Lloyd Ridgeon-Sufis and Salafis in The Contemporary Age-Bloomsbury Academic (2015) PDF

Sufis and Salafis in the
Contemporary Age
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Sufism in Britain, Edited by Ron Geaves and Theodore Gabriel

South Asian Sufis, Edited by Clinton Bennett and Charles M. Ramsay
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Sufis and Salafis in the
Contemporary Age
Edited by Lloyd Ridgeon
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Contents
Contributor List vii
Introduction Lloyd Ridgeon 1
1 Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and

Sufism Itzchak Weismann 9
2 Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer: A Preliminary Investigation

into the Anti-Sufi Polemics of ‘Abd al-Rahman
al-Wakil (1913–70) Richard Gauvain 33
3 Mapping Modern Turkish Sufism and

Anti-Sufism Alberto Fabio Ambrosio 59
4 The Shrines of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani in Baghdad

and his Son in ʿAqra: Current Challenges in Facing
Salafism Noorah Al-Gailani 71
5 The Political Participation of Sufi and Salafi Movements in Modern

Morocco: Between the ‘2003 Casablanca Terrorist Attack’
and the ‘Moroccan Spring’ Aziz el Kobaiti Idrissi 91
6 Sufis as ‘Good Muslims’: Sufism in the Battle against Jihadi

Salafism Mark Sedgwick 105
7 Mystical Traditions and Voices of Dissent: Experiences from

Bengal Kashshaf Ghani 119
8 Representing the Detractors of Sufism in Twentieth-Century

Hyderabad, India Mauro Valdinoci 147
vi Contents
9 Barelwis: Developments and Dynamics of Conflict with

Deobandis Thomas K. Gugler 171
10 The Contested Milieu of Deoband: ‘Salafis’ or ‘Sufis’? Ron Geaves 191
Notes 217
Bibliography 275
Index 299
Contributor List
Alberto Fabio Ambrosio, adjunct at the Université de Lorraine (Metz) and

CETOBAC/EHESS Associate Researcher, was born in Fano (Italy) in 1971.
Having read philosophy and theology in Bologna, he then undertook Turkish
in Strasbourg. In 2007 he finished his doctoral studies in modern history at
the University of Paris (Sorbonne) on the history of the Whirling Dervishes.
Then, he received the Habilitation to teach theology in 2013 at the University of
Metz. He is currently pursuing his research on Turkish Islam. His publications
include Vie d’un Derviche Tourneur: Doctrine et Rituels du Soufisme au XVIIe
siècle (2010); Soufisme et Christianisme: Entre Histoire et Mystique (2013); Soufis
à Istanbul: Hier, Aujourd’hui (2014).
Noorah Al-Gailani is a final-year postgraduate research student at the University

of Glasgow, studying the material culture of two Sufi Qadiri shrines in Iraq – in
Baghdad and in ʿAqra. Her thesis is on the changing identities of Iraqi Sufism
with special focus on the Qadiriyya in Baghdad and ʿAqra. She is also the curator
of Islamic Civilisations at Glasgow Museums, based at The Burrell Collection. In
addition to Islamic art, Noorah’s interests also include intercultural and interfaith
encounters and their evidence in material culture.
Richard Gauvain has lived in the Middle East since 2002. He taught
comparative religions at the American University in Cairo; helped set up
a Middle East Studies Program at the American University in Dubai; and
is currently associate dean of Arts and Sciences at the American University
in Ras al-Khaimah. In the widest sense, his research focuses on the creative
intersections between culture and religion in concrete settings within the region.
He is the author of Salafi Ritual Purity: In the Presence of God, a monograph
on modern Egyptian Salafi attitudes to, and regulations surrounding, the ritual-
legal theme of purity; and has written articles on various aspects of Muslim life
in the Middle East. His current research explores the wide range of relationships,
formal and informal, between Muslims and Christians in the United Arab
Emirates.
viii Contributor List
Ron Geaves is currently visiting professor in the Department of History,

Archaeology and Religion, based in the Centre of the Study of Muslims in
Britain at Cardiff University and visiting professor of Muslim Culture and
Enterprise at University College Suffolk, previously holding Chairs in Religious
Studies at the University of Chester (2001–7) and in the Comparative Study of
Religion at Liverpool Hope University (2007–13). Professor Geaves remains
active in research. Usually, his research is contemporary in focus and involves
ethnographic study, although recently he has embarked on the historical study
of the Muslim presence in Britain. He has written and edited nineteen books
and contributed to around twenty-five edited collections and numerous journal
articles. He is the founding editor of the journal Fieldwork in Religion. His works
include Sectarian Influences in Islam in Britain (1994), Sufis in Britain (2000),
Islam and the West Post 9/11 (2004), Aspects of Islam (2005), Islam Today (2010),
Islam in Victorian Britain: The Life and Times of Abdullah Quilliam (2010), Sufis
of Britain (2014). He is currently working on the history of Islam in Britain in the
Edwardian era, the Deobandi movement, and an edited collection of Abdullah
Quilliam’s writings.
Kashshaf Ghani is an assistant professor at the School of Historical Studies,

Nalanda University. He obtained his PhD in history from the University of
Calcutta (2011) with a dissertation on Sufi rituals and practices across orders in
South Asia. His fields of interest include Sufism, Islam in South Asia and Muslim
societies, with a focus on pre-modern India (1000–1800). He has held research
positions at the Asiatic Society, Kolkata as the inaugural Sir Amir Ali Fellow; at
the University of Sorbonne Nouvelle, Paris as the inaugural Perso-Indica fellow
and also at the Zentrum Moderner Orient, Berlin. His postdoctoral interests
include colonial South Asia, where he explores Indo-Persian cultures along with
transcultural and transregional networks in Muslim communities across South
and West Asia.
Thomas K. Gugler graduated in South Asian studies, religious studies and

psychology from Ludwig Maximilian University in Munich and did his PhD in
Islamic studies at the University of Erfurt. He has been working as a research
fellow at the Zentrum Moderner Orient in Berlin and the Department for Near
Eastern Studies, University of Vienna. He is currently working on ‘Plurality
and Culture in Contemporary South Asia’ at the Centre for Islamic Theology,
University of Muenster. He has published Ozeanisches Gefühl der Unsterblichkeit
(2009) and Mission Medina: Da’wat-e Islami und Tablighi Jama’at (2011).
Contributor List ix
Aziz EL Kobaiti Idrissi is the current president of the International Academic

Center for Sufi and aesthetic Studies (IACSAS) in Fez. He is also professor of
arabic language and Sufi literature at the Moroccan Ministry of National
Education. His publications include Islamic Sufism in the West, (trans. Aisha
Bewley 2012), and several works in Arabic including Tasawwuf al-Islami fi
al-Wilayat al-Muttahidah al-Amrikiyah: Mazahir hudur al-Tasawwuf al-Maghribi
wa-ta’thiratuh (2013) and The Influence of Moroccan Sufism on American Modern
Poetry, (2013) (English/Arabic).
Lloyd Ridgeon is Reader in Islamic studies at the University of Glasgow. His

main area of research is medieval Persian Sufism, but he also engages in studies
of modern Iranian society and culture. In 2014 he was chosen to be the editor of
the British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies. His books include Jawanmardi: A
Sufi Code of Honour (2011), Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism: A History
of Futuwwat in Iran (2010), Sufi Castigator: Ahmad Kasravi and the Iranian Sufi
Tradition (2008), Persian Metaphysics and Mysticism (2002) and Aziz Nasafi
(1998). He has also edited a four-volume collection of essays in Routledgeʼs
Critical Concepts Series entitled Sufism (2008), and has edited a number of works
including Islamic Interpretations of Christianity (2011), Religion and Politics in
Modern Iran (2005), Iranian Intellectuals (1997–2007) (2008) and Shiʿ-i Islam
and Identity (2012). Most recently he has edited The Cambridge Companion to
Sufism (2015).
Mark Sedgwick is a professor of Arab and Islamic studies at Aarhus University

in Denmark. He is a historian by training, and previously taught for many
years at the American University in Cairo. His work focuses on modern and
transregional Islam and especially on Sufism and on Traditionalism. He also
works on terrorism and on Islamic modernism. His books include Muhammad
Abduh: A Biography (2009), Saints and Sons: The Making and Remaking of the
Rashidi Ahmadi Sufi Order, 1799–2000 (2005) and Against the Modern World:
Traditionalism and the Secret Intellectual History of the Twentieth Century (2004).
His latest book is an edited collection: Making European Muslims: Religious
Socialization among Young Muslims in Scandinavia and Western Europe (2014).
Mauro Valdinoci received his PhD in anthropology from the Department of

Sciences of Language and Culture at the University of Modena and Reggio Emilia
in 2012. Having carried out fieldwork in Hyderabad, India, for several months in
2006 and in the period 2008–10, he wrote a dissertation which focuses on two
x Contributor List
branches of the Qadiriyya Sufis in nineteenth-century Hyderabad, to discuss

the ways in which Indian Sufis have responded to modernization processes
and the growth of Islamic reformist movements. He is currently involved in the
preparation of his first monograph based on his dissertation. He has authored
articles in Archiv Orientalni, Oriente Moderno, Journal of Deccan Studies and
chapters in edited volumes. His research interests include anthropology of Islam,
Muslim cultures and societies in South Asia, Sufism, Islam and modernity,
Islamic reformism, transmission of knowledge, and ritual. During the academic
year 2013/14 he was a postdoctoral fellow at the Oriental Institute of the Academy
of Sciences of the Czech Republic in Prague. He is currently an independent
researcher.
Itzchak Weismann is an associate professor of Islamic studies and until recently

director of the Jewish-Arab Center at Haifa University. His research interests
focus on the Salafiyya, Islamic movements in the Middle East and South Asia,
Sufism, modern Islamic thought and Interfaith dialogue. His books include Taste
of Modernity: Sufism, Salafiyya, and Arabism in Late Ottoman Damascus (2001);
The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition
(2007); Ottoman Reform and Islamic Regeneration (co-editor, 2005); Islamic
Myths and Memories: Mediators of Globalization (co-editor, 2014); and Islam:
Conversion, Sufism, Revival and Reform: Essays in Memory of Nehemia Levtzion
(co-editor, in Hebrew, 2012). He is the editor of the Sahar (Crescent) series of
translations of major Islamic texts.
Introduction
Lloyd Ridgeon
For nearly twenty years now students have been coming to me at Glasgow
University and asking how to approach essays or assignments. My response
is usually the same: ‘Look at the question, identify the key terms and attempt
to define and explain what they mean, and then address the specific question.’
Writing an introduction to the present volume, I have wondered how it would
be possible to provide something coherent and meaningful when the two key
terms, Sufism and Salafism, are so broad as to make definitions almost redundant.
Sufism is perhaps the most difficult of the terms to define, simply because it has
a history of over one thousand years, and perhaps inevitably, it has thrown up so
many manifestations that it is often difficult to witness a core that runs through
them all.
Elsewhere I have argued that it is not entirely accurate to define or call
Sufism ‘Islamic mysticism’, as not all who have followed the Sufi path have had
experiences that may be termed ‘mystical’.1 It is perhaps more instructive to
regard Sufism as a form of intense piety and obedience to God or for others,
a form of yearning for God within the Islamic tradition that is epitomized by
the hadith of Gabriel in which Islam is divided into submission (islam), faith
(iman) and excellence or doing what is beautiful (ihsan).2 In other words, Sufism
is an orientation towards God that builds upon and excels in practice and faith.
Yet even in the early centuries of Sufi history there were elements of belief and
practice that aroused controversy on issues including the nature of Sufi claims
of ‘mystical’ experience. Was the Sufi God? Did the Sufi actually witness God?
Did the Sufi share God’s essence or attributes? There were also many questions
about the nature of Sufi rituals, including those involving intercession between
an aspiring Sufi and a guide (the shaykh, or pir), the visitation of tombs where
intercession could take place, and the ‘veneration’ of such individuals. These
issues were debated by the Sufis themselves, and treatises were written on all
of these topics, some in defence and others rejecting such beliefs and practices.
The Sufi tradition has accommodated a wide range of ideas and values; some
Sufis have embraced the speculative worldview of Ibn ʿArabi (d. 1240), which
2 Sufis and Salafis in the Contemporary Age
has been termed by modern scholars ‘pantheist’, ‘monist’ and ‘theo-monist’:

other Sufis, such as Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111), have emphasized a form
of Sufi ethics that is personified by the hadith of Gabriel.3 And there have been
Sufis who have rejected the imperialism associated with modern Western
colonial power, and have actively engaged in the performance of jihad. Yet
despite some Sufis taking up arms against Western powers, it is with the onset
of the modern period, when the Islamic world was challenged in scientific,
political and military ways, that Sufism faced its sternest challenges. Not only
were the ‘superstitions’ and ‘backwardness’ of Sufis rejected by Westerners and
Westernized Muslims, but also the tradition was now opposed by a number of
Muslims who have been termed Salafis.
Salafism is derived from salaf, or more specifically the salaf al-salih who were
the Muslim community that succeeded Muhammad. Due to their historical
proximity to the Prophet, it is thought that the faith and practice of the al-salaf
al-salih was exemplary, and it is this that the modern Salafis seek to capture in
their own lives. Salafis attempt to recreate a ‘golden age’, and discover a pristine
version of Islam, stripped of all later accretions, including the four schools of
Sunni law, kalam (or systematic theology), fiqh (jurisprudence) and Sufism.
The emergence of Salafism coincided with both the emergence of colonial
Western powers in many regions of the Islamic world and a trend within the Sufi
movement for reform. These reforms between the eighteenth and the twentieth
centuries included a return to sacred scripture, a tightening of institutional
organization and jihad against the colonial power4; these three elements reflect
much of the modern Salafi enterprise, as Weismann states in the first chapter of
this book, ‘the Salafi discourse and popular socioreligious movements such as
the Muslim Brothers appear as modern transformations rather than negations
of Sufism’ (p. 9). Weismann also categorizes the development of what he calls
‘Islamic fundamentalism’ (i.e. Salafism) into three stages. The first stage emerged
in the later part of the nineteenth century, and includes the intellectuals
of the Ahl-i Hadith movement in India and the Arab Salafis. The latter are
of particular interest because in spite of their heterodox ideas they are often
regarded as forefathers of modern-day Salafism. For example, the Pan-Islamicist
Jamal al-Din Afghani (d. 1897) is famous in the West for his tract in response to
Ernst Renan (d. 1892), the celebrated French philosopher, in which he defended
the Arabs and Islam against the Aryan supremacy that was prevalent in much
of Europe. Significantly Afghani had little that was positive to say about Islam
as a religion: ‘In truth the Muslim religion has tried to stifle science and stop
Introduction 3
its progress.’5 However, he has emerged as a Salafi hero largely on the basis of
his anti-imperialist perspective. Likewise, another early ‘Salafi’ was Muhammad
ʿAbduh (d. 1905), a disciple of Afghani, whose rationalist writings included
distinct Sufi and Mutazili sympathies (which are antithetical to modern Salafis).6
Both Afghani and ʿAbduh are exemplars of what is known as ‘al-Salafiyya
al-tanwiriyya’, or enlightened Salafism. The second stage of Salafism emerged
after the First World War, and was championed by a student of ʿAbduh named
Rashid Rida (d. 1935), as well as by a number of similar-minded individuals across
the Islamic world, including Hassan al-Banna (d. 1949) in Egypt and Mawdudi
(d. 1979) in India.7 Such Salafis favoured a far more literal understanding of
scripture rather than the allegorical readings of Afghani and ʿAbduh. The
resistance and hostility to Western imperialism and Western metanarratives
was one element that the new Salafis had in common with their forebears. The
third stage of Salafism emerged in the post-independence era after the end of the
Second World War. It is epitomized by the writings of the Egyptian Sayyid Qutb
(d. 1966), at least in his later, more radical phase.8 However, to regard modern
Salafism as an endorsement of Qutb would be inaccurate, as modern Salafism
reveals great diversity, at least in how it responds to the changing contexts in
which it finds itself.
The common creed of the Salafis is based upon following the guidance found
in the Qurʾan and hadith, and while this is common for all Muslim groups, the
Salafis are distinct from more traditional Muslims in denying any validity to other
sources for knowledge. Thus the Sufi reliance on the knowledge derived from
shaykhs or pirs through intercession is rejected outright. Likewise, the exercise
of reason and interpretation of scripture is believed to be wrong, as Salafis hold
that there are self-evident truths to be found in the Qurʾan and hadith. One of
these truths is tawhid, or the unity of God who is supreme and entirely unique.
This view of God is perhaps best rendered by the Arabic term tanzih, that is to
say, God’s incomparability, which stands in contrast to the Sufi view of God,
which posits a deity that balances incomparability with closeness and similarity
(tashbih). In fact this similarity takes precedence over incomparability to the
extent that is best typified in the Persian expression ‘Hama ust’ (Everything is
He) and the Arabic ‘wahdat al-wujud’ (unity of existence). These kinds of views
and expressions are viewed by Salafis as an innovation (bid‘a) of the original
message of tawhid, and are therefore rejected. The desire to act out an original
form of Islam that negates any ‘innovation’ reaches a point that Salafis deny the
legitimacy of any form of ‘excessive’ worship. Deviancy can ‘result from good
intentions. Muslims who pray more than the proscribed five times a day, for
example, are likely to be motivated by love for God. They are, however, still
engaged in innovation because they are inventing new practices to fulfil a human
desire.’9
The emphasis on the Qurʾan and hadith, with the rejection of the larger
Islamic tradition, whether it is Sufi, or Mutazilite, or representative of the law
schools (Hanafi, Maliki, Shafiʿi and Hanbali) sets Salafism at odds with many
Muslims. However there are affinities between the Salafis and Wahhabis. The
difference between the two is that the Wahhabis have a close affinity with the
Hanbali school of law, and follow the rulings of major Hanbali scholars. This
stands at odds with the Salafis who reject following the teachings of scholars in
the centuries after the pious ancestors (al-salaf al-salih). Even so, Salafis respect
the views of Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1263), a famous Hanbali scholar who sought a
return to pristine Islam, and rejected the excesses of Sufism and was hostile to
the views of non-Muslims. The rejection of hundreds of years of tradition, along
with the same basic creed (aqida) are the distinctive features of all Salafis.
Yet it should not be supposed that Salafis are the same everywhere, as there
exist a number of distinctive groups that oppose one another, especially on the
issue of how to respond to the challenges of the modern age. Wiktorowicz has
made a simple threefold classification of Salafis: purists, politicos and jihadis.
Individuals of the first group, the purists, are concerned primarily with the creed,
and educating Muslims about this, engaging in daʿwa and religious education.
The aim is to perfect religion, and until this is complete any political activity will
be doomed to failure. Purists consider that the present context facing Muslims is
analogous to the Meccan phase of Muhammad’s prophetic career, when he was
simply a warner and was not involved in the creation of an Islamic state, and so
purists hold that Muslims should imitate this model in the present context. It is
for this reason that purists such as Muhammad Nasir al-Din al-Albani (d. 1999)
advised Palestinians to leave the occupied territories rather than fight within
the borders of Israel.10 The second group, the politicos, gained strength from
the 1960s, when Saudi Arabia embraced a number of Muslim Brothers, fleeing
from Nasser’s Egypt. These Muslim Brothers argue that they were more aware
than the purists of the context of the times, and as a result they promoted a more
political agenda. While giving due attention to the Salafi creed, the politicos
became increasingly vocal following the invasion of Iraq by Saddam Hussein
and the arrival of American troops in the region in 1991. The third group is the
jihadis, who sanction violence in order to achieve its political agenda. It is this
Introduction 5
last group that has achieved notoriety in the West, and is associated with Osama
bin Laden, Abu Hamza (‘the Hook’)11 and the Jordanian Abu Qatada who was
finally deported from the United Kingdom in July 2013.
Wiktorowicz’s categorization of Salafism within three groups has been further
refined by Thomas Hegghammer, who favours a fivefold explanation of Militant
Islamism, based upon their ‘rationale’, or mid-term political aims and strategy.
The five are groups that are state oriented, nation oriented, umma oriented,
morality oriented and sectarian.12 This is not the place to explain any further
about the various ways to define Salafism, yet the attempts of Wiktorowic and
Hegghammer demonstrate that Salafism is indeed a complex phenomenon.
For our purposes, recent events have demonstrated that some Salafi groups
are actively hostile to forms of Sufism. In recent years there have been attacks
upon Sufi shrines (the perpetrators of which are often unknown – but many of
these violent acts have been attributed to Salafi-inspired groups or individuals).13
Noorah al-Gailani opens Chapter 4 of the present volume with an account on
the bomb explosion at the shrine complex of ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani in Baghdad in
2007. Since then Salafist groups have destroyed a number of mosques and shrines
associated with Sufism and ‘saint-veneration’: in 2014, groups of ISIS supporters
demolished some twenty establishments.14 Similar events have occurred in a
number of regions within the Middle East, Africa and Asia. In Egypt, for example,
before the fall of Mubarak in 2011, Salafi inroads within Egypt had reached the
extent that in April 2010 the Ministry of Religious Endowments banned all Sufi
groups from holding gatherings for the performance of dhikr,15 and ‘at least 25
Sufi shrines have been attacked or ransacked since the end of President Hosni
Mubarak’s regime’.16 In Libya, Salafis were also responsible for the demolition of
the Sufi shrines of fifteenth-century scholar Abdel Salam al-Asmar in Zlitan17
and of Shaab al-Dahmani in Tripoli in August 2012, resulting in the resignation
of the Interior Minister.18 In Mali, the tomb of Sidi Mahmud Ben Amar (1463–
1548) was attacked on 5 May 2012, when the Salafist Ansar al-Din, who had
occupied Timbuktu, ‘prevented worshippers from approaching the tomb
before tearing off its doors, breaking windows and setting flammable portions
on fire’.19 In Lahore in Pakistan, the shrine complex of Hujwiri, the famous
eleventh-century Sufi, was the target of suicide bombers in 2010, which killed
forty-two.20 A similar attack occurred in the Sakhi Sarwar shrine in 2011 in the
Punjab, killing at least forty-one people.21 It is not difficult to see a trend, and a
quick search on the internet provides numerous examples of such violence and
Salafi antipathy against Sufism. Salafi opposition to Sufism is also non-violent at
times, such as the recent serious suggestion offered by some Wahhabi scholars
in Saudi Arabia that the Prophet’s physical remains in the al-Masjid al-nabawi
in Medina be re-buried in a cemetery nearby.22 It is not difficult to understand
this would upset many Sufis (among other Muslims) who believe in the efficacy
of visiting graves. Such violence against Sufism is most often neglected in the
Western media, and even in academic circles.23 This is not surprising in light of
recent developments, such as the emergence of ISIS or ISIL, the shooting in a
Jewish museum in Brussels in May 2015 or the beheading of Western journalists
by members of this organization in 2014.
The present work attempts to address this lacuna by presenting ten articles
that highlight the various kinds of tensions that exist between Sufis and Salafis,
and indeed, within the problems that academics face when using terms such as
Sufi and Salafi. The articles are framed by articles that foreground this difficulty.
In the first chapter, Weismann shows how Sufism and Salafism are intimately
linked, in the respect that Salafism is a modern transformation of Sufism, while
in the last chapter Geaves demonstrates that Deobandi clerics in India (often
perceived as ‘Wahhabis’ or ‘Salafis’) consider themselves Sufis, and understand
the essence of the tradition as one of good intention and achieving the level
ihsan. While some Deobandis engage in traditional Sufi activities, such as the
dhikr, there does seem to be substantial difference with other Sufi(esque) groups
(such as the Barelvis), including the Deobandi rejection of excessive reliance on
intercession at the tombs of dead Sufis and ontological issues. The significance
of these two chapters lies in the fact that Sufism and Salafism should not be
regarded as antagonistic everywhere, at all times, on all issues. It would seem
that the key to understand the relationship between the two lies in the immediate
context, just as Thomas Hegghammer advised in relation to the differences in
Jihadi-Salafism.
Between these two chapters, a number of case studies from various locations
are presented that demonstrate the tensions between Salafism and Sufism.
Chapters 2 and 3 examine the cases of two prominent ‘Salafis’ from Egypt and
Turkey who promoted forms of Salafi thought just prior to the awakening of the
Western world to the Salafi phenomenon. The arguments of the ʿAbd al-Rahman
al-Wakil (1913–70), the Egyptian ‘Hammer of Deviations’, is regarded by the
Salafi group Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya ‘to have done most to inflict
defeat upon the Sufis’ (Gauvain, p. 34) within the region. His criticisms of the
role of the Sufi Shaykh, excessive ritual practices among Sufis (which do not
reflect the ‘pristine’ version of Islam), and his criticisms of the ideas of Ibn ʿArabi
Introduction 7
are strikingly similar to the reasons that Ercümend Özkan (d. 1995) offered in
Turkey for the rejection of the Sufi tradition.
Sufi responses to the Salafi challenge have varied. In Chapter 4, Noorah
al-Gailani demonstrates how the Sufis have been careful not to antagonize the
Salafis in polemical language. Rather their attempt has been to legitimize Sufi
ritual practice (such as the dhikr, the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday and
visit to the saintʼs shrine) with reference to sacred scripture. Morocco has also
been subject to Salafi violence, and here the Sufi response has been interesting,
as is shown in Chapter 5. On the one hand, some Sufis have allied themselves
with the state in attempting to resist the new challenge, while other Sufi groups
have distanced themselves from the state and even adopted elements that are
more usually associated with Salafism. This is a trend that, as has already been
noted, has been manifested by Deobandis in India, thus making the dichotomy
between Salafism and Sufism problematic. Chapter 5 also demonstrates that
Salafism in Morocco is not homogenous, as there are differences between groups
that endorse the state and those that reject it.
In Chapter 6, attempts by four nation-states to use Sufism as a counter-balance
to Salafism is examined. Mark Sedgwick argues that as the rise of Salafism is
political, it is political answers that need to be provided. This helps to explain
why the attempt to appropriate Sufism in the West (in the United States and the
United Kingdom) has failed, and in Islamic regions (Morocco and Egypt) it has
been only partially successful. As Sedgwick observes, ‘Sufism may be the natural
enemy of Salafism, but this does not mean that Sufism is the natural ally of those
who are opposing Salafism, especially when they are opposing Salafism for their
own reasons’ (Sedgwick, p. 117).
The last four chapters of this book are devoted to Sufism in the Indian
subcontinent, and depict various manifestations of the tradition and how these
have responded to the Salafi challenge. In Chapter 7, Kashshaf Ghani outlines
the beliefs and practices of an ‘unorthodox’ group in Bengal, known as Fakirs,
who are associated with the Sufi tradition. Representatives of the more ‘orthodox’
variety of Sufism have had to defend the Fakirs from accusations of promoting
a non-shariʿa lifestyle (an accusation all too readily levelled by Salafis at Sufis),
and yet they have also given guarded warnings to Fakirs that their intentions in
pursuing such a path must be pure. In Chapter 8, another variety of Sufism is
depicted by Mauro Valdinoci, who examines the works of Hyderabadi Sufis, who
address Salafi criticisms without having recourse to vitriolic language or words
that would inflame relations between Sufis and Salafis. As Valdinoci observes,
this type of non-personalized argumentation differentiates the Hyderabadi Sufis

