for a photo gallery of Beirut’s southern district after 2006)

The Dahyeh

Stuffed toys lie among the ruins of a destroyed home. (Photo by Arwa Mahmoud)

As we boarded the buses to southern Beirut, I sat next to a Lebanese woman, Karima, who welcomed me with a warm smile. I told her that this was my first visit to Lebanon after the war and that I couldn’t imagine what seeing the destruction with my own eyes would feel like. She responded with the same smile: “When we reach the district, I will show you where the building I lived in used to be.”

This was my first lesson in speechlessness. It’s very hard to think of anything to say to someone who’s experienced grave loss. That’s what you normally go through whenever you visit a war-torn place and talk to its people. Nothing on a personal level can even remotely relate to their experience. You can either console them with words of comfort and feel stupid, or go on asking questions and be rude.

She reached for her bag and took out her mobile phone. She showed me the picture she’d chosen for a background; a picture of a part of her then brand new living room that was taken after the first few air strikes on the district. All I saw was a crumbled room with shattered glass all over. But she saw something else: “See the colors of the sofa and the wall? I chose those myself.”
On the time the picture was taken her apartment had been only partially destroyed. One day after that picture was taken, the entire building was leveled to the ground.
As the bus continued through Beirut I began to spot the first signs of the Dahyeh, Beirut’s southern district as preferably referred to by its people. This area was one of Israel’s primary targets. For those who continue to view Hizbullah as a physical entity that can be destroyed, the Dahyeh is believed to be its “headquarters,” just as Bint Jbeil in the south is considered the headquarters of Hizbullah’s military wing, or the “capital” of the resistance. Yet the Dahyeh wasn’t really a military barrack. It was the area in which much of the Shiite exodus from the conflict-torn south and Bekaa began to settle roughly during the 1960s. There are no gates that separate it and you don’t need permission to enter, but once you’re inside, it’s another Beirut you seldom get to see.
Not much of it was left when I saw it in 2006.

An Exhibition of Savagery

Standing up close to this was not an easy experience. (Photo by Arwa Mahmoud)

I gasped as I saw my first spot of rubble. Karima stood next to me and spoke with unconcealed pride, “That’s nothing! This used to be mountains of rubble! We’ve cleared so much of it already!”

The magnitude of the destruction was beyond description. And yes, the creepy feeling of standing under a half-destroyed 15-story building surpasses any experience a person could have by just looking at its picture. Walking in those streets was like walking in an exhibition of hi-tech savagery. From corner to corner, I could see massive holes stretching so many meters underground—traces of missiles that failed their targets, scattered clothes, books, toys, etc.

I slowly began to make my way through the alleys. I stopped by an American colleague frantically taking pictures of what seemed to be hundreds of books buried in the rubble. When I walked up to where he stood I could see there were tears in his eyes. “They told me this was a library,” he spoke with a quivering voice, “My tax money builds libraries at home and destroys them here!”

Because I had followed the war minute by minute, suddenly being there brought the trauma back to life to me. It had already been three months since the cease-fire started, and even then many of the district residents were back already, going about their lives in the midst of the destruction. They had build small shelters on top of what used to be their homes. They would make it a point to go there daily and dig under the rubble to reclaim what they could of their belongings, or simply sit right there and drink tea, just to make a statement of ownership and survival.

I could not imagine what the place must have looked like when it was still a ghost town, haunted by terrifying sounds of jets roaming around it all night, each time choosing a different prey.

During the war I used to go to bed in Cairo after midnight and think, “Air strikes must have started again. I wonder how many children are crying right now, I wonder how many mothers are singing them lullabies to soothe them, silently praying that the strikes would end without taking more lives.”

And each morning I would wake up to a new statistic.

I walked from street to street, looking at scattered children’s books and stuffed toys in the midst of the rubble. It was as if the lullabies they inspired were still in the air of the Daheyh, memories of childhood left behind to a refugee tent, a hospital, or death.

But to the Lebanese children who survived, the nightmare was over. They were running around the streets of the district playing, laughing, waving their hands at the visitors and welcoming them.

“On to Change! On to Reform!”

A small shelter a resident had created near the remains of his home. (Photo by Arwa Mahmoud)

From the minute I arrived in Beirut, I’d been fascinated by how quickly this nation was recovering and picking up the pieces. Their grief turned almost immediately into positive energy.

Hizbullah’s broadcasting station Al Manar created a live studio in a tent it built in the midst of the rubble, hosting guests that spoke about the ramifications of the war all day and most of the night, celebrating the mere fact that they still stood there, documenting the war by filming everything around them.

On more than one spot of the rubble in the Dahyeh there were mocking signs that read “Made in USA” or signs that showed alternative addresses to offices where they used to stand. No time wasted; they were simply moving on with their business.