from Barelvi Sufis, who frequently identify specific individuals in their Sufi
responses to critics. Chapter 9 focuses upon the Barelvi movement, and serves
to highlight the main areas of belief and practice to which some Salafis object.
The last chapter problematizes the binary division between Sufism and Salafism,
and will force scholars to devise new paradigms by which it is possible to think
of the nature of contemporary Islam, and how (and indeed whether) Muslims
should be categorized with such labels.
I would like to thank the AHRC whose research networking programme
financed two conferences on the theme of contemporary Sufism. The research
from the first conference, held at Liverpool Hope University is included in the
Bloomsbury publication, Sufism in Britain, edited by Ron Geaves and Theodore
Gabriel. The research of the second conference, held at Glasgow University, is
contained herein.
1
Modernity from Within: Islamic

Fundamentalism and Sufism*
Itzchak Weismann
Islamic fundamentalism is a product of modernity. Its constitution as the

hegemonic discourse of modern Islam was accomplished in the course of the
twentieth century over against two Others: the external Other of the West and the
internal Other of tradition, especially its mystical aspect – Sufism. The article claims,
however, that the fundamentalists’ critique of Sufism as backward, superstitious and
apolitical involved the collective forgetting of the leading role that Sufi reformist
brotherhoods had filled in pre-modern Islam and in their own upbringing. In
this light, the Salafi discourse and popular socio-religious movements such as
the Muslim Brothers appear as modern transformations rather than negations
of Sufism. On the other hand, contemporary Sufism has constituted itself as the
modern Other of the hegemonic Islamic fundamentalism. The fundamentalist
estrangement from Sufism, and Islamic tradition at large, engendered a dialectics
of unenlightenment culminating in the present radicalization of Islam.
Entering the mosque you’ll see large masses and hear tumult and uproar. You’ll
see people who put chains and iron collars on their necks. Some of them naked
and some wear tatters and rags. Filth and dirt fill them. Their braided hair is so
stuck that water cannot wash it. Vermin graze in their bodies. …
Then they rise up to what they call dhikr, ‘as stricken with madness by Satan.’
Their recollection is nothing but growling and mumbling, neighing and
grumbling, mixed with cries and faint noises, groans and sighs … women and
men, old and young, take part in all this. This is the party of the recollecting
awliya – ‘the friends of God.’1
* This article was first published as “Modernity from within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism,”
which appeared in Der Islam, vol. 86 (2011), pp. 142–170. The article is republished with permission
from De Gruyter.
Going back to and interpreting afresh the fundamentals of religion – the Qur’an,
the Prophet’s Sunna and the politico-religious model of the ancestors, al-salaf
al-salih or the imams – lies at the heart of Islamic intellectuals’ response of the past
century and a half to challenge modernity. The Sunni and Shiʿi ‘fundamentalist’
discourse of authentication has been accompanied by a critical re-evaluation of
the religious doctrines and practices of the intervening centuries, now lumped
together and essentialized under the newly constructed rubric of tradition.
Drawing on previous strands of opposition to mystical conceptions of Islam,
most forcefully articulated in the writings of the medieval theologians Ibn
Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, and uncompromisingly enacted by the
pre-modern Wahhabi movement, it was particularly ‘Sufism’ that came under fire.
Sufis are habitually denounced today as deviators from the true path of Islam,
held responsible for its so-called decline, and depicted as a major impediment to
its adaptation to the conditions and needs of the modern era.
The animosity shown by successive generations of Islamic fundamentalists
towards Sufism has long been noted and amply documented. In the past, scholars
who worked within the Orientalist paradigm understood such animosity in
linear terms, as part of the progressive, though never completed, substitution
of a modernizing Islam for backward superstitious beliefs and rituals that had
become obsolete.2 More recent studies have demonstrated that reality is more
complex. It is now evident that in pre-modern times sharia-minded Sufism was a
major factor in the efforts at renewal and reform of Islam,3 and that subsequently
Sufism itself has in many ways actively modernized itself.4
Capitalizing on this ongoing research, and within the framework of the
general dismantling of the Orientalist paradigm, this chapter seeks to develop
a new model for analysing fundamentalist–Sufi relations.5 I argue that Islamic
fundamentalism and contemporary Sufism have helped construct as well as
conceal each other as modern subjects, that along with the bitter polemics and
confrontations a measure of discursive and institutional continuities exists
between them, and that their mutual estrangement facilitates the present
radicalization within Islam. This dialectics of rejection and acceptance is in my
view an important key to understanding the inner evolution of modern Islam,
a corollary to its similarly dialectical attraction–repulsion attitude towards the
West.
My conceptualization of the complex interaction between Islamic
fundamentalism and Sufism in the modern era is threefold. First, there is a
need to define what the concept of Islamic fundamentalism actually refers
Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism 11
to. This will serve as the point of departure for exploring the fundamentalist
critique of Sufism. In the second part of this chapter I ground the discussion in
a general theory of modernity. This entails, on the one hand, a deconstruction
of the prevailing notion of ‘the Sufi tradition’, and on the other hand, a review of
the conditions that led to its substitution by Islamic fundamentalism. The last
part of the chapter is an analysis of the dialectical relationships characterizing
the modern Sufi–fundamentalist interaction. Here I excavate the Sufi roots of
Islamic fundamentalism, identify paradigmatic moments in the separation of
the two trends, uncover the fundamentalists’ collective forgetting of the Sufi
legacy, and last but not least, explore the Sufis own strategies of modernization.
The interactive relationship between Islamic fundamentalism and Sufism
is tested against some of the major religious intellectuals and movements on
both sides of their dividing line. Focusing geographically on the Middle East
and South Asia, two of the major centres of Islamic reform in the modern
era, I examine in the fundamentalist side the Ahl- and Salafi trends, the
Muslim Brothers and Jamaʿat-i Islami movements and some Jihadi groups. On
the Sufi side my examples are mostly taken from the Naqshbandiyya, arguably
the most orthodox and activist Sufi brotherhood in Islamic history.6
Part 1: The fundamentalist phenomenon
A new trend
The concept of Islamic fundamentalism has recently come under increasing

criticism owing to its Western Christian origins and because of the negative
connotations it acquired in the mass media and public opinion. There is also
much confusion as to the nature of the phenomenon, the temporal and spatial
territories it covers, and which of the multitude of religious thinkers and
movements should actually be included in it. Is Islam essentially fundamentalist,
as some diehard Orientalists and zealot Islamists would imply?7 Or shall we
restrict the application of fundamentalism, as many tend to do, to the present
militant wave of Islamic resurgence, the followers of Qutb, Khomeini and
Osama b. Ladin?8 In between, to what juncture in the trajectory of contemporary
Islam shall we trace the beginnings of Islamic fundamentalism: the eighteenth-
century ultra-orthodox Wahhabiyya?9 The late-nineteenth-century Modernism
of Afghani and ʿAbduh?10 The post-First World War Salafi trend of Rida?11 Or
perhaps the mass politico-religious movement of the Muslim Brothers of the

1930s and 1940s?12
Such criticisms notwithstanding, the concept of Islamic fundamentalism
seems to be useful as a comparative device and, more importantly for our
context, it evokes the literal meaning of the phenomenon at hand. A notable
example of the advantages as well as hazards of the latter approach is provided
by Euben. According to her, ‘Fundamentalism refers to contemporary religio-
political movements that attempt to return to the scriptural foundations of the
community, excavating and reinterpreting these foundations for application
to the contemporary social and political world.’ She further clarifies that her
definition is meant to emphasize fundamentalism’s political nature, limit its
application to scriptural religious traditions and characterize it as a modern
response to modernity.13
Yet Euben’s definition suffers from serious lacuna. It overlooks the long
period, eventually the greater part of Islamic history, that passed between the
contemporary modern world and the era of the scriptural foundations of Islam.
This neglect, which is largely due to her focus on the external relationship
between Islamic fundamentalism and modern Western rationalism, leads her
to uncritically accept the basically fundamentalist ideology that depicts Sufism,
and latter-day Islam in general, as its non-political ‘other-worldly’ antithesis. It
is precisely this dichotomous view that the present chapter seeks to challenge. I
argue that Sufism has always had a political ‘this-worldly’ dimension, and that
any understanding of Islamic fundamentalism must take into account its inner
relationship with Sufism and the Muslim tradition at large.
My working definition is accordingly as follows: ‘Islamic fundamentalism’
refers to the contemporary religio-political discourse of return to the scriptural
foundations of the religion as developed by Muslim scholars, mystics and,
increasingly, lay persons and movements, which reinterpret these foundations
on the basis of their living traditions for application to the socio-political and
cultural realities of the modern world. This definition shows that fundamentalism
has become the hegemonic religious discourse in the contemporary Muslim
world, shared by practically all elements in the Islamic arena. After all, few
Muslims would deny either the obligation to adhere to the scriptures or the need
to adjust to modern realities. ‘Fundamentalism’ in this respect is the Islamic form
of modernity.
This definition also helps us fix the temporal trajectory of Islamic
fundamentalism, which on the basis of socio-religious criteria may be divided
into three to four phases. The first, which by reference to nationalist theory I
call proto-fundamentalism, emerged in the later part of the nineteenth century,
in the wake of the consolidation of the Western colonialist onslaught. Its main
representatives were the ‘ulama’-cum-religious intellectuals of the Ahl-i Hadith
movement in India14 and of the Arab Salafi trend.15 These were divided into
reformists, who kept to scriptural religious discourse, and modernists, who were
ready to adopt outright Western ideas and institutions.16
Rashid Rida, who is habitually described as the founder of the Salafiyya,
actually marks its transition to the second phase of Islamic fundamentalism. His
principal contributions to the fundamentalist cause were the religious journal
he founded and edited for thirty-five years and the innovative political ideal
of the Islamic state he formulated in the aftermath of the First World War and
the abolition of the Ottoman Caliphate.17 The major fundamentalist factor from
the interwar period on, however, was the popular movements of the Muslim
Brothers in the Middle East and Jamaʿat-i Islami in South Asia. The Brothers
incorporated the Salafi message into their more comprehensive self-definition,18
while the Jamaʿat envisioned an all-out battle against both Western influence
and traditional culture.19 The combination of religion and politics offered by
these movements forms the backbone of Islamic fundamentalism in its stricter
sense.
The next phase refers to the post-independence era, during which Islamic
fundamentalists were often persecuted by authoritarian regimes and as a result
were partly radicalized. The radical new teaching is epitomized in Sayyid Qutb’s
concept of the return of the jahiliyya (pre-Islamic barbarity).20 Under his spell a
wealth of vanguard groups sprang up which turned to violence and terror in their
struggle against ‘unbelieving’ regimes.21 In Iran, the radical Shiʿa combination of
Imam Khomeini’s novel doctrine of wilayat-i faqih (rule of the jurist) and ʿAli
Shariʿati’s modernist social reinterpretation of the Qur’an underlie the Islamic
revolution.22 Today scholars usually apply the term fundamentalism to these
militant vanguards, though it is more accurate to describe them as its radical
offshoots. Osama b. Ladin and Al-Qaʾida belong to an incipient fourth phase of
Salafi-jihadism, which since the turn of the twenty-first century strives to move
the battle against infidelity to the global arena.23
Finally, a word is due on the Arabian Wahhabiyya. As a pre-modern
phenomenon, the original movement of Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab should not be
counted as part of Islamic fundamentalism as here defined. Still, one cannot
overlook the considerable influence the Wahhabi doctrine has exerted on the
formation and evolution of the fundamentalists. The Wahhabis were rehabilitated

as true believers by the leaders of the present Saudi state.24 In the heyday of
Arab authoritarianism, the Saudis gave shelter to persecuted Muslim Brothers in
the common struggle against unbelief, and subsequently, as the term Wahhabi
itself became contested, both the Wahhabi establishment and the sahwa (Islamic
awakening) opposition laid claim to the title of Salafi-Wahhabism.25
Against the Sufis
Islamic fundamentalism’s attitude towards Sufism reflects the existential gap it

imagines between the divine origins of the religion and its latter-day degeneration.
Opposition to Sufism has been a constant feature of the Islamic arena almost
from the beginning. Various strands throughout Islamic history – the rationalist
Muʾtazila, traditionalist Hanbalits, the puritan Almohad, Kadizadeli and
Wahhabi movements, jurists, and occasionally rulers – contested one or another
of the Sufi spiritual beliefs, rituals and organizations.26 Their censure could
at times be harsher than any shown by their modern counterparts. Still, past
challenges to the mystical aspect of Islam were usually confined to movements
on the fringes of the Islamic consensus or related to particular historical
circumstances. With the rise of the modern fundamentalist trend they moved
to centre stage. The present challenge is unprecedented in both its scope and
duration. Emanating from the hegemonic religious discourse of modern Islam,
it threatens to marginalize Sufism as such.27
Fundamentalists of practically all phases and shades have shared an aversion
to the prevailing forms of Sufism, though they differ as to the extent to which
Sufism as such should be condemned. While some are willing to reject it in
toto, most others make a distinction between ‘true’ Sufism, which abides by the
scriptures and the model of the ancestors, and ‘false’ Sufism, which is replete with
unlawful innovations. The latter further disagree as to where exactly the fault line
should be drawn: the early ascetic recluses, the speculative mystics culminating in
Ibn ʿArabi, the mythic founders of the Sufi brotherhoods, or perhaps their unruly
followers? Rather than a mere linear ascent, it is affinity to either the Wahhabi
ultra-orthodoxy or Jihadi-Salafi radicalism that has determined the measure of
animosity shown towards Sufism by each fundamentalist thinker or group.
Let us explore some principal expressions of the anti-Sufi feelings as they
appear in the literature. My survey is consciously biased towards the ‘big men’,
the founders of the various fundamentalist trends and movements, those who set
the tone for others to follow. Aversion to popular practices associated with Sufism
was apparent from the very beginning of Islamic fundamentalism. The Indian
Ahl-i Hadith trend, though denying any Wahhabi influence, shared its general
orientation. Siddiq Hasan Khan and others of its leaders claimed to respect the
great saints, but were utterly opposed to the popular celebrations in the shrines
and prohibited pilgrimage even to the Prophet’s tomb in Medina. They generally
discouraged the institutional forms of Sufism, rejected speculations about God’s
existence and relegated Sufism to the realm of the private.28
In the Arab world the Salafi attitude to Sufism was generally more tolerant.29
The trend was set in Baghdad, where Nuʾman al-Alusi enlisted the authority of
Ibn Taymiyya to condemn popular Sufi practices associated with tomb visits
and making saints intermediaries (wasila) between man and God. Alusi pointed
out, however, that the celebrated theologian did not condemn Sufism as such
but only beliefs and practices that contravened the Qur’an and the Sunna.30
ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Kawakibi of Aleppo featured one of the participants in
the imaginary Islamic conference he convenes in Mecca as a Naqshbandi Sufi
master. Stirred by the criticism that his colleagues direct against the Sufi rituals,
al-Shaykh al-Sindhi vows to abandon his tariqa (the Sufi way and by extension
brotherhood). Another participant, the Najdi scholar, a thin disguise for the
Wahhabis, lashes out against ‘people who hang on the walls of their houses
and even their mosques tablets naming their venerated one, which resemble
the tablets for icons among Christians and idolaters, and invoke them for
blessing, remembrance, and supplication’.31 Kawakibi suggests imposing on each
brotherhood a special social task in place of their current practices – taking care
of orphans, assisting the poor, calling people to prayer or combating intoxicating
drinks.32
For the contemporary Islamic modernists, who were ready to adopt Western
rationalist-scientific criteria, the question of miracles occupied centre stage. For
Sayyid Ahmad Khan, leader of the trend in India, acceptance of the Western
point of view was so complete that Sufism became almost irrelevant. The law
of nature left no room for miracles (karamat), and those mentioned in the
Qur’an (muʾjizat) were actually dreams.33 His Egyptian counterpart Muhammad
ʿAbduh, who retained his love for ‘true’ Sufism, was more circumspect. Rather
than total denial of miracles, he left them to the discretion of the believer:
It must be noted that Sunnis and others are agreed that it is not necessary to
believe in the occurrence of any particular miracle (karama) at the hand of any
particular saint after the emergence of Islam. So, according to the consensus of
the community (ijma), any Muslim may deny the occurrence of any miracle at
all and, by denying it, he will not be acting contrary to any principles of the faith
or deviating from a sound sunna or departing from the straight path.34
Similar censures against tomb visits, popular practices, brotherhoods, miracles
and mystical speculations intersperse the work of Rashid Rida. Gradually,
however, as Hourani’s masterful analysis demonstrates, Rida’s critique of Sufism
seemed to exceed that of his fellow Salafis. He called into question the advanced
stages of the spiritual path beyond trust in God (tawakkul); rejected the necessity
of the relationship between the spiritual guide (murshid) and his disciple
(murid), as well as one of the chain of transmission (silsila) on which it is built;
and last but not least, pointed to the political damage caused by the quietism and
divisiveness that the Sufi teachings and organization encouraged.35
It was particularly the latter politically oriented criticism that the Society
of Muslim Brothers was designed to address. Mitchell in his seminal work
demonstrates that Hasan al-Banna, more than any of his Salafi predecessors,
accepted the dhikr (the rite of God’s recollection), asceticism and the mystical
perception of God as part of ‘the core and essence of Islam’. He claimed, however,
that from the second century on Sufism was harmed by foreign teachings
and philosophies that sowed corruption and factionalism in the ranks of the
community. Banna’s followers in Egypt, Syria and elsewhere blamed the Sufi
shaykhs for encouraging innovations, superstitions, saint worship and witchcraft,
and for unscrupulously ‘drugging the masses’ and leading them to withdraw
from life and resign themselves to their fate.36
The South Asian Jamaʿat-i Islami followed a somewhat reverse trajectory. Abu
Aʿla al-Mawdudi’s initial judgement of Sufism was extremely harsh. He held it
accountable for the decline of Islam throughout history, and ultimately for the
failure of the Mughal Emperors to convert India to Islam. However, under the
pressure of rival ʿUlamaʾ groupings and the general public in Pakistan, Mawdudi
was forced to retreat. Still averse to popular rituals and festivals in the Chishti
and Qadiri shrines, he now professed to accept Sufism as moral truth.37 The
attitude to Sufism of his Indian counterpart, Abu ʾl-Hasan ʿAli al-Nadwi, was
more genuine. Nadwi, the head of Nadwat al-ʿUlamaʾ in Lucknow, subscribed
to the Muslim Brothers’ and Jamaʿat-i Islami’s condemnation of the speculative
mysticism of Ibn ‘Arabi, and of the whole gamut of popular Sufi practices.38 But
he never tired of reminding his readers of the central role played by Sufis in
the conversion of South Asia to Islam and in the battle against Islam’s enemies
worldwide.39
Sayyid Qutb, the martyred prophet of Sunni radical fundamentalism, bore

clear mystical inclinations. In his quest to contact his Lord and devote himself
totally to Him, in the true meaning of the term servitude (ubudiyya), Qutb
highlighted the love between man and God, claimed to follow ‘God’s friends’
in abandoning worldly pleasures and discerned an essential harmony between
the soul and the universe. This, however, had nothing to do with the historical
manifestations of Sufism or with the varied Sufi techniques to attain the goal,
which he practically ignored.40
Few members in the proliferation of local and global militant groupings that
set out to realize Qutb’s radical teachings possess such an authentic inner life.
These are usually concerned with more practical matters. Abdallah Azzam, the
spiritual mentor of Osama b. Ladin in Afghanistan and a major figure in the
development of contemporary global Jihad, attacked the Sufi brotherhoods for
devoting themselves to al-Jihad al-Akbar, the struggle against the soul, at the
expense of al-Jihad al-Ashgar, the actual fighting against infidels. For him there
was only one kind of Jihad, which is incumbent on each and every Muslim.41
Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi, one of the most articulate ideologues of the Jihadi-
Salafi trend living today,42 displays in this matter a clear Wahhabi disposition.
He defines the calling for saints’ help and circumambulating their tombs as the
greatest shirk (breach of God’s unity), which excludes their perpetrators from
the fold of Islam. The controversial Ahbash brotherhood of Lebanon represents
in his eyes infidelity for both worshipping dead saints and collaborating with
unbelieving regimes.43 Shiʿi fundamentalist attitudes towards Sufism have
not been much different from those of their Sunni counterparts. As Knysh
has demonstrated, Khomeini subscribed to the Iranian tradition of Islamic
esotericism (‘irfan) and kept a lifelong interest in the teachings of Ibn ʿArabi.
Even when he became preoccupied with political activity he continued to
insist that to be Islamically valid and effective, politics must always be joined to
moral purification and spiritual advancement.44 ʿAli Shariʿati, not unlike Qutb,
recognized the need for spirituality in the modern world and acknowledged Jalal
al-Din Rumi as a great mystic poet, Mulla Sadra as an authentic philosopher of
ʿirfan and amir ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazaʾiri as a spiritual mujtahid. This, however,
did not prevent them from displaying the usual fundamentalist aversion to
contemporary forms of Sufism. For Shari’ati, Sufism was associated with the
obscurantist religion of the clerics and with the failure to act responsibly in
the world.45 Khomeini’s government demanded the allegiance of the already-
weakened Sufi brotherhoods after the Islamic revolution and did not hesitate to
clamp down on the recalcitrant.46
Part 2: Islam and modernity
The pre-modern legacy
The fundamentalist attack on Sufism has aimed at current beliefs and rituals that
seem to contravene God’s unity as understood and practised by the Prophet and
the ancestors, and on the other hand to be inadequate for the realities of the modern
age. The main targets have been the veneration of Sufi masters, unscriptural popular
practices at saints’ tombs and unwarranted metaphysical speculations. Already
for Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab and his followers, such censures became part of a general
moral attack against the religious status quo prevailing in the Islamic societies of
the day.47 Fundamentalists went a step further by reconstructing latter-day Sufism
as part of a rigid reactionary tradition that needed to be superseded by a modern
concept of religiosity. Thereby they also magnified their own contribution, as
new religious intellectuals, to the modern renaissance of Islam. Only gradually, as
part of the general dismantling of the Orientalist–fundamentalist paradigm, have
historians begun to realize that along with the Hanbali-Wahhabi legacy, Islamic
fundamentalism has roots in the Sufi tradition too.
The lasting vitality of the Sufi aspect of Islam in the pre-modern era is
widely recognized today. Many a scholar moreover observes a revival on the
brotherhoods’ activity in the ‘long eighteenth century’. Voll scrutinized the
contemporary biographical dictionaries to map out the Islam-wide web of
revivalist movements of the time, thereby demonstrating that the Wahhabi
anti-Sufi position was the exception rather than the rule, and that most other
movements were actually Sufi.48 The Sufi-dominated renewal and reform was a
two-pronged project: inner critique of ‘unlawful’ Sufi beliefs and rituals, which
continued to prevail in most places and settings; and increased involvement in
the affairs of society and state. Far from being an integral project, the plethora
of individuals and movements that took part in this far-ranging movement
differed widely as to the Islamic resources to be employed to generate the desired
reforms and the ways in which they might be realized. Nevertheless, three partly
overlapping prototypical methods of Sufi reform can be observed in them, each
accentuating a particular tenet of the tradition in anticipation of some important
aspect in the politico-religious programme of modern fundamentalism.
One prototype, represented by the towering figures of the Indian Shah
Waliullah (1702–62) and the Moroccan itinerant Ahmad ibn Idris (1750–1837),
was a return to the scriptures. The two Sufi scholars combined an unequivocal
commitment to Sufism in general and the teachings of Ibn ʿArabi in particular,

with direct reliance on the Qur’an and Sunna, opposition to the prevalent practice
of blind imitation of previous authorities (taqlid) and support of consultation of
the original sources (ijtihad). These exoteric teachings made Shah Waliullah, the
muhaddith of Delhi, defend Ibn Taymiyya,49 while Ibn Idris earned the respect
of the ferocious Wahhabis under whose rule he thrived in Mecca.50 Walliullah’s
legacy was later appropriated by most reform trends in modern South Asia,
while Ibn Idris’ disciples founded the Sanusi and Mirghani Sufi brotherhoods
that engaged in spreading Islam on the periphery, in the Arabian and Sahara
deserts and in the Sudan.51
Another prototypical reform method, embodied particularly in shariʿa-
minded brotherhoods such as the Khalwatiyya, Shadhiliyya and Naqshbandiyya,
involved a reorganization of the tariqa framework. These brotherhoods employed
various mystical means to consolidate and expand their structures, along with
the demand to subject Sufism to the precepts of the shariʿa. Mustafa al-Bakri
(1688–1749) and his deputies, who spread the Khalwatiyya in Egypt and North
Africa, popularized their brotherhood through exclusive affiliation and mass
dhikr ceremonies.52 Ahmad al-Arabi al-Darqawi (1760–1823) revived the
tradition of wandering mendicants to renew and spread the Shadhiliyya from
Morocco.53 Shaykh Khalid (1776–1827), whose offshoot of the Naqshbandiyya
spread widely among Turks and Kurds, concentrated authority in his hands
through innovative use of the mystical practices of rabita (binding the heart to
the image of the master) and khalwa (seclusion).54
These reform methods were paralleled in the Shi’a case by the Akhbari and
Shaykhi schools. Muhammad al-Astarabadi (d. 1624) and Muhsin al-Fayd
al-Kashani (d. 1680), leaders of the Akhbariyya, combined adherence to the
mystical philosophy of Mulla Sadra with a renewed stress on the hadith of the
Imams as the source for infallible guidance to the community. Although losing
out to the rival Usuli school, which claimed the authority of each generation to
form its own ijtihad, their call to return to the pristine community had a decisive
influence on the future course of Shiʿi reformist thought.55 Ahmad Ahsaʾi (1753–
1826), the founder of the Shaykhiyya, propagated its teaching among the political
and religious elites in Qajar Iran as one of the perfect Shiʿa, the elect who are
spiritually initiated by the Imams, and like them possess infallible knowledge.
The persecution of the Shaykhis by the religious establishment paved the way for
the arrival of the more radical dissent movements of the Babis and Bahaʾi’s, who
ultimately left the pale of Islam.56
The strengthening of the tariqa structures was designed to allow Sufi

brotherhoods to cope with the social and political degeneration that affected
most Muslim politics of the eighteenth century.57 The various offshoots of the
North African Khalwatiyya sought to cater to the needs of the urban classes
and the masses alike in the face of oppressive Mamluk regimes, the Shadhiliyya
was implicated in revolts against the Mulay of Morocco and the Deys of Algeria.
Most important in the political sphere was undoubtedly the Naqshbandiyya,
which focused its efforts on the centres of the Muslim world. Its leaders in Delhi
sought to fortify the Muslim community in the fact of the rapid disintegration
of the Mughal Empire, while in Istanbul at the beginning of the nineteenth
century deputies of Shaykh Khalid supported the Ottoman sultan’s quest to set
the empire on the path of modernization.
A third prototype of reform, Jihad against non-Muslims, gained particular
force later in the nineteenth century, following the onslaught of European
colonialism. Sufi brotherhoods provided the matrix as well as the leadership for
resistance to foreign rule where the state failed to do so or was completely absent.
In British India, the Jihad declared by Ahmad Barelvi in the 1820s against the
Sikhs was defined as tariqa muhammadiyya (way of the Prophet), a brotherhood
that combined and transcended the existing ones. It was designed to carve out
a territory for a new Muslim state.58 In Algeria a decade later, resistance to the
French occupation was conducted by ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazaʾiri on the basis of his
family branch of the Qadiriyya and some local offshoots of the Khalwatiyya. The
independent state he led for fifteen years in the interior of the country strictly
enforced the shariʿa.59 At that time Imam Shamil mobilized the mountaineers for
a thirty-year struggle against the Russian encroachment to the north Caucasus
through the activist orthodox principles of the Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya.60 In
the early twentieth century, the struggle against the Italian invasion of Libya
was undertaken by the Sanusiyya after the Ottoman withdrawal. Its head was
subsequently crowned king of independent Libya.61
As European political and cultural influence in the Muslim world waxed, the
militant drive of such Sufi reformist brotherhoods could at times turn against
their own Westernized Muslim governments. Muhammad Ahmad, who in 1881
proclaimed himself the Mahdi and drove the Egyptians out of Sudan, was an
adept of a local offshoot of the Khalwatiyya. His messianic pretensions entailed
the abolition of all Sufi brotherhoods, as well as the four schools of Law.62 Shaykh
Said of Palu, leader of the shattered Kurdish uprising against the fledgling secular
Turkish government of Ankara in 1925, belonged to the Khalidi branch of the
Naqshbandiyya. This revolt involved a mixture of Orthodox Islam and Kurdish

Nationalism.63
The modern conditioning
Western modernity was imposed on the Muslim world in the course of the
nineteenth century by colonial domination. The forced awareness to the alien
conqueror’s look resulted in the objectification of the Islamic self as against
two Others – the external Other of the modern West and the internal Other of
‘traditional religion’ and especially its mystical aspect. The Islamic fundamentalist
ideological project has accordingly been conducted along two complementary
lines. One is to ‘prove’ the compatibility of Islam and modernity through the
appropriation and reinterpretation of the legacy of the Prophet and the ancestors
in the light of present realities; the other is to ‘expose’ those responsible for Islam’s
failure to modernize, which amounts to scapegoating Sufism as the cause of
Muslims’ deviations and decline. Sufis who allow pre-modern reformist trends
readily share the fundamentalist quest for modernity, but are adamant to frame
it within their own mystical traditions.
The colonial and post-colonial impact of the West has been exercised
through political control, capitalistic enterprise and the media. Fundamentlists
enthusiastically joined the nationalist struggle against Western imperialism
between the two and are today the most vociferous opponents of its
cultural invasion. Still, they not only approve the instrumental use of advanced
technology produced in the West, but also often incorporate into their discourse
elements of its rational-scientific worldview and the ideals of liberty and progress.
Hence their apologetic endeavours to provide ‘proofs’ of the existence and unity
of God64 and their resorts to ijtihad, now reinterpreted as individual reasoning.65
In this light the Sufis have been portrayed as speculators, miracle mongering,
superstitious and backward.
Internally, the unfinished project of Islamic modernity has been played out
at the interface between two major, though unequal, socio-political and cultural
processes. The dominant one was the emergence of the centralized bureaucratic
state, which through the idiom of development purported to catch up with the
West. Islamic fundamentalists were among the first as well as most persistent in
denouncing the authoritarian inclinations that have characterized most Muslim
regimes in the past century and a half.66 On the other hand, while never renouncing
the caliphate as such, they defined a new political goal in the establishment of an
Islamic state,67 in which control would be subjected to the precepts of the shariʿa.
From here comes the re-imagining of the Prophet as a successful statesman and
the reconstruction of al-salaf al-silah – the pious ancestors – in the Sunni case,68
and of Imam Husayn’s martyrdom in the Shiʿa case,69 as the respective models
for the propagation of Islam and their unflinching dedication to its case. Sufis, by
contrast, have come to represent in the eyes of the fundamentalists submissive
cooperation with foreign colonial governments or indigenous iniquitous rulers.
The other internal process of modernization, the formation of a vibrant and
free public sphere, which played such a prominent role in the constitutions of
Western civil society and democracy, it still an ideal to be realized in most of
the Muslim world. The fundamentalists are usually no less authoritarian and
accord the last say in the Islamic state to the men of religion: the Supreme Leader
and the Council of Guardians in the Iranian case,70 the amirs among the Sunni
socio-religious movements.71 Concomitantly they express commitment to the
shura – consultation between rulers and ruled, which is increasingly understood
in terms of parliaments, elections and the political participation of the masses.72
Islamic fundamentalists have also never hesitated to make ample use of the mass
media – from the printing press to the internet – to advance their ideologies
on the national and global public arenas both as opposition movements and
in cases when they have taken the helm.73 From this perspective it seems only
natural that popular saint worship and the unconditional surrender demanded
of disciples to their master in the Sufi brotherhoods would come under fire.
Part 3: Dialectics of unenlightenment
Roots of fundamentalism
Islamic fundamentalisms ‘othering’ of Sufism, and tradition religion in general,