Almost everywhere I walked there were teams of workers who were clearing the rubble, or builders who were reconstructing sites. As I got closer to one of the workers I heard him sing, “On to change! On to reform! Together, we build our country.”

Lebanon is a nation that takes so much pride in its ability to endure. Many of the poems and speeches speak of life being born with each fighter who falls and with each mother or child who dies. It is as if the physical losses are the key signs of triumph, because they were endured for the protection of one’s land, heritage, and most importantly, one’s dignity. For that reason, the Lebanese believe that they won this war.

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The Voice in the Middle: Qaradawi’s Book on Jihad

 

By Arwa Mahmoud

After 9/11 the concept of jihad was immediately interpreted by most Western media as a global “holy war” against all non-Muslims.  Jihad became synonymous with terrorism and the media began to run stories of the perceived inherent, violent nature of Islam as evident in the Quran and in Islamic educational curricula.

In the midst of the confusion that was expressed in the media, Muslim attitudes were polarized between constant apology and denial of any significance of jihad in today’s Islam, and continuous assertion that armed jihad is an obligation against all non-Muslims, and cheering September 11.

To a great number of Muslims, however, the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were evidence of a divorce between theory and practice that has long plagued the Muslim world.  It was these voices in the middle that were the least heard and understood.

Sheikh Yusuf Al-Qaradawi’s recent book on the meanings and rulings of jihad comes today as a much-needed reference for a clear and comprehensive understanding of the history of jihad in Islam—one that traces the linguistic meaning of the concept and the various developing debates on interpretations and applications of jihad in today’s world.

Qaradawi’s book represents this middle voice that comes out strongly and at many times boldly to challenge a number of preconceived ideas held by both extremes.  A key value in his work is that he devotes the larger part of the book delving in discussion with Muslim scholars of opposite views.  It takes a comparative approach that maps the opinions of a variety of scholars over the different types of jihad, rulings over engaging in armed conflict with non-Muslims, and the ethics of war conduct.  It offers a clear and rather interesting picture of the internal debate.

A controversial figure himself who was accused of supporting terrorism because of his support for resistance movements against Israel, Qaradawi remains one of the most widely read and trusted Muslim scholars who are respected by millions of Muslims worldwide.  For this reason, what Qaradawi says about jihad is important.  His writings have a mind-shaping effect on many.

Fiqhul Jihad: Deconstructing the Terms

 

Understanding jihad in Islam and trying to figure out why much of such violence is taking place cannot do without resort to scholarly reference that deconstructs all the relevant terms for a clearer and more responsible understanding of the concept and the corresponding phenomena.

In the Arabic language the title is Fiqhul Jihad, or the jurisprudence of jihad.  The connotation of the Arabic word fiqh stands for more than merely a set of laws and rulings; it also implies thorough in-depth understanding of a specific issue.  Hence the name of the book can be best taken as “understanding jihad.”

Qaradawi offers a significant distinction between fiqh and Shariah.  He points out that Shariah is a divine revelation from God.  Fiqh, on the other hand, is the derivation of rulings from this revelation.

Unlike the common practice of fiqh among a number of Muslim scholars as a repetition or copying of rulings previously arrived at by imams of another age, Qaradawi reminds the reader of the original understanding of fiqh as a continuous engagement with the surrounding conditions of the age or the circumstances of a specific situation in order to arrive at a desired ruling.

It is therefore a dynamic, constantly changing process. Such distinction, if clearly placed in the mind of an observer, would clarify the distinction between theory and practice.

It would make it easier to pinpoint the faults and confusion in the practice, and would show the many ways with which an Islamic principle can be understood.

Accordingly, Shariah can only be found in fiqh; it does not exist in a vacuum but rather in the many facets of its application.

The book also offers a conceptually based approach in understanding the term jihad. It does not stop at refuting the common misconception of it being equivalent to holy war; it reaches down to the linguistic root of the word, which is juhd, or effort.

Defined as “a Muslim’s exertion of effort in the resistance of evil and fighting falsehood, starting with exerting effort within oneself against evil drives, moving to resisting evil in society, and ending with resisting evil wherever it is, and within one’s capacity.”  It is a wider and more comprehensive term than the normally understood qital, or armed fighting, which is rooted in the Arabic word qatl, or murder.

This definition associates the exertion of effort with the establishment and protection of justice, liberty, and dignity for the well being of a society.  Jihad is therefore directly attached to value and conduct rather than belief or affiliation.  With this understanding maintained throughout his research, he attacks the Muslim view that jihad is armed fighting against non-Muslims simply because of their beliefs.

In this larger context, Qaradawi stresses the centrality of jihad in Islam.  He presents it as a religious obligation required of each Muslim.  Prayer, fasting, and the rest of the regular rituals are not considered sufficient for a person to be a true Muslim; he or she has to be an active member of their community for the realization of such broad objectives.