was instrumental in the constitution of its own Self as a modern subject. Presenting
‘Sufism’ as irrational, apolitical and submissive allowed the fundamentalists to
introduce in its stead a rationalist form of ijtihad, the ideal of an Islamic state, and
the principles of social justice and participation. This dichotomous construction
necessitated concealing the Sufi roots of Islamic fundamentalism in general, and
the ability of the pre-modern reformist tradition to modernize in particular,
on the other hand, the subjection to Islamic fundamentalism’s view compelled
contemporary Sufism to constitute its Self as the modern Islamic Other. The
fundamentalists’ animosity prevented the Sufis from recognizing it as its own
progeny and from acknowledging its self-assumed role as the representative
of modern Islam. Modernization has thus resulted in the splitting of Islam
between two mutually hostile camps, whereas the progressive abandonment of
the moderating force of shariʿa-bound Sufism paved the way for the drift of the
fundamentalists’ radical wing to terror and violence.
Their increasingly emphatic denials notwithstanding, Islamic fundamentalists
were habitually brought up on the pre-modern Sufi reformist tradition. Among
the first-phase Indian reformers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth
century, Ahmad Khan spent his early life in the major Naqshbandi khanaqah
(Sufi hospice) of Delhi,74 and many Ahl-i Hadith leaders, as already noted,
likewise claimed a Naqshbandi affiliation. Their Salafi counterparts in the Arab
provinces of the Ottoman Empire – the Alusis of Baghdad75 and their comrades
in the various Syrian cities – came from families associated with Shaykh Khalid
and his Naqshbandi offshoot. Those in Damascus subsequently formed the closed
circle of ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazaʾiri, who following defeat made the city his home
and promoted an experiential adaptation of Ibn ʿArabi’s teaching to modern
realities.76 ʿAbduh was drawn to religious studies by an uncle who was affiliated to
a Darqawi branch of the Shadhiliyya, and later on transferred his allegiance to his
new master, Jamal al-Din al-Afghani.77 Rida too was attracted to a Naqshbandi
master in his youth in Tripoli, Lebanon, before his move to Egypt.
Second-phase fundamentalists of the interwar period showed a similar
debt to Sufism. Banna, the founder of the Muslim Brothers, was active in his
youth in the Hasafuyya brotherhood, another offshoot of the Shadhiliyya. He
enthusiastically joined its work to uphold Islamic morality against Christian
missionary.78 Mawdudi, his counterpart at the head of Jamaʿat-i Islami, was
born into a family that traced its origins to the Chishtiyya, the earliest and
most widespread brotherhood in the subcontinent. He was much influenced by
the mystical piety of his father, but then opted for a career of journalism and
politics.79 Nadwi came from a family that was affiliated with the Naqshbandiyya
and was especially attached to Ahmed Barelvi’s legacy; he actively followed the
path under two Naqshbandi masters, and had no difficulty combining Sufism
with collaboration with the Wahhabis and the Muslim Brothers.80
Only with the third phase of radical Islamists was the fundamentalist–
Sufi connection practically severed. Recruited largely from the science and
engineering faculties at secular universities, leaders of the contemporary Islamic
revival have had little opportunity to become acquainted with Sufism or, for that
matter, with the learned Islamic tradition at large. Before joining the Islamist
camp, Qutb was a literary critic and an employee in the Egyptian Ministry of
Education81; ʿAzzam specialized in agriculture in a West Bank college82; Maqdisi
enrolled in the University of Mosul.83 Reports differ about Osama b. Ladin,
who grew up as a pious Wahhabi but then graduated from an elite school in
Beirut in either economics or business administration, or civil engineering.84
Khomeini’s education was of course religious, but Shari’ati earned his master’s
degree in foreign languages from the University of Mashhad, and then pursued
his doctorate in sociology and Islamic studies in Paris.85
Moments of transformation
The phases of the discursive transition from Sufi reformist praxis to the Islamic
fundamentalist ideology have been determined by the changing socio-political
and cultural configuration of the three engines of modernization: Western
penetration, state consolidation and the struggle for a public sphere. The period
up to the First World War was dominated by the direct and indirect control of
the Western powers, countered by Sultan Abdulhamid II’s (1876–1909) Pan-
Islamic policy, as well as by the introduction of print culture and the emergence
of a new class of lay intellectuals. The interwar period saw the climax of colonial
domination, along with the formation of nationalist movements of liberation and
a vibrant public debate. In the post-independence era indigenous governments
adopted Western-inspired modernization projects while subjecting public
spheres to their authoritarian rule. Their hold over society has hardly begun to
weaken with the onset of globalization.
To illustrate the intricate dialectics involved in the modern transformation
of Islam I focus on three emblematic moments, each epitomizing one stage in
the evolution of fundamentalist–Sufi relations. The first is a question addressed
in 1881 by Nu’man al-Alusi, the Iraqi founder of the modern Salafiyya, to Siddiq
Hasan Khan, his counterpart in the Indian Ahl-i Hadith, concerning the mystical
practice of rabita. Rabita, it will be recalled, was employed by Shaykh Khalid
in an innovative way to consolidate his tariqa behind the modernizing project
of the Ottoman Empire. He demanded that all disciples in his offshoot of the
Naqshbandiyya, even those who had never met him, bind their hearts directly to
him rather than to their actual masters. For Hasan Khan and Alusi this novelty
was nothing but bidʾa (reproachable deviation), with no basis in the Qurʾan and
Sunna, amounting to a kind of idolatry or misguidance.86
Shaykh Khalid’s innovative use of rabita represents the acme as well as the
limits of the pre-modern Sufi reformist tradition. Masterfully handling the
mystical resources at hand, Khalid managed to turn the highly charged murshid–
murid relationship into the basis of an effective socio-religious movement that
in the early part of the nineteenth century influenced the policy of the strongest
Muslim state of the day. For the Ahl-i Hadith and Salafis towards the end of
that century this was no longer enough. Intersubjective relationships proved
inadequate to cope with the new challenges emanating from the West and
from the state. Making full use of the properties of print culture, the proto-
fundamentalists sought to transcend rather than further extend the Sufi reformist
bond by introducing the principle of impersonal objective relationship. This was
provided by the idea of a return to the scriptures, especially as developed in the
teachings of the Ibn Taymiyya school.87 Thus, from one angle, the critique or
the rabita marks the onset of the contemporary confrontation between Islamic
fundamentalism and Sufism. From another angle, the alternative return to the
Qurʾan and Sunna may be seen as the continuation of the Sufi quest to modernize
Islam by other means.
Our second moment revolves around the essay written by Hasan al-Banna
in completion of his studies at Dar al-Ulum in Cairo in 1927 concerning his
plans after graduation and the means to realize them. Banna asserted that there
were two ways to help others and counsel them on the path of God: the easier
and safer way of true Sufism, which in essence means sincerity, worship and
directing the heart solely towards God, and the worthier way ordained by the
Qurʾan and the Prophet of education and guidance, which adds to the first
involvement with the people. Believing that under the impact of westernization
Muslims became estranged from their religion and forgot their glorious ancestors,
Banna chose the second way: teaching children in the mornings and providing
religious instruction to their fathers in the evenings.88 With this choice, the
autobiographical narrative implies, were laid the seeds of the Muslim Brothers
Society and of its mission to preach Islam (daʿwa) to the people.
Hasan al-Banna’s weighing towards the education epitomizes the desire to
transcend but also preserve Sufism within modern Islam. Intuitively realizing
that in the twentieth century the Sufi tariqa could no longer serve as the vehicle
of reform, Banna was looking for new forms of organization and mobilization
better suited to contribute to the nationalist struggle and thereby secure
the Islamic character of the future independent state. The expanding public
schooling, literacy and communication would soon lead him to adopt the social
movement model with its ordered structures, elaborate regulations, fixed criteria
for membership and ideological propagation through public lectures and
magazines. The reduction of Sufism to mere spirituality thus epitomizes the next
stage in Islamic fundamentalism’s confrontations with Sufism. Still, as a pietistic
organization, the Islamic movements may also be regarded as the modern
embodiment of the reformist Sufi tariqa. The Muslim Brothers in particular,
under the leadership of its al-murshid al-amm (the Supreme Guide), may well be
construed as a Sufi brotherhood transformed.
The final moment concerns the reports that began to pour in during the
summer of 2002 from Iraq, following the invasion of the country by the United
States and its allies. According to these reports, the radical Islamic group of
Ansar al-Islam, an affiliate of al-Qaiʾda that infiltrated Iraq in the wake of the fall
of the Saddam Hussein regime, desecrated tombs and destroyed shrines of the
Naqshbandi Sufi brotherhood in southern Kurdistan. Subsequently they drove
out populations of towns where, according to the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan,
democratic government and religious pluralism were established.89 In the eyes of
Ansar al-Islam and its al-Qaʾida sponsors there was no real difference between
the coalition-forced indigenous authoritarian governments and the Sufis. The
defilement of the Naqshbandi graves in Kurdistan thus encapsulates the radicals’
endeavour to sever the tie between Islamic fundamentalism and Sufism as part
of their global struggle against un-Islam.
The forgetting of tradition
The constitution of fundamentalism as the hegemonic discourse of modern Islam

depended on the marginalization of its Sufi Other. From this perspective direct
reference to the scriptures and the example of the early community was merely
designed to bypass latter-day reformist Sufism, while its equation with current
popular manifestations was meant to exclude it from the orthodox fold. Both
strategies amount to concealing the fundamentalists’ debt to their Sufi predecessors.
Through a half-conscious exercise of collective amnesia, the founders of the
various fundamentalist trends, and still more their less perceptible followers,
practically forgot the prominent role that Sufi masters and brotherhoods filled in
the pre-modern efforts at the renewal and revival of Islam. Concomitantly, they
also deemphasized their own personal roots in the Sufi tradition.
Islamic fundamentalists normally overlook in their talks and writings the

wide-ranging Sufi reformist tradition that preceded them. Mustafa al-Bakri,
Ahmad al-Darqawi, Shaykh Khalid or Ahmad Ahsaʾi are barely known today to
the respective Sunni or Shiʿi fundamentalist-dominated general public, despite
the important religious and political role that their Sufi movements played in
their societies. Scripturalist Sufis such as Ahmad Ibn Idris, Shah Waliullah and the
Akhbaris are remembered primarily for their exoteric teachings, while the Jihadi
Sufis ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jazaʾiri, Imam Shamil and Muhammad Ahmad the Mahdi
are evoked for their heroic exploits against foreign intruders and indigenous
unbelievers. When referring to their own Sufi upbringing, fundamentalists often
give the impression that this is something they have left behind.
Undoubtedly, some Islamic fundamentalists kept their affiliation to the Sufi
aspect of Islam. This is the case with Nadwi, who along with his close connections
with the Saudi-Wahhabi establishment and with the Society of the Muslim
Brothers also functioned as a Naqshbandi Sufi master. Another prominent Sufi-
oriented fundamentalist was Saʿid Hawwa, spokesman of the Syrian Muslim
Brothers, who was associated with the Khalidi offshoot of the Naqshbandiyya.
Hawwa undertook to acquaint the Islamic movement with the spiritual aspect of
Islam,90 and proffered the loose networking of the Sufi brotherhoods as a model
for the reorganization of its Syrian branches in the face of the oppressive Baʿth
regime.91
These, however, are exceptions that only prove the rule. Yusuf al-Qaradawi,
one of the most visible Islamic thinkers on the contemporary global scene, is
willing to give Sufism a place in the constitution of the Muslim personality. He
immediately clarifies, though, that his model is taken from the early ascetics,
rather than the more recent mystic philosophers and brotherhood leaders.
His is ultimately an ethical scriptural mysticism.92 The late Egyptian scholar
Muhammad al-Ghazzali’s judgement is harsher, coming close to rejecting
Sufism altogether. He blames Islamic mysticism for allowing foreign teachings
to infiltrate Islam and spread false ideas among the masses that encourage them
to renounce the self and the world. It thus generated fatalism, weakened Islam
from within, and precipitated its surrender to the West.93
Islamic fundamentalists generally show a more positive attitude towards
Sufi masters who influenced their own upbringing. Still, when describing these
figures in their autobiographical sketches, our main sources of information on
these early phases of their lives, they tend to present the Sufi legacy in a truncated
way. The Sufi reformist traditions with which these preceptors were affiliated are
often overlooked, as if they came out of the blue. Thus, ʿAbduh fails to specify to
which brotherhood belonged the uncle who taught him the reality of belief and
returned him to the course of study94; Rida does not bother to mention who the
Naqshbandi Shaykh was whose dhikr ceremonies he and his friends frequented
in their youth in Tripoli95; Banna gives us no hint as to the identity of the local
Hasafi brotherhood with which he was deeply engaged at the beginning of his
career96; and Qutb’s early experience of ‘Sufism’ seems to have been limited to the
holy man of his village and the folk religion surrounding him.97
The Sufi Other
Although victimized, Sufism has refused to become the passive object of Islamic
modernity. On the contrary, it countered the fundamentalists’ disavowal of their
shared legacy by reconstituting them as (pre-modern) ‘Wahhabis’ and its Self as
the modern Islamic Other. Contemporary Sufis share in the hegemonic discourse
of return to the fundamentals, but differ in their quest to modernize by improving
rather than transcending their living reformist tradition. This division has a clear
social dimension. Sufis associated with the urban middle class and exposed to
Western culture are prone to turn to the fundamentalist ideology and collective
action, while those coming from the lower classes in the cities and villages are
bent on keeping Islamic modernization within the bounds of Sufi praxis. As
subalterns, to perpetuate their tradition and fend off radical aggression the latter
often ally with one or another of the secular forces of modernity: the state, the
public sphere and, with the onset of globalization, increasingly the West.
The modernization of Sufism has taken many forms under the new hegemony
of Islamic fundamentalism. To illustrate the paradoxes involved, I again present
three emblematic cases, this time from the contemporary scene, each featuring
one major Sufi strategy. All three concern the Khalidi branch of the Naqshbandi
brotherhood, whose prominence in the Sufi reformist tradition should be
apparent by now. The first case is that of the Syrian Shaykh Ahman Kuftaru
(1912–2004), who opted for collaboration with the Baʿthist state in spite of its
sectarian and secular character. Nominated Grand Mufti in 1964, shortly after
the Baʾth officers’ takeover, Kuftaru was given in exchange for his loyalty free
hand to develop his tariqa and build a nationwide network of religious colleges
and schools. Promoting a learned and discrete form of Sufism, he embraced
ijtihad, stressed the need to interpret Islam in the light of modern needs and
engaged in interfaith dialogue. Kuftaru also sympathized with the Muslim
Brothers movement, but was utterly opposed to the militant course adopted by
its radical wing, which led to its demise in the Hamah debacle of 1982.98
Our second case revolves around the Iskenderpasa mosque in Istanbul, from
where the Naqshbandi engaged the Turkish public sphere despite the official ban
on Sufi activity. Following the relaxation of state control in the 1950s, Shaykh
Zahid Kotku instituted there a religious ‘open university’ that attracted students
from far and wide, among them prominent future politicians such as President
Turgut Ozal and the Islamic Prime Ministers Necmettin Erbakan and Recep
Tayyip Erdogan. His successor Shaykh Esad Cosan focused after 1980 on the
development of a wide network of religious schools, economic enterprises run
along business lines and several magazines and a radio station, through which
he propagated a combined vision of Islamic and capitalism. Threatened by the
secular state rather than by any Islamic fundamentalist movement, Kotku and
Cosan used the Naqshbandi practice of subha (spiritual company) to reframe
Sufism as an Islamic morality capable of securing private property while checking
the excesses of the rapid capitalist development of the country.99
Our third and final case concerns the Haqqani offshoot of the Naqshbandiyya,
which, notwithstanding the prevailing misgivings about Islam in the West, directs
its operations to the global scene. Shaykh Nazim ‘Adil al-Haqqani, a Turkish
Cypriot, established his first Western community in 1974 in London, and later
extended his operations to other European countries and to North America.
These are integrated with branches in the Middle East, South Asia and elsewhere
into a transnational network of Sufi centres, each engaged in education, social
work and preaching in accordance with local circumstances. Haqqani regards
Western civilization as barbarous and longs to see the Ottoman Caliphate restored.
Concomitantly, he shows unbridled animosity to ‘Wahhabism’, and in this spirit
he directed his deputy in the Western hemisphere, Shaykh Hisham al-Kabbani,
to testify before the US Congress on Muslim extremism in America. On the
other hand, Haqqani is also engaged in the New Age culture and propagates a
syncretistic apocalyptic vision employing Christian and universal symbols along
with traditional Muslim eschatology.100
Conclusion
Islamic fundamentalism and contemporary Sufism are both the products of

modernity. Of course, each claims roots in previous strands of the living Islamic
tradition. The fundamentalists purport to follow the teachings of the medieval

theologians Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya and their pre-modern
Wahhabi followers. Sufis draw on their rich legacy, from the early mystics
through Ibn ʿArabi’s, or in the Shiʿa case Mulla Sadra’s, theosophical system to
the wide variety of brotherhoods throughout the Muslim lands. Yet each of the
two trends appropriates, reinterprets and follows its antecedents in light of the
new realities of the modern world. Fundamentalists embrace the discourse of
reason and progress, and organize within the public sphere in socio-religious
movements in opposition to the colonial and post-colonial state. Sufis stress the
need for spirituality and engage the public sphere through their brotherhoods
in collaboration, according to circumstance, with the state, the middle class or
the West.
In the course of the past century and a half Islamic fundamentalism and
Sufism have developed mutually hostile discourses and practices. Each came
to regard the other as a deviation from ‘true’ Islam and a major impediment
to its modernization. For the fundamentalists, who hold a hegemonic
position in the contemporary Islamic arena, latter-day Sufism represents
superstition, backwardness and submissive collaboration with infidels. For
the Sufis, who are often in retreat, the radical brand of fundamentalism is
tantamount to religious fanaticism and violence and the source of Islam’s bad
name. Still, along with the virulent confrontations there is also a measure
of continuity between the two trends. Islamic fundamentalism arose out
of pre-modern Sufi reformist traditions, which espoused direct reliance on
the scriptures and the ancestors’ model, consolidated their organizational
structures and occasionally waged Jihad against colonial intruders and
indigenous Westernized rulers. Sufism, for its part, has been affected by the
fundamentalist discourse of return to the scriptures, its critique of popular
practices and its quest to modernize.
In their continuities as well as in their contradictions, Islamic fundamentalism
and Sufism have helped construct each other as modern subjects. To be sure,
each strives to conceal this mutual dependence. Fundamentalists have ‘forgotten’
the pre-modern Sufi reformist legacy and downplayed the role of its masters
in their own upbringing. Sufis have associated radical fundamentalism with
Wahhabism, the major pre-modern force hostile to the mystical aspect of Islam.
From its beginnings in the late nineteenth century the inner modernization
of Islam has been articulated through the expansion of the fundamentalist
ideology at the expense of the Sufi experience. In view of the present wave of
violence in the name of Islam, one can only wonder if ‘remembering’ Sufism
and a more balanced development between the scriptural and spiritual aspects
of Islam could have helped arrest the fundamentalist drift to the radical camp
and thereby facilitated a more peaceful integration with the globalizing modern
civilization.
2
Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer:

A Preliminary Investigation into
the Anti-Sufi Polemics of
‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1913–70)
Richard Gauvain
God desired that the truth be known about Sufis from their own tongues. So
they demonstrated in the name of 8 million Sufis. People thought that they
were demonstrating in the name of 8 million Muslims!! But they refused the
name with which God has called us. Perhaps they lost their path to it, as
they set about composing their objections in the name of the dead, in the
name of graves, and in the name of the sins that take place as the result of
their falsehood, which they call ‘al-mawalid’!!1
As the nature of the relationship between Sufism and Salafism in any setting is
likely to be complex, the temptation to present these ideologies as if they are
irreconcilably opposed must, of course, be resisted.2 This initial caveat behind
us, there would be little point in arguing that Egypt’s Salafis and Sufis – or indeed
those in most other countries – do not disagree on many important issues of
faith and practice.3 And the fact that certain members of Egypt’s wider Salafi
community sought to capitalize on the chaos following Hosni Mubarak’s deposal
by launching a flurry of attacks against Sufi targets has convinced observers that
Egypt’s Salafi–Sufi divide is greater, and more acrimonious, than ever.4
What seems to have been forgotten – not only by some Western commentators,
but also by many Egyptian Muslims themselves – is that, before the Revolution,
Sufism was not considered by the vast majority of Egyptian Salafis to be an issue
of pressing importance. This is not to say, of course, that the Salafis had not been
vehemently criticizing Sufis past and present. Established many years ago, the
modus operandi of Egyptian Salafism, particularly in the field of da‘wa, involves

sustained diatribe against the Sufis, Shi‘is, Philosophers, Kharijis (and other
individuals who, from the Salafi perspective, are mistaken in their claims to be
Muslim). Notwithstanding the fact that it was (and presumably still is) quite
common to hear Salafis describing ‘the majority of Egyptians [as] chained to
Sufism through their ignorance and superstition’ (aghlabayat al-misriyyin lissa
murtabita bi’l-tasawwuf, bisubub takhallafuhum wa khurafatuhum),5 the reason
that Egypt’s Salafis were not, at least during the period in which I carried out the
bulk of my fieldwork (2006–9), as interested in vilifying Sufis as they were in
criticizing Israel (and ‘the Jews’), the West, Westernized Egyptians, the media,
liberals, Christians, and often a mixture of all of these, was that this particular
battle was thought to have been won some years beforehand.6
This chapter introduces ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1913–70), celebrated within
Egyptian Salafi circles (and beyond) as ‘the Hammer of Deviations’ (al-hadim
al-tawaghit), and the man believed by Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya
(Egypt’s earliest and historically most influential Salafi movement) to have done
most to inflict defeat upon the Sufis.7
1 Attitudes of contemporary Egyptian Salafis

regarding al-Wakil and his polemics
Al-Wakil is virtually un-cited by Western sources and, on the few occasions

he is mentioned, there seems to be little if any awareness of the esteem in
which he continues to be held by Egypt’s Salafis. Only two Western scholars
make any reference to al-Wakil’s polemical stances. Commenting on al-Wakil’s
(‘pretentiously titled’) Masra‘ al-Tasawwuf, Alexander Knysh dismisses its author
merely as another ‘anti-Sufi’, whose ‘personal abhorrence of Sufism’ prompts
him to accuse Muslims of ‘fostering bygone superstitions and of contributing
to the overall economic and cultural decline of Muslim societies’. For Knysh,
al-Wakil’s attitudes are ‘typical of the Egyptian liberal intellectuals of the 1950s’.8
By contrast, in her inquiry into the treatment of Baha’is and Jehovah’s Witnesses
in Egypt, Johanna Pink describes al-Wakil in passing simply as a ‘Wahhabi’.9
As we shall see, however, in his attitude to Sufism, al-Wakil is neither a typical
liberal nor a Wahhabi.
Notwithstanding his anonymity within Western academic circles, al-Wakil
was Ansar al-Sunna’s third leader and, for over a decade, the editor of its main
periodical, al-Hadi al-nabawi.10 Previously, Ansar al-Sunna had been led by
Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer 35
its founder, Muhammad Hamid al-Fiqqi (or simply Hamid al-Fiqqi) and ‘Abd
al-Razzaq al-‘Afifi. Each figure – al-Fiqqi, al-‘Afifi and al-Wakil – is attributed
a paradigmatic role in the movement’s origin saga. Tirelessly bustling between
Saudi Arabia and Egypt, al-Fiqqi emerges as its great proselytizer by setting
up not one but two Salafi journals, both inspiring generations of significant
recent scholars. Garnering praise from the most important Salafis of the
modern generation – and notably from his Saudi Arabian students, Ibn Baz,
al-Salah – al-‘Afifi is recognized as Ansar al-Sunna’s most influential scholar.11
Al-Wakil’s contributions to Ansar al-Sunna is, however, what here concerns
us. As should be clear from his moniker, ‘the Hammer of Deviations’, al-Wakil
was first and foremost a polemicist; and his attacks on Egypt’s communities of
Baha’is, ‘philosophers’ (falasifa) and ‘heretics’ are still cited by Salafi aggressors.12
Without a doubt, however, in al-Wakil’s view, the worst of all Muslim deviants
are the Sufis – not, we should add, just the monistic proponents of ‘drunk Sufism’,
such as Mansur al-Hallaj (d. 922) or Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-‘Arabi (d. 1240), but all
Sufis, past and present.
Unlike other Ansar al-Sunna scholars, al-Wakil’s reputation, as ‘the Hammer
of Deviations’, and arch anti-Sufi, extends beyond the relatively narrow
confines of Ansar al-Sunna. The majority of my field research was carried out
with individuals who, while often connected to Ansar al-Sunna (in that they
prayed in its mosques and attended its classes), are not deeply affiliated with
this movement. In fact, they are familiar with only a handful of the early Ansar
al-Sunna scholars. To be specific, they know of al-Fiqqi (though few have read
his works), al-‘Afifi, the learned hadith expert Ahmad Shakir, al-Wakil and
no others.13 Presumably because of the emphasis on polemic within modern
Egyptian Salafi circles, al-Wakil’s work seemed to be the best known of these
early Ansar al-Sunna scholars.14 Indeed, his reputation extends beyond Egypt
itself, and he continues to be mentioned respectfully by today’s Saudi Arabian
elites. On the back cover of the Majmu‘at maqallat volumes (see immediately
below), for instance, Salih bin Fawzan al-Fawzan (b. 1933), member of the
Kingdom’s highly influential Permanent Committee and Council of Senior
Scholars, observes that: ‘among the strongest answers [to the excesses of Sufism]
are the books of Shaykh al-Islam, Ibn Taymiyya and his student, Ibn Qayyim,
as well as [those works by] a group of contemporary scholars, such as ‘Abd
al-Rahman al-Wakil, in his work Masra‘ al-tasawwuf. From a modern Salafi’s
perspective, this is high praise indeed.
With perhaps three exceptions (Ibn Baz, al-‘Uthaymin and al-Albani),
generalizing about the influence of individual scholars on the wider
contemporary Salafi movement is problematic. In this chapter, my focus remains

primarily with Ansar al-Sunna, al-Wakil’s own Salafi organization and among
those who remember him best. The fact that al-Wakil’s struggle against Sufism
is still considered important by Ansar al-Sunna is immediately clear from the
way in which this movement continues to honour his legacy.15 In a recently
published, lavishly bound two-volume compilation of his works, Majmu‘at
maqallat al-‘allama ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (2010), we find more than half
the total number of al-Wakil’s articles were dedicated to criticizing Egypt’s most
famous Sufis and/or to dispatching the country’s tariqas.16 Al-Wakil’s most
famous monograph on the subject of Sufism, Hadhihi hiya al-Sufiyya (These are
the Sufis), as well as his commentary to Ibn ‘Umar al-Biqa‘i’s Tanbih al-ghabi
ila takfir Ibn ‘Arabi (A Warning to the Fool Regarding the Heresy of Ibn ‘Arabi),
entitled Masra‘ al-tasawwuf (The Destruction of Sufism), are available to download
from the movement’s website, where they are lauded enthusiastically.17 And we
note that, to date, Ansar al-Sunna’s Heritage Department (Qism al-Turath) has
dedicated festschriften only to its most significant scholars: al-Fiqqi, al-‘Afifi, the
famous hadith scholar Ahmad al-Shakir, and ‘Abd al-Wakil alone have received
this honour, the latter in a work entitled ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat
al-tasawwuf (‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil, and the Matter of Sufism). This work is
particularly important to the present chapter as it neatly organizes al-Wakil’s
main arguments from his many publications into chapters, while simultaneously
prioritizing the material Ansar al-Sunna now deems most important. As we
shall see, throughout this festschrift, al-Wakil’s voice is quoted directly whenever
expert knowledge is required, either to rebut the arguments of influential Sufi
scholars, or to cast doubt on the Islamic credentials of specific Sufi beliefs and
rituals.
The highly personal nature of his attack on Sufism renders al-Wakil’s voice
distinctive, as well as quintessentially Egyptian. In terms of content, however,
the originality of his polemic is a matter for debate.18 Intriguingly, however, I
never encountered anyone within Ansar al-Sunna circles (or for that matter
within any Egyptian Salafi circles) who doubted al-Wakil’s success in thoroughly
demolishing the main arguments of Sufism’s most significant scholars. So why,
precisely, is al-Wakil considered such an impressive polemicist? Perhaps the
passion, vitriol and fluency of his writing go some way towards answering this
question. Today’s leaders of the Ansar al-Sunna movement, however, are more
likely to attribute al-Wakil’s success to his status and performance as ‘a complete
Salafi’ (‘salafi mutlaq’), one who is able to combine superior scholarship
with tireless activism.19 In his record of the movement, for instance, Ahmad
al-Tahir’s notes that, in addition to publishing a remarkable quantity of valuable
literature – in particular, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, ‘one of the strongest rebuttals
of the thought which underpins the Sufi manhaj’, and generously contributing
forty-five articles entitled ‘views on Sufism’ (nazarat fi’l-tasawwuf) to al-Hadi
al-nabawi20 – al-Wakil gave lectures across the towns and villages of Egypt. In
addition to his impressive reserves of energy, the Salafi shaykh is recognized as
possessing great courage. Al-Tahir relates how al-Wakil even went to court to
defend a group of fellow Ansar al-Sunna scholars. Apparently a Sufi critic had
‘accused them of attacking the dignity (al-karama) of Sufism’. The outcome of this
encounter is not mentioned, but al-Wakil is congratulated for his bravery and
skill in providing ‘evidence and the proofs against their [the Sufis’] beliefs’.21
In personal interviews with rank and file members of Ansar al-Sunna and
other Egyptian Salafis, the same reasons for al-Wakil’s success – his robust
scholarship and energetic, brave proselytizing – were cited with frequency. In
addition to these qualities, however, my respondents also spoke enthusiastically of
al-Wakil’s other merits. Perhaps the claim most often expressed was that al-Wakil
gained his unique insights into the heart of Sufism through his upbringing in a
village community saturated with traditional Sufi ideas, symbols and practices.
According to my respondents, it was this experience that allowed him ‘to see
through’ (yiktishif) the pretences of Egypt’s Sufis. Having suffered at their hands,
his mission was one of mercy: ‘it is very clear that al-Wakil really cared about
ordinary Egyptians; he couldn’t abide for someone to hurt someone else in
the name of religion!’ (‘wa bayn ’awi in al-Wakil kan biyafakkar fi’l-masriyin
al-‘adiyyin ‘ashan huwa makansh biyistahmil had yizlim had bi-ism al-din’).22
Another often-repeated claim (not explicitly mentioned in the Ansar al-Sunna
texts) is that al-Wakil was simply more thorough in his attacks on all branches
and manifestations of Sufism than other Salafi critics. By contrast with other
Egyptian Salafis (even his peers in Ansar al-Sunna), my respondents observed,
al-Wakil understood the importance of the utter elimination of Sufism, ‘root and
branch’ – so that no trace of it remained to poison Islam in the future. In this
latter task, several individuals drew attention to the fact that al-Wakil chose to
attack the most popular and historically embedded of Sunni Sufi scholars, Abu
Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111).23
As noted, there is currently very little information available on Ansar
al-Sunna’s variant of Egyptian Salafism (n. 7). Focusing on its most celebrated
polemicist, ‘The Hammer of Deviations’, this chapter represents, I hope, a small
step towards rectifying this lacuna. Its main aim is to delve into those aspects
of al-Wakil’s personality and thought, which are believed by Egyptian Salafis,
and particularly by members of Ansar al-Sunna, to have contributed most
significantly to his success. To give a sense of his literary approach and style,
al-Wakil is here quoted at length. In itself, this is quite unusual: with certain
exceptions (of whom bin Laden is the most prominent), the voices of modern
Salafis are normally only included in brief, sensational(ized) fragments (on
jihad, women, Jews and so on).
This chapter continues with al-Wakil’s description of his early days in Tanta,
where his gradual ‘conversion’ from Sufism to Salafism took place (2.a). Next,
it explores the nature of his polemic against the figure of the Sufi shaykh,
specifically in light of his youthful experiences (2.b). Striving to reflect something
of the thoroughness of these polemics, the third section begins by considering
his vehement rejection of the Sufi concept of ‘asceticism’ (al-zuhd) (3.a); it
then explores his criticisms, both intellectual and personal, of Abu Hamid
al-Ghazali, which remain perhaps his most controversial statements (3.b). The
chapter concludes by probing the reasons as to why al-Wakil’s key ideas continue
to resonate so profoundly within contemporary Ansar al-Sunna (and wider
Egyptian Salafi) settings, whereas some of his other ideas and attitudes – most
specifically his apparent fondness for the research of ‘Orientalist’ scholars – no
longer appeal to the modern Egyptian Salafi (4).
2 From Sufism to Salafism
2.a Al-Wakil’s ‘Conversion’

Familiar with his autobiography, my respondents in Ansar al-Sunna agreed that
al-Wakil truly understood Sufism because, as a youth, he had lived it.24 Indeed,
two individuals separately noted how al-Wakil’s journey from a naïve child, eager
to learn, yet brought up practising the rituals of Sufism, to a mature and pious
scholar, who realizes that these rituals have nothing to do with Islam, mirrors
the journey of Egypt’s Salafis themselves from the late nineteenth into the mid-
twentieth century, during which time they threw off the shackles of tradition
and superstition so as to immerse themselves in the study of Qur’an and Sunna.
The following characteristically colourful passage, from the introduction to
Masra‘ al-tasawwuf – published in 1953, when al-Wakil was around forty years
old – distils this journey, from Sufism to Salafism, for the reader.25 The passage
begins with a young al-Wakil – referring to himself (in the third person) as ‘the
youth’ (al-shab) – reflecting on the logical inconsistencies of the books presented
to him by his professors at Tanta’s branch of the Azhar University, where he has
recently arrived; it concludes with his revelation that Sufism is, in fact, the work
of the devil:
[Surely] If these books did not speak truthfully, they would not have been taught
in al-Azhar University; they would not be taught by these ancient rabbis/priests
(al-harimun min al-ahbar26); and they would not have been published. … No,
he had come to Tanta to study religion under these scholars; and now he must
study the law (fiqh al-din) from the shaykhs and from their books!! But Tanta is
full of Sufi seekers (lit: ‘delegations,’ ‘wufud’); it is the grandest house of idolatry
(taghut), to which everyone floods. And the youth sits in the Sufis’ study circles,
where the name of God is invoked, as they [the Sufis] hawk through their noses
(bikhannat al-unuf), shake their backsides (rajjat al-ardaf), and beat their pagan
drums (wathaniyat al-dufuf). He listens to the Sufi singer (munshid) proclaiming
loudly while dancing: ‘I have an idol (sanam) which I worship in the monastery.’
[In response to which] The voices of the darawish grow louder and the people
say ‘yes, like that, apostasize, apostastize O’ teacher’ (‘aywa kida, ikfir, ikfir ya
murrabi’); and, on the peoples’ faces, the youth sees the happiness, and the pagan
joy (wathani raqis) which results from what they have heard from this idolatrous
singer (al-munshid al-kafir). So, he [the youth] asks one of the shaykhs who
comes from his village: ‘O master shaykh (ya sidi ya shaykh), what is this idol
that is being worshipped?’ The shaykh tightens his lips, then bestows his answer
upon the confused boy, ‘you’re still young’ (inta lissa sughiyyir). The youth
becomes quiet for a short while. Yet, the level of atheism is unbearable (wa lakin
al-kufr yudajja fi’l-na‘iq), and he hears the singer saying ‘I have journeyed in the
monastery’s path in immortality (‘abadiyya); and the dog and the pig are nothing
but our gods.’ Retreating into terror and wonder, the youth ponders: ‘What dog?
What pig? What monastery?’ But what answer could he receive? For he was too
afraid to ask one of the shaykhs [what was going on] because previously the reply
had only been ‘you’re still so young.’ Then he sees some of these great shaykhs
circumambulating their swamp (bi hadhihi hamat), while drinking cinnamon
(al-qirfa), and congratulating the substitutes (al-abdal), the nobles (al-anjab)
and the supports (al-awtad) on the festival (mawlid) of the highest ranking of
their saints (al-qutb al-ghauth sayyidhum), Sayyid al-Badawi.27
Years of the youth’s life are buried before he becomes a student at the [Azhar’s]
College of the Foundations of Religion (kulliyat usul al-din) where he studies
the widest reaching books on monotheism (awsa‘ kutub al-tawhid) – as
these are known [at the Azhar]. He understands everything in these, bar the
actual truth of tawhid. [Indeed] Studying them only increases his gloomy
anxiety and [leaves him in a state of] pathetic confusion. One day, the youth
and one of his friends sit down with an uneducated Sufi shaykh (shaykh sufi
ummi). He (the Sufi shaykh) asks them (al-Wakil and his friend) about the
meanings of some hallucinations (ba‘d tawhilat) of [the Egyptian Sufi] Ibn
al-‘Ata’illah al-Sakandari [d. 1309]. ‘If, with God’s support, your will (iradatak)
has been annihilated/stripped (al-tajrid) [in God], then this is a form of covert
desire [al-shahwa al-khalifiyya] [and it is not acceptable]; [on the other hand], if
your will is involved [in your actions], while you are in a state of transcendence
[fi’l-tajrid], then this must be understood as a failure in your resolve [al-himma].’
[On hearing this] The two students are perplexed, unsure as to how to answer this
uneducated man regarding his so-called ruling (hadhahi al-hukm al-ma‘zuma);
though they understand that it aims to strengthen the myth that [for a Sufi] the
legal obligations [made incumbent upon all Muslims through Shari‘a] are no
longer necessary (ustura raf ‘ al-taklif). And they [the students] find themselves
filled with grief having flunked this riddle of an exam (imtihan ‘aqda) by an
ignorant Sufi.
Time passes and he [the youth] becomes a student in the [Azhar’s] Department
of Tawhid and Philosophy (fi’l-shu‘bat al-tawhid wa’l-falsifa). Here, he studies
Sufism. And he encounters a book, written by one of his professors, in which
he finds Ibn Taymiyya’s opinion regarding Ibn ‘Arabi, and [on reading this] the
youth is calmed a little regarding Ibn Taymiyya, who he had previously seen as
mistaken and misleading (kan qabl yarahuh dalla mudillan). This is [the Shafi‘i
scholar, Ahmad] al-Dardir’s vicious, slanderous description of him!! (al-buhtan
al-’athim na‘tuhu al-Dardir!!).
He [the youth] has several of Ibn Taymiyya’s books. But he was scared to read
them, worried lest he began to doubt the [Sufi pantheon of] Saints (yurtab fi’l-
’awliya), as some of his shaykhs had told him earlier [would happen]!! And he
was frightened that he would slip into the same error as Ibn Taymiyya. But the
youth reads and he immerses himself in reading. Then Fate (al-qadr) blesses
this youth, as the shining light of dawn appears and pushes away [the darkness
of] night. And in this happy time, he settles into Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
al-Muhammadiyya. It is as if he has found an ancient oasis of nectar, a remedy
for the burning mid-day sun. The movement calls to him through the voice of
its founder, our esteemed spiritual father Muhammad Hamid al-Fiqqi, to reflect
upon the truth and the correct religion from the Book and the Sunna (al-haqq
wa’l-hudan min al-kitab wa’l-sunna). The youth reads and reflects upon what he
is reading. Little by little, the veil (al-ghishawa) lifts from his eyes, and heavenly
light dazzles him, and the path of righteousness emanates light so that he sees its
truths, and he understands its worth. And he appreciates the lightness in the light,
the fidelity in faith, the truthfulness in truth and the error in straying from the
path. [And he realizes that] Before, through the [seductive] magic of Sufism, he
had mistaken everything he had seen for its opposite. He had been convinced that
polytheism was monotheism, that disbelief was faith and that pure spirituality
was gross materialism. Spiritually transfigured, the youth realized – and he
could not believe it – that Sufism is paganism (din wathaniyya), it is Magianism
(majusiyya), it is the religion of the devil (iblis), and of the Pharaohs. … [And
he realized that] Paganism is [nothing but] ignorance. And he saw that all these
[religious deviations] are cursed by the Book of God.
Al-Wakil’s spiritual and intellectual journey falls neatly into four paragraphs,
each of which deals with a different subject.28 In the first paragraph, as a young
boy in Tanta, he finds himself on the defensive against an idol-worshipping
munshid, patronizing shaykhs and cinnamon-drinking devotees of al-Sayyid
al-Badawi (d. 1276). In the second paragraph, matters only get worse as he
struggles to learn the principles of his religion, but fails a test set for him by
an unlettered shaykh who implies that, for the gnostic, dedication to Shari‘a is
unnecessary. Hope enters his life in the third paragraph through the works of
Ibn Taymiyya, about whom he had previously been misled. And, in the fourth
paragraph, al-Wakil speaks of his salvation – in what seems, at first glance, a
‘Damascene’ moment – through which his life is given meaning and purpose.
Unlike the Apostle Paul, previously so unworthy of God’s grace, al-Wakil’s
transformation from Sufi to Salafi arrives largely through his own efforts. From
the very beginning, al-Wakil finds himself pondering the validity of the education
he is receiving, even when doing so makes his life difficult. He is perplexed by
the books he is told to read; he very sensibly fails to understand why people
should be worshipping idols, pigs or dogs; he challenges his teachers (who, in
response, purse their lips and pompously deflect his inquiries); and he chooses
to read Ibn Taymiyya, despite being warned that this scholar is dangerous to a
Muslim’s faith.29 According to his own autobiographical reminiscences, then,
the youthful al-Wakil is a thinker and a rebel, as well as someone who has clearly
grasped the truth of the Qur’anic reminder – a modern Salafi favourite – that
‘God will not change a people until they have changed what is in themselves’
(Q. 13:11). The works of Ibn Taymiyya, important though they are to him,
provide the catalyst (and some of the tools) for this transformation – and Salafi-
zation – of his character. But, the process appears to be evolutionary, rather
than ontological, in nature. Indeed, even God seems to play a negligible role in
al-Wakil’s story. When describing the epiphanic moment itself, al-Wakil merely
notes that ‘Fate (al-qadr) – rather than al-Qadir (one of God’s Names) – blesses
the youth’ (yan‘im al-qadr ‘ala al-shabb). Though the rewards are suitably great,
there is no hint of the physical and spiritual turmoil that often accompanies
such moments. Rather, the scales are simply lifted from al-Wakil’s eyes over
a gradual period of time as he diligently studies the works of Ibn Taymiyya
and Hamid al-Fiqqi. For al-Wakil, spiritual transfiguration – the unlearning of
everything he has so far been taught – arrives as the result of hard work and
superior guidance.
Given the modern Salafis’ general distrust of mystical experiences and their
heavy reliance on (Salafi-approved) texts as the vehicle via which all forms of
religious truths must be communicated, al-Wakil’s description of his conversion
from Sufism to Salafism is in many senses not very surprising. The degree to
which al-Wakil appeals to standard mystical language to describe certain aspects
of his transformation is, however, interesting.30 Let us reflect further on the
nature of al-Wakil’s description. His story has all the qualities of a fable: a child
has been locked in a dark cave, the guardians of which use magic to keep him
there. The child realizes something is wrong, but as he has only experienced
life in the cave, he does not understand what it is. Grown to be a youth, he
eventually finds his way out of the cave and emerges into a world of glorious
sunshine, the world of ‘True Islam’. As the light shines, the trickery by which
his erstwhile guardians have imprisoned him becomes obvious. In a neat play
on the usual inversion trope so favoured by Sufis,31 he sees such trickery for
what it truly is: Sufism – the power of the cave – is revealed as a Pagan, Magian,
Pharaonic and ultimately Satanic illusion. The reader, presumably, infers that the
keepers of the cave must also be the disciples of Satan. With parallels in all sorts
of traditions (from Aristotle’s ‘allegory of the cave’ to the Wachowski’s Matrix
trilogy) al-Wakil’s reputation as a man who fully understands, and wishes to
combat, Sufism rests squarely, of course, upon the Salafis’ acknowledgement
that, regardless (arguably because) of its fable-like qualities, al-Wakil’s biography
is 100 per cent accurate.
It is because al-Wakil is known to have been bullied, at first by the shaykhs
in his village and then by those in Tanta, that his caricature of ‘the Sufi Shaykh’
– a swaggering individual who, while adept at Sufi ‘magic’, knows nothing of
religion – is taken seriously. In putting his experiences of this shaykh down in
writing, al-Wakil is understood to be setting the record straight.
2.b The Sufi Shaykh