Armed Jihad: The Battle Within

 

Why and how to fight are questions that are often left to the general public, and in many times are swiftly answered by those who assume a position of authority or responsibility over armed jihad.

Although shocking to many Islamic “defenders,” some orientalist claims that Islam preaches at the point of the sword, or that Muslims are urged to fight all non-Muslims, are not necessarily groundless.

Qaradawi addresses a much-heated discussion over Islamic scholarly claims that around 140 Quranic verses were replaced and hence nullified by a single verse some Muslim scholars called “the verse of the sword”—a process known in Arabic as naskh.

Claims that certain Quranic verses replaced and nullified others are not new to Islamic thought, yet the contemporary shrinking room for the exchange of ideas and open scholarly debate within the Sunni tradition have isolated many views and rendered them alien to the public and hence more difficult to refute.

Qaradawi deals thoroughly with the claim and questions the very principle of nullification – or replacement of rulings – in the Quran, arguing for a vibrant and “living” text that was not revealed to be later nullified.

Through naskh, Qaradawi argues that the verses of the Quran do not cancel each other out; they offer further detail and clarification with each new revelation.

Armed jihad was therefore further specified, and its rules of conduct were laid out. It was not a comprehensive call of annihilation that replaced all that preceded it.

Why and How

 

The idea of war was generally frowned upon in the Quran and armed Jihad, with its linguistic meaning, was perceived quite differently not as a “holy war” but rather as a much-hated necessity for the protection of the general well being of the Muslim community. There was nothing holy about it.

Jihad, like other Islamic prescriptions, can only be fully comprehended within the socio-logic of a pulling and hauling pattern that constitutes the Islamic worldview, a pattern that is often known in Arabic as Sunnat Al-Tadafu`.  Throughout history, strong forces have often been replaced by others, which in turn were also replaced.  Oppression and injustice often bred rebellion that struck back at the heart of their establishment.

Therefore, jihad with all its facets is perceived as a necessary force of change in society.

Armed jihad, whether offensive or defensive, and in its most basic meaning, fell within Islam’s holistic message for the protection of the oppressed; of religion; land; and liberty of creed.  It was therefore one of the tools with which a “moral balance” was maintained.

Consequently, the practice of armed jihad has a strict code of ethics which Qaradawi stresses in his distinction between the use of force and violence.  Building on historical text and a number of incidents, he shows that Muslim fighters are urged to avoid the resort to violence at all costs.  Qaradawi launches a vicious attack on much of the practices that violate this code, such as the murder of children or the mutilation of dead bodies.

Jihad and the World: Three Abodes

 

Often repeated by some Muslim groups, the expressed view of the world to be divided into two abodes – an abode of Islam and an abode of war – does have a place in Muslim scholarly literature.  How these two worlds are to be managed and the conditions that govern relations between them remains subject to a series of interpretations that developed with the ages.

Qaradawi challenges this division by introducing a third world: the abode of the covenant.

By adding the abode of the covenant Qaradawi reconstructed the abode of war; he narrowed it down to the State of Israel.  As a settler state that was artificially established on invaded land, Israel is perceived to be an aggressive entity that should be resisted and fought.  The fight against it is thus a religious fight because it is a religious obligation to resist occupation, not because Israel is a Jewish state.

The abode of the covenant consequently became the rest of the world.  Muslims are bound with other countries by international treaties and laws by which they have willfully chosen to abide.  Threatening the security of the people in such countries would thus be considered a form of transgression.

Contemporary Concerns

 

With all the detailed theoretical examination of the means and conduct of armed jihad, Qaradawi lays a solid foundation for a more informed practice of Shariah rulings on armed confrontation.  In most of the ideas presented in his book, some of his propositions are revolutionary by many conservative Muslim standards.

However, issues such as the relationship between the Arab state especially with its own people, and where it falls in all of this, remain unanswered.

Theoretically, Qaradawi considers the duty of jihad to be the official concern of the army of the state under which Muslims reside.  How should Muslims act if the head of state is corrupt, oppressive, and does not fulfill the duties required, remains loose.

With a closer look at a phenomenon like Al-Qaeda, it would be an oversimplification to assume that the 9/11 attacks were merely the result of misinterpretation of religious text.

The key problem with the Al-Qaeda ethos is the absence of strong state presence that is capable of protecting and maintaining sovereignty over much of the countries of the Arab world, which for decades has not witnessed any states that are able to use their forces effectively to deter aggressive powers from the outside, rather than use them inside against the people they are supposed to protect.  With little room for free religious learning and a shrinking collective awareness, Al-Qaeda becomes equally the result of an oppressive and unjust state from within.

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