Underpinning al-Wakil’s lengthy refutations of the Sufi scholars’ arguments is
the principled objection that Sufi shaykhs are abusing their positions as leaders
of their communities to exploit ordinary Egyptians and to maintain a hold on
power. In its festschrift to al-Wakil, Ansar al-Sunna hones in upon precisely this
objection in a chapter entitled ‘The Relationship between the Disciple and the
Shaykh’ (‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh). In summarizing al-Wakil’s arguments
against this (caricature of a) Sufi shaykh, the author references a number of sources
(most notably his articles in al-Hady al-nabawi, and Masra‘ al-tasawwuf).32
The main point of criticism, for al-Wakil and Ansar al-Sunna, is the Sufis’
apparent insistence that ‘everybody must be bound (yartabit bi) to a shaykh
from [among] their shaykhs’, and that if someone does not create such an
attachment – through a formal declaration of allegiance (bay‘ah) – his efforts
amount to nothing. For, so the Sufis’ logic runs, ‘whoever does not have a
shaykh, his shaykh is Satan’ (man la shaykh lahu fashaykhuh al-shaytan).
Indeed, through the same logic, ‘even if the murid diligently obeys God’s orders,
he must still bind himself to a Sufi shaykh’. Of course, in binding himself to his
shaykh, the murid must simultaneously renounce his own personality. He is,
according to al-Wakil, to be ‘skinned of his individual desires’ (yansalikh min
iradat nafsuh), so that his identity dissolves (yufna’) in that of his shaykh’, and
so that, with each breath he takes, the murid remembers that he is ‘between the
arms of his shaykh’.
According to al-Wakil, the murid continually finds himself at a disadvantage
in his relationship with his shaykh, whose attitude is even believed to determine
God’s own treatment of the student. This is duly shown by a reference to al-Risala,
the work of the Persian Sufi ‘Abd al-Karim ibn Hawazim al-Qushayri (d. 1074),
in which this scholar notes that:
when the murid makes his shaykh happy, he will take no reward [from his
shaykh during his lifetime] in case [in the future] the desire to glorify his shaykh
leaves his [the murid’s] heart. If the shaykh dies, God will grant the reward [due
to the murid] for having made his shaykh happy. However, if the [attitude of
the] shaykh’s heart changes towards his murid, God will not punish him when
the shaykh is alive lest the shaykh’s heart softens [once again] towards his murid
[and allows the latter to escape punishment].33
Worse still, because the Sufi shaykhs are tyrants, it is forbidden (haram) for the
murid to move from one Sufi branch (tariqa) to another – ‘if he is guilty of
associating others with his shaykh then he associates others with God’ (fa-in
ashrak ma‘a shaykhuh fa-huwa al-mushrik bi-allah).34 Ultimately, the disastrous
consequences of such slavish devotion are spelt out: the murid must obey his
shaykh ‘even when he is asked to commit a sin (ma‘siyya), such as breaking the
fast or avoiding prayer’.35
While the festschrift reassures us that al-Wakil staunchly ‘opposes all such
erroneous beliefs through explanation, criticism and analysis’, it tends to cite
al-Wakil explicitly only when his expertise is directly required, either to rebut the
most famous Sufi scholars (often from their own sources) or to explain a technical
aspect of Sufism. In this particular chapter, al-Wakil’s main grudge is shown
to be with al-Qushayri. Indeed, al-Wakil’s displeasure at the disproportionate
degree of influence exercised by the average Sufi shaykh over his student, and
the consequences of the latter’s disobedience, is specifically framed in response
to another of al-Qushayri’s comments. On this occasion, al-Wakil is particularly
irritated by the fact that, rather than attributing al-Hallaj’s death to his
blasphemous ‘resistance to the Qur’an’, al-Qushayri claims that the unfortunate
gnostic met his end only as the result of his ‘shaykhs calling for his undoing’, and,
worse still, that it was merely al-Hallaj’s disobedience to his shaykhs, rather than
his heresies, that provoked God’s anger.36 Similarly, in refuting the claim that the
murid’s sins may be forgiven only through his shaykh’s intercession, al-Wakil
singles al-Qushayri again out for criticism: ‘Do you see how al-Qushayri makes it
obligatory for the murid to repent when his heart merely murmurs an objection
to his shaykh?’37
In Ansar al-Sunna’s festschrift, al-Wakil’s opinion is also quoted so as to
undermine the legal validity of peculiarly Sufi ideas and acts. A brief description
of the ‘khirqa’ – a cloak placed on the shoulders of the Sufi initiate by his shaykh
which formalizes their relationship and symbolizes the trust between them –
is here followed by al-Wakil’s curt refusal to accept that the same garment has
a place in Islam: ‘where are these rituals and symbols (rusum) in the Book of
God? What place do they have in the Life of the Prophet? Where was Abu Bakr’s
khirqa? Or the khirqa of ‘Umar? Or the khirqa of ‘Uthman or ‘Ali?’38
And if the reader were to ask, who is al-Wakil to pose such questions? Ansar
al-Sunna’s sources, in text and person, speak clearly. He was the victim of Sufism,
who endured its abuses, came to understand its weakness and, at an early age,
escaped its clutches. Thereafter, he became the enemy of Sufism, fighting to
protect other, ordinary Muslims from suffering as he suffered – ‘al-Wakil really
cared about ordinary Muslims, he couldn’t abide for someone to hurt someone
else in the name of religion!’ Such concern for the psychological and social well-
being of ordinary Egyptian Muslims is a hallmark of the country’s Salafi discourse.
Indeed, it even explains the phrasing of the title of this chapter of the festschrift
– ‘The Relationship between the Disciple and the Shaykh’ – according to which,
in contrast to the Sufis’ idealized hierarchy, al-murid precedes al-shaykh. On a
quite different level, al-Wakil’s resistance to the Sufi vision of the shaykh and his
disciple rests on another foundational principle of Egyptian Salafism, important
since the time of Muhammad ‘Abduh: the right of the Muslim to retain his sense
of individuality, and to learn about religion – from the true sources (i.e. Qur’an
and Sunna) – through his own intellectual gifts. This is, after all, how al-Wakil
escaped from the cave.
3 Root and branch
3.a Foul beginnings: Al-Zuhd

As we have already seen, al-Wakil locates numerous foreign, non-Islamic
influences within Sufism: it is ‘paganism (din wathaniyya), it is Magianism
(majusiyya), it is the religion of the devil (Iblis), and of the Pharaohs’. Elsewhere,
al-Wakil similarly bemoans the destructive influence of Christianity and
Judaism on specific elements of Sufism.39 In al-Wakil’s view, however, the first
Sufi contamination of Islam occurred when the concept of ‘al-zuhd’ (religiously
inspired asceticism) and its attendant practices entered the Muslim Umma during
the middle of the second century Hijra, ‘in response to the wave of dissolution
(inhilal) that spread through the Islamic world at the beginning of the ‘Abbasid’s
regime’.40 Recalling my respondents’ praise of al-Wakil’s thoroughness in striving
to uproot all aspects of Sufism from Egyptian society, this section explores
the nature of his attack on the origins of zuhd itself (asl al-zuhd). Once again,
al-Wakil’s arguments will be considered through the lens of Ansar al-Sunna’s
festschrift.
Al-Wakil believes that the origins of zuhd lay not in Islam, but in Manichaeism,
the philosophy of the Persian false prophet, Mani Ibn Fatik, who advised his
followers to ‘be extreme ascetics, and not to marry, so that the world will end’.41
Al-Wakil judges such views to uphold the very opposite of Islam because, in
contrast to his perception of the faith, they emphasise passivity and reclusiveness.
Manichean ideas of zuhd should never have entered Islam because of their
gradual, but ultimately cataclysmic effects on Muslim attitudes regarding, first,
the figure of the warrior (and related notions of manliness) and, second, the
institution of the family. Zuhd, al-Wakil tells us, ‘lessens people’s admiration of
the military characteristics of Islam’s heroes and of the ancient martyrs, who
were solely fighters’. Rather than seeking to emulate the heroic examples of the
Prophet’s companions, Muslims began to fall under the spell of ‘seclusion’ (‘uzla),
perceiving within it a kind of ‘magical charm’ (khilabat al-sihr) and ‘a sedition
of desire’ (fitnat al-‘ishq), they retreated into their ‘monks’ cells and caves’.42
For al-Wakil, the arrival of zuhd even affected the healthy body image that had
originally been promoted by the Prophet and his companions. Without their
swords and strength, Muslims ultimately became ‘feeble-bodied worshippers’.
Under its influence, they increasingly strove to resemble the image of the world-
hating recluse: ‘in each cave we find a ghost (shabh), whose body is emaciated
(damir al-jasad), whose eyes are listless (za‘igh al-‘ayinin), whose tongue lolls
(mutahaddil al-lisan), and whose lips are messy with dust (wa shafatayn asha‘th
aghbar). With gestures of his hand, he [the Sufi ghost] begs for a drink, or [even]
a sip!!’43
Such men can never be of use when Islam is under attack. For al-Wakil, of
course, Islam needs strong, committed men, not only for combat, but in all areas
of life. In his view, zuhd is evil because it robs Muslims of the energy and initiative
necessary to change themselves and their societies. Note how, in the following
passage, al-Wakil lends nobility to the work of the humble peasant by comparing
this to the achievements of the soldier:
What about the self-sacrificing warrior (al-mujahid al-fida’i) who carries his
sword and throws himself into battle in God’s Name? Is he not with God? And
what about the peasant who carries his scythe (fahs), whose hot sweat pours
from his brow as he strikes the ground with this mighty scythe, is he not … with
God? … [Surely] God is the God of everybody. He is not the God of only one
person [who wishes] to be with Him alone in isolation (khilwa). He is with those
who are charitable (al-muhsin), pious (al-muttaqin), and patient (al-sabirin).
He did not say that He is with the recluse. Rather He is God, the Merciful the
Forgiving.44
In al-Wakil’s reading, both the warrior (with his sword) and the peasant (with
his scythe) are unmanned by zuhd. Shielding the responsibilities of marriage
and children is also, al-Wakil directly implies, a vital part of true Muslim notions
of masculinity. Yet, by substituting the monk’s cell for the marriage bed – and,
indeed, by slavishly following the Manicheans and forbidding marriage outright45
– the early champions of zuhd ‘aimed to finish Islam, its people and its protectors’.
They issued a call that forbade marriage, and drove people to be ‘furious against
the child and the family’. This is all the more remarkable, al-Wakil notes, because
this call arrived in an era when ‘Muslim countries were plagued by insurrections
and revolutions (fitan wa thawrat)’. Switching to the present tense so that his
reader makes no mistake regarding its relevance to today, al-Wakil concludes
that there is no doubt ‘that the same call greatly aids the revolution [against
Islam], allowing it to achieve its victory much sooner’.46
Following its usual strategy, the festschrift attributes both the above criticisms
– regarding zuhd’s threat to authentic Islamic notions of jihad/masculinity and
family – to al-Wakil, but only quotes directly from the shaykh when his expertise
is needed to deal with the original Sufi source material, and/or when a specific
technical matter requires his elucidation. Tellingly, the discovery of a connection
between zuhd and ‘the crimes of Sufi historians’ in obscuring the history of Islam’s
early heroes and martyrs is attributed, by al-Wakil, to Ignaz Golziher (d. 1921),
the Jewish Hungarian ‘Orientalist’ (mustashriq).47 Indeed, it is very likely that
al-Wakil’s argument that a historical link existed between Manichaeism and
Muslim notions of zuhd was also borrowed from Orientalism.48 The interesting
nature of the relationship between al-Wakil (and Ansar al-Sunna) and Western
scholarship on Islam is briefly discussed in the conclusion.
From a technical perspective, al-Wakil’s help is sought to explain the precise
meaning of specific Sufi-related terms. In addition to zuhd, he sheds some light
on the etymology and historical origin of words such as ‘‘uzla’ (seclusion) ‘khilwa’
(isolation) and ‘fardiyya’ (individualism), which were made popular by the likes
of Dhu’l-Nun Misri (d. 859), al-Junayd (d. 910) and other early important Sufi
figures.49 Al-Wakil’s main theo-linguistic contribution to this chapter, however,
is to explain the meaning of ‘piety’ (taqwa) – Islam’s pure, and indigenous,
alternative to zuhd. Indeed, while he describes zuhd as the product of ‘atheist
Manichaeism’ (manawiyya mulhida), al-Wakil argues that taqwa amounts to
nothing less than ‘mighty Islam’ (‘al-Islam al-‘azim’) itself. For al-Wakil, the
proof of taqwa’s superiority over zuhd is manifestly clear from the Qur’an and
Sunna, where zuhd goes unmentioned, yet where many people – including king
Sulayman and the rich companions of the Prophet who give so generously of
their wealth – are described specifically as ‘pious’ (atqiya’).50
Reiterating al-Wakil’s arguments, the remainder of the chapter goes on to
explain how, by exhorting Muslims to commit productively to their society, to
enter battle courageously in its defence, and to marry and bear children so that
this society continues to thrive, taqwa achieves precisely the opposite of zuhd.
Concomitantly, al-Wakil directs his readers’ attention away from the unhealthy
example of the cave-bound recluse to the infinitely more salubrious example

of the Prophet, who avoided the pointless extravagance of asceticism so as to
commit himself wholeheartedly to the improvement of his community.51 As part
of his mission, he waged war against non-believers and hypocrites and married
many times. Indeed, the Prophet married because God told him, and all other
Muslims, to do so: ‘marry the unmarried among you and the righteous among
your male slaves and female slaves’ (Q. 24:32).
3.b Abu Hamid al-Ghazali: (Not) ‘The Proof of Islam’

To discuss al-Wakil’s views regarding al-Ghazali (d. 1111), we must leave Ansar
al-Sunna’s festschrift, which perhaps significantly does not include a chapter
on this subject, and return to al-Wakil’s own writings. Specifically, we shall
look at his comments, first, in a series of articles entitled ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala
al-Ghazali?!’(‘Have I accused al-Ghazali wrongly?!’), which were published
originally in al-Hadi al-nabawi, and, second, in perhaps his best-known work,
Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya.52 Reference to his attack on al-Ghazali is included for
the same reason that his attitude to zuhd has been discussed: both subjects are
perceived as reflecting al-Wakil’s remarkable endeavour to separate Sufism from
Islam, root and branch. In attacking zuhd, al-Wakil targets the early ascetics,
whose influence he perceives as leading to the flowering of Sufism; in attacking
al-Ghazali, however, al-Wakil wishes to inflict a serious wound upon the
institution of Sufism itself. The fact that al-Wakil’s arguments against al-Ghazali
were (and still are) extremely controversial ensures that this section is longer
and slightly more detailed than previous ones.
The vast majority of Sunni jurists have traditionally recognized al-Ghazali
as the legally acceptable voice of Sufism.53 After all, it is precisely because of his
ability to marry the forces of legalism and mysticism that al-Ghazali is described
as ‘Hujjat al-Islam’ (‘Proof of Islam’). And this scholar’s vast treatise Ihya ‘ulum
al-din (Revival of the Religious Sciences) has proven extraordinarily influential
within Muslim legal tradition; as I have noted elsewhere, the same text continues
to be taught in many Egyptian mosque circles, including certain Salafi ones.54
Indeed, al-Ghazali’s success in normalizing Sufi ideas within Sunni Islam’s legal
circles doubtless explains much of al-Wakil’s animosity towards him. Beginning
with the ‘Have I Accused al-Ghazali Wrongly?’ articles, the nature of al-Wakil’s
criticisms, and the sources upon which these criticisms are based, shall now be
explored.
As his choice of title for the articles suggests, al-Wakil feels the need to defend
himself against certain people’s reactions to his attacks on al-Ghazali. In fact,
he lists four types of response from as many different groups; three of which
have been negative. He tells the reader that the first two groups wish merely ‘to
rebuke’ (‘atibun) him for his treatment of al-Ghazali. According to individuals
in group number one, al-Ghazali should be awarded respect as an ‘independent
[but flawed] jurist’ (mujtahid mukhti’) who, while making mistakes, has been
persecuted by those around him. For members of group number two, regardless
of his opinions, al-Ghazali is an imam and, as such, should not be criticized
because to do so only risks aggravating other Muslims.55 Individuals belonging
to group number three do not wish merely to reproach him; rather, they fully
support al-Ghazali and are ‘furiously angry’ (haniq ghadib) with both al-Wakil
and his publishers.56 In contrast to all three groups, however, are the opinions
of group number four, which al-Wakil claims not to want to mention in case
people think he has grown partial to flattery. Members of this group encourage
al-Wakil to continue in his attacks on al-Ghazali and even ‘to write until all these
deviations [of al-Ghazali] are smashed!’ (wa aktub hatta tattahattam hadhihi
al-tawaghit!).57
Having acknowledged the controversial nature of his work, and promising to
fulfil his scholarly duties by scrupulously citing the exact location of anything
he quotes from al-Ghazali, al-Wakil presses on in a new section entitled ‘The
reason for my criticisms of al-Ghazali’.58 His main point of criticism – in light
of which the others may easily be understood – is that al-Ghazali in no way
deserves the credit and prestige bestowed upon him by Muslim tradition. The
fact that al-Ghazali seems almost universally to be known as ‘Proof of Islam’
(‘hujjat al-Islam’) – al-Wakil contemptuously notes that his moniker (laqab) is
now more famous than his actual name – prompts the following warning:
Al-Ghazali is dangerous [precisely] because he is [so often treated as] ‘Proof

of Islam.’59 [That is to say] Many scholars interpret the Book of God in light
of what he [al-Ghazali] has previously written and decided; not only this, but
they fashion their corrupt interpretations of Qur’anic verses in such a way as to
agree with what al-Ghazali states in his books. This is what makes al-Ghazali the
most dangerous man in Islam and regarding Islam (akhtar rajul fi’l-Islam wa ‘ala
al-Islam).60
Because of the dangers involved in listening to al-Ghazali, al-Wakil argues that it

is now an obligation for all Muslims to flag up the errors they find in his works.
By so doing, he believes that these Muslims will demonstrate to others that
‘al-Ghazali is not the Proof of Islam,’ ‘nor even similar to the Proof of Islam!’
Indeed, for al-Wakil, the idea that any man other than the Prophet should be
regarded as ‘Proof of Islam’ is, in itself, preposterous: ‘there is no such thing as a
Proof of Islam, aside from the Book of God and the sunna of the mighty Prophet
(al-rasul al-‘azim)!’61
Even now, however, al-Wakil is not quite finished mocking al-Ghazali for the
label that others have given him. If one man was to be regarded as Proof of Islam,
al-Wakil continues, he would have to be a superb scholar in the Qur’an and the
Sunna. Yet, of course, al-Ghazali fails this test because rather than anchoring
his arguments in the Qur’an, he locates them solely in ‘the books of the Sufiyya’,
while his similarly weak command of the hadith sources is also well known.62
Ultimately, al-Wakil notes, the best that can be said of al-Ghazali’s scholarship is
that ‘he is a Sufi in his way of thinking … and that he lacks vision (ghayr basir)
when it comes to the Sunna’.63
Quite aside from doubting the merits of his scholarship, al-Wakil expresses
something of a personal dislike for al-Ghazali. Once again, his criticisms are
framed derisorily within the context of Sunni Islam’s exaggerated respect for
the same scholar. Rather than taking al-Ghazali’s own account of his character
at face value – a pious and humble believer who, in search for enlightenment,
forsakes great wealth and power – as this emerges from his autobiography, The
Deliverance from Error (al-Munqidh min al-dalal), al-Wakil turns the tables on
al-Ghazali by asking what his autobiography actually tells us of the man:
Let us follow the history of his [al-Ghazali’s] thought according to his own
description in al-Munqidh min al-dalal. You will see that [in matters of
theology] he was an asha‘ri because the sultan was also an ash‘ari and because he
desired glory and renown (al-gah wa’l-sayt). Yet, in the end, he became a Sufi,
and found the truth among the Sufiyya. No, al-Ghazali was not a legal scholar
(mujtahid); rather, he was the worst kind of imitator (muqalliddan shar taqlid)
because he imitated the Sufis. Then again, al-Ghazali said that he wanted [to
find] truth in the science of philosophy (‘ilm al-kalam). But he could not find
it in philosophy … [rather], in the end, he found it in Sufism. And al-Ghazali
himself says that ‘I considered my motives for teaching (niyyati fi’l-tadris), and
found that I was not teaching purely for the sake of God, but so as to achieve
glory and for my renown to spread.64
Though al-Wakil is far from kind in his assessment of al-Ghazali’s motives, for
the sceptical reader, he does have a point. Given that he admits to having once
craved glory and renown, why should we now trust al-Ghazali simply because he
claims to have undergone a spiritual transformation? For al-Wakil, the answer

is simple: we should never trust al-Ghazali!65 After all, as he has already argued,
al-Ghazali would only deserve our trust if, as the result of his transformational
experience, he had become skilled and reliable in his interpretations of the
Qur’an and his use of the Sunna. This would, in fact, constitute ‘the proof ’ that
Muslims mistakenly associate with al-Ghazali. But, al-Wakil assures us, this
did not happen. And here we may recall al-Wakil’s own transformation – from
Sufism to Salafism – which lacks the narrative power of al-Ghazali’s ‘deliverance’,
but through which, if we choose to believe him (and not al-Ghazali), al-Wakil
successfully became an agent of ‘true religion’, dedicated to improving the
conditions of the Umma through the use of Qur’an and Sunna.
It is interesting that, in mounting such criticisms of al-Ghazali, al-Wakil
seems generally content to reference the Qur’an and Sunna and cites very few
other scholars.66 Not surprisingly, the one classical jurist whose arguments are
incorporated into his attack is Ibn Taymiyya. In fact, in the resolutely Salafi figure
of Ibn Taymiyya, al-Wakil finds the perfect foil through which to expound upon
the crimes of al-Ghazali, the Sufi. Al-Wakil sets the stage for this comparison by
noting that one ‘kind, sweet brother’ (akh tayyib karim) suggests that we should
forgive the mistakes of al-Ghazali, as we have forgiven those of Ibn Taymiyya.67
With a certain degree of (probably unintentional) humour, al-Wakil protests
that he wished he could: ‘I would love to do exactly that, my brother!’ Indeed,
he proceeds, if al-Ghazali’s mistakes were only in ‘the branches’ (al-furu‘), or in
the sources (al-usul) of Islam, such indulgence would be possible. However, as
in reality al-Ghazali’s mistakes concern tawhid, ‘the most important foundation,
upon which Islam itself is built’, while also incorporating ‘the excessive mistakes
of the philosophers’, forgiveness remains, of course, impossible.68
So as to emphasize the pressing need for Muslims to reevaluate al-Ghazali’s
contributions to Islam, al-Wakil points to the injustices in the contrasting
historical treatment of these two figures: while Ibn Taymiyya languishes on
the outskirts of Sunni jurisprudence (castigated by the ignorant as an ‘apostate
[mulhid], turncoat [mariq] and atheist [zindiq]’) al-Ghazali is lauded as ‘Proof
of Islam’ by the scholars of the Azhar University and has long been cherished
at the heart of Sunni Islam. It is strongly inferred that one of the reasons for
his ostracism is that (like al-Wakil himself) Ibn Taymiyya had the courage to
speak out against al-Ghazali.69 The following criticisms are taken from the short
section ‘Ibn Taymiyya’s Opinion of al-Ghazali’, which begins with the latter’s
blunt assessment of al-Ghazali’s scholarly abilities:
He [al-Ghazali] does not know what Ahmad [Ibn Hanbal] said, or indeed what
was said by any of the pious predecessors (min al-salaf) in this chapter … or even
what has been said in the Qur’an or hadith regarding this matter.70
It is of great importance, al-Wakil continues, that Ibn Taymiyya bases his

refutation of al-Ghazali’s status as the Proof of Islam on the Sufi scholar’s poor
knowledge of the Qur’an, hadith and of the maddhab al-salaf. He is similarly
correct, according to al-Wakil, in his description of al-Ghazali’s works as the
‘isthmus’ (al-barzakh) by which Muslims remain connected to the heretical ideas
of the ancient philosophers.71 Finally, in an observation made more interesting
by the previous discussion, al-Wakil congratulates Ibn Taymiyya for noticing
that al-Ghazali exaggerates the importance of zuhd.72
Fully comprehending the extent of al-Ghazali’s ignorance and mischief, Ibn
Taymiyya possesses none of the Sufi’s flaws. Returning to the earlier comparison
between these two figures, al-Wakil now suggests that the question of whether
or not we should forgive al-Ghazali, as we have forgiven Ibn Taymiyya, is simply
nonsensical:
No, no, a thousand times no! For all the mistakes made by Ibn Taymiyya will
not equate to the seriousness of one of al-Ghazali’s mistakes … [By contrast
with al-Ghazali] Ibn Taymiyya did not commit errors in doctrine (al-‘aqida),
or in religion (al-din); and Ibn Taymiyya never made mistakes in the source
(al-asl) or [even] in the branches (al-fara‘) [of jurisprudence]. Rather, you will
find that he [Ibn Taymiyya] made tiny mistakes in the sub-branches of the sub-
branches (al-furu‘ min al-furu‘); and were we to follow his mistakes, this would
not damage our religion. …73 Come on brother (Ta‘l ya akhi), let us put all of
Ibn Taymiyya’s mistakes into a single one of al-Ghazali’s mistakes. Namely [the
latter’s claim] that, at the end of the Sufi’s journey (fi’l-salik al-sufi fi nihayyatuhu),
the Sufi hears the Speech (khitab) [of God] as Musa heard it.74 And this is only
the slightest of the mistakes committed by al-Ghazali.75
A great deal more could be said of al-Wakil’s criticisms of al-Ghazali in this

series of articles. The main points, however, have been now covered; and it is
time to consider his somewhat different polemic against al-Ghazali in Hadhihi
hiyya al-Sufiyya. In this text, al-Wakil accuses al-Ghazali of smuggling al-Hallaj’s
gnostic notions regarding ‘the oneness of existence’ (wahdat al-wujud) into Sunni
Islam and, therefore, of fundamentally corrupting later Muslims’ understanding
of tawhid.76 For al-Wakil, in their erroneous attitudes to tawhid, there is no
substantive difference between the approaches of al-Hallaj, al-Ghazali and
the thirteenth-century Andalusian scholar Ibn al-‘Arabi. Rather, in al-Wakil’s

reading, each figure represents a stage – a sort of ‘anti-station’! – in Sufism’s
trajectory away from God.
Al-Wakil notes how, in describing the four levels (arba‘at maratib) of tawhid,
al-Ghazali uses the human being as a metaphor: ‘The human being is many, if he
considers his soul, his body, his extremities, his veins, his bones, his intestines;
and yet, from another perspective (bi-i‘tibar akhar wa mushahadat ukhra), [the
human being is] one.’77 In al-Wakil’s view, this is a typical strategy for al-Ghazali,
who invariably masks his heresy through the use of beguiling imagery and
language. And he feels that al-Ghazali’s decision to speak of wahdat al-shuhud
(‘one-ness of witnessing’), rather than of the more controversial concept of
wahdat al-wujud (‘one-ness of being’) reflects a similar desire to dupe Muslims.78
But, al-Wakil retorts, Muslims must not be deceived by al-Ghazali’s tricks:
Do you not see that al-Ghazali [really] believes in the one-ness of existence? …
[After all] At the level of disbelief (kufr), both these myths (wahdat al-shuhud
and wahdat al-wujud) meet … both are Sufi innovations (bida‘ sufiyya). They
have different names, but the One with true vision (al-Basir) will not be fooled
by labeling honey as poison. Both of them [wahdat al-shuhud and wahdat
al-wujud] are, in reality, spotted venom (za‘f al- raqta’); it is merely that one of
them has been put in a vessel made of glass (fi ka’s min zujaj), while the other has
been put in a vessel made of gold (fi ka’s min dhahab)!! Al-Ghazali’s secret was
known as soon as he admitted to admiring the tawhid of al-Hallaj, and this alone
is enough to accuse al-Ghazali of being a follower of al-Hallaj (wa hadha wahda
kaf idanat al-Ghazali bi’l-Hallajiyya). And I know the truth of the matter!!79
After accusing al-Ghazali of covertly following al-Hallaj, al-Wakil begins a new

section entitled ‘My Opinion on al-Ghazali’ (ra’yi fi’l-Ghazali). Here he mentions
a number of authors who have influenced his opinion on this matter. Remarkably,
the majority of these authors are Western. Al-Wakil begins by congratulating
R. A. Nicholson, who ‘realizes the truth of al-Ghazali’, specifically that he is ‘the
spittle’ (nafth) that ‘carries the germs of Sufism’!80 By which he understands the
Cambridge professor to have meant that, were it not for al-Ghazali, the gates of
Islam would never have opened for ‘the Sufis of wahdat al-wujud, such as Ibn
al-‘Arabi’, to enter. Al-Wakil then turns (again) to Ignaz Goldziher, who, in his
view, correctly asserts that: ‘al-Ghazali helped Sufism out of its isolation and
prevented it from being separated from the official religion of Islam’. Finally,
Carl Heinrich Becker is described as similarly astute for spotting the connection
between al-Ghazali and ‘the spirit of Gnosticism’ (ruh al-ghunus), which would
have been rejected as an innovation but – because of al-Ghazali, who made

it seem ‘free of poison and acceptable to ahl al-sunna’ – eventually ‘spread
among all the groups at the heart of Islam’. In Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, al-Wakil
appeals to these three Orientalist scholars to defend his main accusation against
al-Ghazali: were it not for him, the Orientalists are shown to agree, Sufism would
never have been made palatable to Sunni Islam.
The remainder of al-Wakil’s attack on al-Ghazali in Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya
includes several memorable phrases and insults.81 His argument, however, rests
upon his absolute conviction – endorsed, in his mind, by these Orientalists –
that there is irrefutable evidence in al-Ghazali’s opinions on tawhid that he (like
al-Hallaj and Ibn al-‘Arabi) upholds a monistic and, therefore, fundamentally
heretical understanding of the nature of reality.
This section’s discussion of his arguments on zuhd and al-Ghazali has touched
on themes that are of central importance to al-Wakil’s criticisms of Sufism. We
note, in particular, how effectively he introduces oppositions into his attack.
Zuhd is contrasted with taqwa: the former emasculates Muslim men, while the
latter makes of them great warriors and productive family men; and al-Ghazali
is contrasted with Ibn Taymiyya: the former is described as a deceitful human
being and poor scholar, while the latter is remembered as a courageous and
much maligned genius. Indeed, this constant juxtaposition of people and ideas
that are either ‘correct’ or ‘in error’ characterizes much of his polemical writing;
it also reminds us of the revelation that allowed him as a youth to emerge from
his Sufi ‘cave’ in Tanta: ‘Before, through the magic of Sufism, he had mistaken
everything he had seen for its opposite. He had been convinced that polytheism
was monotheism, that disbelief was faith, and that pure spirituality was gross
materialism.’ It is through this strategy – via which, Sufi practices and/or ideas,
despite their traditional popularity, are described as achieving the polar opposite
of their declared aims – that al-Wakil is able to generate an alternative, Salafized
history of Islam, one that is uncorrupted by the Sufis and the members of other
deviant sects.
4 Conclusion
While his arguments doubtless reflect and incorporate aspects of both these
anti-Sufi discourses, we risk oversimplifying matters considerably by classifying
al-Wakil as either (just) a ‘Wahhabi’ (Pink) or (just) ‘a liberal intellectual’ (Knysh).
To my knowledge, al-Wakil does not refer to Muhammad ‘Abd al-Wahhab
(or any Wahhabi source) in his attacks on Sufis. Of course, by criticizing the
veneration of saints or the worshipping of graves – though these are not major
foci – his arguments certainly overlap with those of the Wahhabis (particularly
in their mutual debt to Ibn Taymiyya). Wahhabis do not punctuate their
arguments, however, with references to Ignaz Goldziher or R. A. Nicholson.82
Concomitantly, while al-Wakil would certainly have agreed with the country’s
liberal intellectuals (of the 1950s and 1960s) regarding the stupefying effects of
popular Sufism on the mind of the average Egyptian, these intellectuals would
have been very unlikely to lambast such a well-respected and moderate figure
as al-Ghazali.
Given the strength of his reputation and the strikingly personal nature of his
polemical writing, it makes sense that, with Ansar al-Sunna itself, we should treat
al-Wakil as a distinctively powerful voice among modern Egyptian critics of
Sufism. Let us conclude this chapter by briefly revisiting those aspects of his ideas
and arguments which resonate most strongly among contemporary Egyptian
Salafis; this will be followed by an even briefer consideration of those aspects
which do not. As noted, within Ansar al-Sunna circles, respect for al-Wakil’s
remarkable scholarship and courage is joined by an appreciation, first, for the
wisdom he gained as a young boy growing up in an environment contaminated
by Sufism and, second, for the enthusiasm with which he subsequently sought to
uproot all manifestations of Sufism in Egyptian society.
At a deeper level, it may also be said that al-Wakil’s fundamental perception
of Muslim history, and his resulting worldview, has grown increasingly popular
in contemporary Egyptian Salafism. Stripped to its basics, al-Wakil’s main
charge against the Sufis is that they are not (and have never been) true Muslims,
but that, to give the illusion of being Muslim, they have cunningly employed
magic and double-speak. They have even re-invented Muslim history, so as to
obfuscate the lessons of the Qur’an and Sunna and to glorify their own scholars
(simultaneously marginalizing great minds and sincere believers, such as Ibn
Taymiyya). Thanks to al-Wakil and his peers, so Ansar al-Sunna thinking goes,
Egyptian Salafis today have less to fear from Sufis than before. Interestingly,
contemporary Egyptian Salafis adopt very similar strategies to Wakil, in his
battle with the Sufis, to wage war against today’s ‘enemies of Islam’. This being the
case, the Egyptian media, its political liberals and even the Muslim Brotherhood
are all accused by Salafis of bewitching society and of abusing the good, though
credible nature of average Egyptians. And, just like al-Wakil, contemporary Salafi
preachers tirelessly exhort their audiences to wake up to the evils that are now
taking place in the country.
Al-Wakil’s call for Muslims to join together, so as to undo – or hammer

through – the spell that has been cast over them by heretical magicians claiming
to be Muslim is still potent. His Egyptian-ness is also potent. While Ansar
al-Sunna is often accused of betraying Egyptian tradition and culture (so as to
substitute the tradition and culture of Saudi Arabia), reading al-Wakil, one is
continually reminded that he is, first and foremost, an Egyptian.83 Indeed, so
much of his attack on Sufism is framed in terms of his own experiences that
we can never forget that al-Wakil was originally just a village boy. While often
strikingly idiosyncratic pieces of writing, his attacks on the shaykhs of Tanta
and on the concept of zuhd, in particular, must also be understood in light of
the long battle between Egypt’s jurists and Sufis regarding both the validity of
the practices of the Badawiyya, and of al-Sayyid al-Badawi’s own reputation as a
zahid.84 Finally al-Wakil’s Egyptian-ness comes to the fore through his colourful
descriptions of Egyptian life and in the frequent interruptions to his writing –
composed in a dense classical style – by words borrowed from the lower reaches
of Egypt’s colloquial dialect (‘amiyya misriyya).
Having spent this long exploring the still persuasive appeal of al-Wakil’s
arguments against Sufism and the Sufis, I wish to conclude this chapter, if only
to better situate the man in his own time, by commenting on two aspects of
al-Wakil’s thinking that would probably seem unusual within contemporary
Egyptian Salafi settings. The first of these ideas is directly connected to his work
on Sufism. We have seen how he not only cites, but also relies upon Western
(Orientalist) scholarship – the ideas of Goldziher, Nicholson and Becker85 – to
make his point against al-Ghazali. This is not to suggest that al-Wakil considers
these scholars to be his peers in the study of Islam. Indeed, he clearly thinks
of them as dangerous, and, in Hadhihi hiyya al-sufiyya, he vilifies the Sufis for
providing the Orientalists with such sordid material with which to mock Islam.86
However, the reader will also find a genuine (albeit grudging) respect for their
scholarship in al-Wakil’s work.87 By contrast, in my experience, contemporary
Egyptian Salafis do not consult Western scholarship on Islam, regardless of
whether or not they wish to disagree with it.88 Aware of the fact that al-Wakil
incorporates Orientalist research into his work, the authors of Ansar al-Sunna’s
festschrift to al-Wakil dedicate a chapter, entitled ‘Views of the Orientalists’
(Ara’ al-mustashriqin), to the contributions of Western scholarship on Islam.
Remarkably, they do not provide a single link to al-Wakil. Rather, the entire
chapter concerns the moral implications of the fact that, on many inconvenient
occasions, Orientalist scholars sometimes get matters right.89
While not directly related to his work on Sufism, al-Wakil’s attitude to Gamal
‘Abd al-Nasser (d. 1970) is nevertheless illuminating if we wish to compare the
realities of Egyptian Salafism in al-Wakil’s time with these realities today. In the
years leading up to the revolution in 2011, Egyptian Salafi settings were riven
with disagreements regarding the legitimacy of Hosni Mubarak’s Presidency.90
Many years before, in 1961, when the relationship between Salafis and Egypt’s
government was probably less complicated, al-Wakil dedicated something of a
paean to the virtues of Gamal ‘Abd al-Nasser.91 Congratulating him on showing
‘the kindness of a father’ and ‘the mercy of a brother’, al-Wakil pledges his
allegiance to Nasser in no uncertain manner. Nasser’s achievement, it seems, lay
in showing restraint towards those who had wronged him, and in not destroying
‘the evil, treacherous places (awkar al-khiyana)’ in which his enemies still lurked.
The exact reason behind al-Wakil’s letter is not clear (by 1961, there were plenty
of people in Egypt’s religious establishment who did not feel this way towards
Nasser). It is, of course, possible (even probable) that his words were not heartfelt
at all: we have already seen that al-Wakil felt the need for political protection.92
Regardless of his sincerity towards the political elites of his day, al-Wakil’s
approach to Nasser represents a quite different understanding of the nature of the
relationship between Muslim and political leader than the views I encountered
during my research. Only a few years ago, there were, of course, many Salafis
willing to defend Hosni Mubarak’s right to remain President. They tended,
however, to focus on his legal right to rule from the perspective of theological
principle (defended through the doctrine of la khuruj ‘ala al-hakim), rather than
upon his personal qualities, which were theologically irrelevant (and, in any case,
problematic).93 By contrast, the great Salafi polemicist, ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil
argues, in very straightforward terms, that Nasser is the right Muslim to rule
Egypt. Fast-forward fifty years and modern Egyptian Salafism knows nothing
of contemporary Orientalist scholarship. It has also lost all faith in the political
system.94 More positively, from the Salafis’ perspective, the Sufis no longer plague
the country – for which they thank al-Wakil and others like him.
58
3
Mapping Modern Turkish

Sufism and Anti-Sufism
Alberto Fabio Ambrosio
The Turkish Republic founded by Atatürk in 1923 is constituted at the deepest

level of identity by what official Turkish ideology, and then historians, have called
‘the six arrows’. Turkey was founded on the following principles: republicanism,
secularism, nationalism, populism and reformism, and statism. These principles
were fiercely defended politically by the new father of the nation, Mustafa Kemal
(b. 1938), and testify without doubt to the beginning of a new culture and a
new country that aimed to be independent of the past and of secular Ottoman
tradition. The history of the Turkish revolution has been written more than
once, and there is space here only to recall some fundamental moments in
the relationship between Sufism and anti-Sufi movements within the Turkish
experience.1 Even before addressing this question, it is necessary to refer to
the ideological underpinnings within which the anti-Sufi question is posed in
Turkey. This chapter aims therefore to evidence types of anti-Sufism within the
Turkish Republic and to identify exactly which movements explicitly oppose the
doctrinal teachings and practices of Sufism. This chapter also examines in some
detail how a particular group clearly opposes Sufism, one headed by Ercümend
Özkan and represented by the magazine İktibas, founded by him, as a prototype
of Turkish anti-Sufism.
Historiography and republican policy
In order to understand the subversive character of each action against Sufism

and its practice, it is indispensable to revisit the phases of the Republican policy
and that of the historiography of Sufism. The result will appear at best ambiguous
and ambivalent and will also permit an exploration of the types of Turkish anti-
Sufism. On the day after the creation of the Republic (preceded in 1922 by the
abolition of the Caliphate), Mustafa Kemal had to face the rebellion led by the
famous Shaykh Said, a Naqshbandi and Kurd, who demanded independence
and freedom.2 These pushes for independence were harshly repressed and
in 1925 led to the proclamation by the Great Assembly of Turkey of the law
suppressing all Sufi Orders, all Sufi practices and all denominations related to
individual Sufis (such as shaykh, murid, pir and so on). The speech in which
Mustafa Kemal pushed for voting in favour of such a law was symptomatic of a
mentality that had been in the making for several decades. In this parliamentary
communication, he considered all the Sufi, Sufi orders and masters to be on a par
with magicians and soothsayers in the country. With this first fundamental and
initial act, the Republic made Sufism illegal in its various secular organizational
forms, namely the Sufi Orders. This movement and anti-Sufi mentality did not
spring from nowhere, as it was already present with the advent of positivist ideas
among Ottoman intellectuals starting from the end of the nineteenth century.3
The accusation of Bektashi ‘illicit practices’, to cite one of several examples,
is the key to all Ottoman anti-Sufism, filled as it is by the positivism of the
Enlightenment. And yet the war of independence had seen the active participation
of Sufi Orders, and in particular of Bektashis and Mevlevis, which was followed
precisely only a few years before their closure. In the eyes of the founder of
the Turkish Nation, Sufism and in particular the Sufi Orders were perceived
with ambivalence. The Sufis and the Orders had supported independence and
its founder, but even so Atatürk suppressed them in the years following the
foundation of the Republic. The 1925 Law outlawed every Order and proclaimed
the closure and confiscation of all Sufi lodges within Turkish territory. No other
law could have been as drastic with regard to Sufism, given the enormous role
that Sufism had within the development of Ottoman culture. The potential for
subversion which these social groups represented allowed no exception to the
law of suppression. From 1925 onwards, a new phase began in which reactions
against the proclamation were put down with bloodshed. Until 1938, the year of
Mustafa Kemal’s death, the Sufis suffered severe persecution because the law was
scrupulously applied. This anti-Sufi violence did not stop Atatürk from allowing,
in at least two cases, the reopening of two architectural structures (Sufi shrines)
which housed the remains of two charismatic Sufis, those of Mevlana Celaleddin
Rumi (d. 1273) and Hacci Bektash.
In 1926 the convent and tomb of Rumi, at Konya, were re-opened to the public,
but only as a museum (Muze-i atiki), and this was followed a short while after
Mapping Modern Turkish Sufism and Anti-Sufism 61
by the opening of the Hacci Bektash complex. This ‘cultural move’, permitting
homage to be paid to Rumi and Hacci Bektas as two heroes of the Turkish
nation, was a strictly political one. In fact, with this act, positivist–materialist
anti-Sufism, the essential element of new revolutionary politics assisted in the
formation of a nationalist ideology that established some Sufis, including Rumi,
Hacci Bektash and Yunus Emre, as pillars of Turkish culture.
In this first Republican phase, which documented the repression of every
form of organized Sufism, a new Sufi culture was born that was more oriented
to the values of the nation. Between 1925 and 1948, studies related to Sufism on
the above Sufis were extremely rare. Often scholars and intellectuals themselves
would receive commissions on religious questions from the government itself.
Mehmet Fuat Köprülü (d. 1966) was certainly one of the first to work on the
historiography of Turkish Sufism, which was enlarged and revised in numerous
editions.4 Fuat Köprülü can be considered one of the official historiographers
of the nation, and his Turkish-centred vision of Anatolic Sufism confirms the
orientation towards the development of a Sufi historiography of a nationalist kind.
Of a similar academic calibre, but with slightly different interests was Hilmi Ziya
Ülken (d. 1974), who published two major works: one was a history of Turkish
thought, and the other a critical introduction to Turkish mysticism, in which he
tried to construct Turkish thought (basing himself on Sufi Turks, and including,
perhaps surprisingly, Arab authors as part of the Turkish intellectual heritage).5
A second historian who follows a somewhat nationalist line, even though he
has a slightly Shiʿite approach, is Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı (d. 1982), who dedicated
all his energy to understanding Ottoman Sufism, with a particular attention
to Rumi and the whirling dervishes. His work Mevlana’dan sonra Mevlevilik
(Mevlevis after Mevlana) remains even today an absolute standard for the study
and research of the history of the Sufi Order.6 Of the Melami, Caferi and Shiʿite
tradition, Gölpınarlı is one of the creators of Turkish nationalist Sufism. The
difficult question of the ethnic origin of Mevlana, Mevlana’dan sonra Mevlevilik is
illustrated by the fact that he is considered to be Turkish by the Turks and Iranian
by the Iranians. This illustrates nothing other than a superficial demonstration of
the orientation towards the creation of a Turkish Mevlana, even though Rumi’s
language is clearly Persian. Today, the question remains open in Turkey and
in the other countries that contend Rumi’s identity. This debate, which might
seem purely academic, is in fact a clear sign of an interpretation and probably a
reinterpretation of Ottoman Sufi history in a nationalist key. There is a theory that
regards the creation of the figure of Yunus Emre as a hero of the nation that also
confirms this political interference in the nascent republican historiography.
In this first period of historiography, we also note the emergence of a link

between religious culture with older religious roots: Shamanism in particular.7
These elements of popular Shamanism, certainly real, were useful for Sufi
historiography to demonstrate that Turkish Islam, influenced by Sufism, also
had other roots. Turkish nationalism also took advantage of this in remodelling
itself on religious cultural roots that diverged from those of ‘pure’ Arab Islam.
These various roots, imagined or real, have led to the idea of a ‘purely’ Turkish
Islam, where the Shamanic and Sufi elements are of primary importance.
With the arrival of the Democratic Party in power, already in 1948, an
experience which ended with a coup d’état in the 1960s, Islam managed to
regain ground that had seemed lost forever. The Democratic Party, with liberal
tendencies, allied itself to the religious question by embracing Islam. In this phase,
the study of Islam in its Arab and Persian roots, and certainly studies on Ottoman
and Turkish Sufism, began to see light. Even a quick analysis of the number
of Turkish or Arab Sufi works published or translated in this period following
political liberalization reveals a growing interest for the subject. However, the
spectre of secularist politics and politics that penalized any attempt to reorganize
associations still had an effect, albeit uneven. (After their suppression, the
Sufi Orders had been able to flourish again as cultural associations.) The fear
of repression of every activity was certainly permanent until the Justice and
Development Party (AK Partisi) introduced a new political path.8
From the 1950s until the end of the 1990s, the positions relating to Sufism
were consolidated. On the one hand, intransigent secularism denied any
possibility of social visibility, and on the other, the affiliation to diverse groups
and new communities (cemaat) led to a dialogue that was sometimes bitter on
both sides. The result in chronological terms of this discussion was the so-called
post-modern coup d’état of 28 February 1997, which reduced the economic
power of every organization of an Islamic nature, including Sufi groups, which
were considered too influential in terms of their social and political impact. The
government proceeded to stop the economical growth of private and Islamic-
oriented companies. This bloodless coup d’état did not stop the Islamic forces
of the country from reorganizing and grouping together to sustain another new
phase of activity by the current majority party, the Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi
(AKP). It is not possible to detail the contemporary composition of the Islamic
world in Turkey, which is a highly fragmented one. However, the Sufi element
that supports a discourse in favour of associationism linked to the Sufi tradition
is very important for concrete political ends. The 2000s, without a shadow of
doubt, brought in a new era of religious and cultural politics based on Islam,
Ottoman culture and thus also Sufi roots.
In this political and social context there has been an immeasurable growth in
studies, research and cultural events related to Ottoman Sufi culture and the first
Republic. As far as the passion for the so-called whirling dervishes, I have heard
from a fellow researcher about a new fashion for Mevlevism within Republican
circles to increase the promotion of anything that helps to spread Rumiʼs
mystical poetry and dervish culture. The prospective is thus exactly the opposite
of what happened during the first phase of the Republic, where a Nationalist
Sufi ideology was flanked by persecution. In the last phase of the current period
there is a tenuous suspicion of the Orders and the new movements (cemaat)
that oppose the revival of Ottoman and Turkish Sufi culture and its growing
diffusion.
The official political line now is to publicly support any initiative linked to
Sufism, even though the Sufi Orders are still officially banned from society.
During the last months in the Republican space, people are beginning to pose
the question of reopening the Sufi lodges. The 1925 law, which was fundamental
for the new historical path of Republican Anatolia, is likely to be completely
turned around.
Even if the Diyanet (the Ministry of Religious Affairs) has been unable to take
a clear position on how to comprehend Sufism over the last few decades, today’s
line is based not only on trying to give Sufism a ‘true’ Islamic interpretation
and thus real legitimacy, but also on the essential role this has played in the
Islamization of Turkish culture.9
In the Turkish Republic, Sufism in its doctrinal and historical elements
appears an essential element in the ideal construction of the nationalist Turkish
religion. In this context, which is apparently well disposed towards Sufism and
the tradition of Sufi orders, one of the accusations made is that it gives an image
of being a reactionary element of society. This representation is constructed
precisely by the same national identity created and desired by the Republic of
Turkey.
The first kind of anti-Sufism is of a non-religious nature and is founded
on nationalist, political and ideological motivations, as well as ultimately on a
positivist philosophy, already in place at the end of the Ottoman Empire. What
was, in other Muslim contexts, carried out by Wahhabism and Salafism, in
Turkey, almost in a provocation, was caused by nationalist ideology of a positivist
nature: that is, the suppression of the Sufi Orders, the closure and confiscation
of all Sufi lodges, tombs and shrines and the total ban on using terminology
related to ranks of religious authority (shaykhs, disciples, murid, etc.). It is this
wave of hostility to the Sufi orders that has led in the twentieth century to the
formation of a new group or association linked to Sufism. The movements born
from Said Nursi, Nurcu or Fethullahçı (examples of this new turn of events)
avoid ideological hostility with a new way of organizing themselves.10
Alongside anti-Sufi ideology typically sits an ideology that is anti-Islamic.
Upon the emergence of legitimacy of Sufism as an element of the Turkish religious
character, although this has always sat alongside an ideological diffidence that
borders on anti-Sufi, there is also space for a typically religious and Islamic line
of conflictuality in relation to this spiritual tradition.
An enemy of Sufism in Turkey?
Ruşen Çakır published his book Ayet ve Slogan (Verse and Slogan) in 1990,11 and
this work remains for many a piece of research that has not been superseded,
because it covers fundamental themes and issues. He can be accredited with
having provided a rather detailed description of Islamic groups in modern
Turkey, as well as the Sufi orders that are still active. Ruşen Çakır seems to be
one of the few people to focus on a strong persona of the second half of the
twentieth century. The title of the present section of this chapter, ‘an enemy of
Sufism’, is inspired by the title of a section of his book that relates to Ercümend
Özkan (Bir tasavvuf düşmanı: Ercümend Özkan),12 who is significantly hostile
to Sufi practices. It is interesting to observe that few people have written of this
movement and its leader, and even fewer in international circles. And this is
despite the fact that Ercümend Özkan, and above all, his magazine, continue
to be widely known in Turkey. This absence is perhaps a further indicator of
what has been said previously. The official line, or the ideologically official line by
which Sufism is an essential element in Turkish religiosity, finds in this author an
important obstacle.
Ercümend Özkan was born on 23 January 1938 in the area of Mucur in
the province of Kırşehir. His father, Ali Bey, was an employee of the Post and
Telecommunications Office, and head of the Telegraph Department. After
primary school in Mucur, he continued his studies at the boys’ secondary
school in Kayseri. During the last year of school, he moved with the family to
the provincial capital, Kırşehir. Versed in literature at only twenty-two years of
age, in 1960 he founded the Information Agency, Basın Haber Ajansı (a press
agency). This step was fundamental in his professional career because from that
moment his mission became that of a writer. During the coup d’état of 1960, he
was a law student at the Law faculty in the University of Ankara. After these
events, he was sent as a teacher to the Military Academy of Uşak and later also
to other schools. University life was important for Özkan because he met there
Muslim friends as well as his future wife. In 1963, Özkan married Mukaddes
Taner, a Turkish language student of the Faculty of Languages and Literature at
the University of Ankara.
In the 1960s a fundamental change occurred when he met the Hizbʾüt Tahrir
Group, to which he adhered from an ideological viewpoint. His membership
of this group and its Islamist propaganda led to his imprisonment on several
occasions. He was first jailed in 1967, and for four years he was sent to the high-
security prison in Ankara. He also spent time in jail in other cities in Anatolia,
for example between 1967 and 1968, after supporting students demonstrating
in favour of the veil, which caused him further problems during his trial. After
the first years of imprisonment he created the first information group, and
then in 1974 he established the press office ‘Interpress’, based in Istanbul. He
began to write regularly on Qurʾanic subjects and its traditional interpretation,
claiming that there were only two sources of revelation (the Qurʾan and Hadith).
He moved thus towards a purist perspective, which tends to exclude any other
type of interpretation that might be dynamic or evolve in a more traditional
understanding of the Canonic law schools. According to his reading of the
Qurʾan, Sufism is furthest from true Islam, from the true religion. Between 1974
and 1976, Ercümend met some important figures in the Turkish intellectual
Muslim world, including İsmail Kazdal, Hamza Türkmen and the sociologist Ali
Bulaç. The first published a work in which he introduced the ideas of the great
figures of Salafi Muslim reform (including Mawdudi, al-Banna and Qutb). The
second also worked to spread traditional Islamic thought. As for Ali Bulaç, still
a notable figure today, he is a sociologist who works on understanding Islam in
contemporary society from a traditional perspective. He has been criticized for
his anti-democratic and anti-Republican positions, and some consider him one
of the thinkers wishing to establish a more Islamic-oriented state.
Among the other personalities involved in spreading radical Islamic thought,
and resulting in a report which was turned into one of his books, Özkan met
two other authors, A. Burak Bircan and M. Kürşad Atalar, who translated several
Western authors from different fields, from economics to Turkish literature.
The turning point for Ercümend Özkan came in 1981, with the creation of the
magazine İktibas dergisi. From January 1981 until the present, this twice-monthly
review has been published without interruption. The year after the introduction
of the review, Özkan was put under house arrest to await a new trial, which was
resolved in his favour. In the same year, together with other personalities of the
Turkish Muslim world (e.g. M. Said Hatipoğlu, Süleyman Aslantaş, Esat Coşan,
Cengiz Çandar, Abdurrahman Dilipak and İhsan Süreyya Sırma), he travelled to
Iran, a country which offered inspiration for the establishment of a new political
course in Turkey. Each of these people left an important mark in reflections
related to reformed Islam in Turkey. From the account of his trip, it is possible
to read the disappointments felt on that journey due to the lack of attention and
the absence of translation for these Turkish VIPs.
In 1985, Özkan was under house arrest again, and after his trial was sen
tenced to maximum surveillance for three months of the year, over a period
of six years. As the editor of the review, Ercümend managed to convert the
sentence to a fine, and freed himself from this additional punishment. In that
year, the review reached the landmark of having published hundred issues. Two
years later, in 1987, Özkan suffered slight paralysis, forcing him to undergo
rehabilitation. For this reason, the review was held up, and for two years the
publication was suspended. In 1988, Özkan published the first of two volumes,
İnanmak ve Yaşamak (Believing and Living), for the publishing house Yöneliş,
and afterwards published with Anlam Yayınları (or Anlam Basın Yayınları).
This publishing house is also the printing house of the İktibas Journal.13 In 1990,
he had a heart attack, which did not stop him continuing his work in Turkey
and abroad. In 1992, he took the initiative with Ömer Yorulmaz and Yılmaz
Yalçıner to found a political party, even though he had always rejected the idea
of a political formation representing Islam. In 1991, a second heart attack forced
him to undergo a long period in hospital, which was repeated in 1994. He died on
24 January 1995, during a trip to Adana where he was to speak at a conference.
Özkan, the Liberation Party and the salvation of Islam
In Turkey, Ercümend Özkan was one of the men to introduce the ideas and the
movement of the Hizb’üt Tahrir, the Liberation Party, regarded by many in the
West as a terrorist party.14 In the 1960s, during his years of study in the Technical
University of the Middle East in Ankara (Orta-Dogu Teknik Üniversitesi), he
associated with students of Jordanian origin who spread the movement with
its subversive and anti-semitic ideas. Hizb’üt Tahrir was founded in 1953 in
Jerusalem as an organ to spread Pan-Islamic Sunni ideas, inspired by Taquiddin
al-Nabhani. In a few decades, the Liberation Party was formed in more than forty
countries, including both Muslim and Western nations. They supported a return
to the caliphate, and the creation of an Islamic state without the use of violence,
where both Muslims and subjects belonging to other religions could find a
place. The Liberation Party invited (dawa’) all the believers of other religions to
convert, guaranteeing them however, the control and security afforded in the
time of the Prophet. The use of violence for violence’s sake is condemned, and
even in the decades before the attacks of 9/11 and those after, the spokesmen of
the group have been able to condemn these tragic events. The group is, in fact,
in favour of violence, but not ‘now’. Every member of the Party should be ready
for jihad, to attack other fighters but not civilians. Anti-Zionism is another basic
element of their preaching, although an anti-Semite position is not so explicit.
These ideas could not leave Özkan indifferent while defending positions of
return to a classical Islam, pure in its forms, even in a contemporary world. As
he encountered members of this organization in the 1960s, Ercümend Özkan
claimed an affiliation to the Liberation Party in 1967, and for this reason, he was
jailed several times until the 1970s. From that time, Özkan denied his militant
support for the Party and cut any direct implication with the group. Although
his direct collaborators, Yılmaz Çelik and Süleyman Arslantaş, were involved
in successive militant activity, Özkan definitively distanced himself from the
group. Çelik was in charge of leading a group of young people who supported
the Palestinian cause, while Arslantaş took part in an important conference
in London in 1993 on the caliphate, organized by the Liberation Party, taking
positions against the European mode of considering Muslim countries and their
policy makers in particular against English business practices within Islamic
countries.
In his memoirs, reported in the form of interviews, Özkan recalled expressly
how he was approached by a young Jordanian, a student of the University of
Ankara, and how he got involved in militant activity with this group. The same
Özkan affirmed, on the other hand, that at the time he did not know Arabic, and
thus even the communication with this group was by no means easy. The fact
that he could muster his forces for this cause, and that they had made him feel
that he was the leader (reis) of this group in the whole of Turkey, pleased him
to such an extent that he allowed himself to be entangled in an affair, the full
consequences of which he was probably unable to imagine.
In his thoughts, Özkan promoted an independent Islam. Until the years before
his death, he refused to belong to a party and even criticized certain forms of
politicized Islam, although he recognized the political effort made in favour of
Islam. His criticism of democracy and of the separation of religion and politics
leave no doubt that in some sense, his way of thinking made him unpopular
to many. He became the symbol of anti-democracy and anti-liberalism and,
finally, as a corollary that directly interests us, a fortress against Sufism. Özkan
sat therefore within a movement that has dominated Arab Muslim countries
for some time. In Turkey this movement has always existed, although in a lesser
form.
Tasavvuf ve Islam: A message in a Sufi context
In his book (published for the first time in 1993 and re-edited more than once,
and which contains his articles and those of others)15 Özkan explicitly shows
his anti-Sufi persuasions. The author explicitly affirms the difference between
Sufism and Islam with the first article of the book, as it is entitled ‘Sufism or a
separate religion’.16 All of his thought is included in only the first few pages of this
chapter. His contribution can be considered programmatic and continuous, and
affirms that Sufism was not born with the Prophet of Islam and even less with
the latter’s first companions. Although academics and experts of the material
date the emergence of Sufism between the eighth and ninth centuries, in reality,
argues Özkan, this was not the case. This is because Sufism was neither born
in that period nor linked directly either to the Qurʾan or to the Prophet’s life.
The first break with Prophetic tradition (Sunna) is the taking of refuge in the
historical falsehood that has been perpetuated by Sufism’s supporters. And
Özkan stated this clearly:
Even though we can identify elements in the practice of the Prophet’s companions
which remind us of Sufim, notwithstanding the Prophet’s efforts to hinder these
tendencies, we note that Sufism has nothing to do with Islam.17
If then, some of his companions, prolonged prayer, fasting and other practices,
the Prophet himself reproached them to remind them that the message he had
received had not required him to do more that what he actually practised. The
model of the Prophet remains then absolute and nothing can be added or taken
away. It is interesting to note that immediately in this chapter (as in the rest of
the book, and as is common in all of Özkanʼs writings) direct reference to the
Hadith is limited, whereas the Qurʾan is always quoted in Turkish. His mission
seems to have a more and more dialectic slant, almost philosophical. In fact,
after recalling the falsehood of the historical thesis that Sufism could be as old
as Islam, he reaches a central issue: Sufism cannot be Islam, because the latter
professes that there is no god but God, while Sufism proclaims that there is no
being without God. If this axiom is true, typified in the case of the doctrine
of the unity of existence (wahdat al-wujud), it is absolutely not so for all the
historical movements in the history of Sufism.18
With this claim, Özkan underlines an important dialectic point. The ‘enemy
of Sufism’ continues, referring to the Fusus al-Hikam of Ibn ʿArabi, where it
is stated that there is only one being, with no difference between Creator and
created, because the creature is none other than a simple manifestation of Being;
just like Pharaoh, who is nothing but a simple manifestation of the divine.
Özkan asks how such a doctrine can be admitted when it is clearly and
manifestly different from the Islamic profession of faith. Sufism is thus another
religion (din), founded on a different affirmation of faith. Özkan lists his reasons
for this and states that the profession of faith is precisely different and founded
on diametrically opposed principles. For Islam, God is the Creator with no
equals, is eternal, nothing existed before Him and nothing will exist after Him,
and the creation and the creatures are in no way similar to him. The metaphysical
difference is absolute. He claims that in Sufism, the created being and God are
a sole existence, the Creator and creatures can be identified in a single being.
Özkan continues in his metaphysical critique of the concept of Being and of
how this is fundamentally different in Islam and in Sufism; there is no analogy or
similarity and even less an unicity of Being between the divine and the created,
whereas according to Sufis the being of One and the other achieve unity.
According to Özkan, this doctrinal framework is the evident fruit of Platonic
influence and neo-Platonic philosophy on Anatolian religiosity. The Sufis
and the theoreticians of Sufism have thus derived this theory of the unity of
existence from these philosophies, which widened the gap with ‘original’ Islam.
He claimed that the birth of Sufism was due to the proximity of Muslims to
Christians who advised the Islamic faithful to retire to a convent to pray.
From that moment, the Sufi convents (tekke, zaviye) appeared, whereas these
institutions and the practices carried out within them were completely foreign to
the Islamic revelation. All the practices and rites that Sufism transmits, cultivates
and encourages are in fact due to the direct and explicit influence of Christians
present in the region – and in particular, in what is now Jordan.19
Even the practice of celibacy and chastity, frequent among Buddhist and
Christian monks, is never encouraged in the Qurʾan. On the contrary, the right to
practice sexuality is explicitly written as founding moral principles of Islam. For

Özkan, there is therefore a return to the traditional vision of Islam’s moral code
which opposes the (Christian) monastic life,20 which has been inopportunely
and illegitimately accepted into the heart of Sufism.21
Conclusion: Rationalist Turkish anti-Sufism
Turkish anti-Sufism is more rationalistic than religious. In fact, Kemalist anti-

Sufism was influenced mainly by positivistic enlightenment thought grounded
in a radical rationalism. Özkan’s anti-Sufism is also the result of a rationalist way
of thinking and interpretation of Islam. Turkish anti-Sufism seems to be more
influenced by Enlightenment rationality, or the rational interpretation of Islam.
This conclusion explains also why Salafi critics are not always welcome in the
Islamic Turkish system. The Turkish character is more oriented to a rationalistic
perception of religious reality or, at the opposite, to a mystical practice of the
Islam. This could represent a way of answering the presence of both positions
at the same time in the Republican era: Sufism and anti-Sufim. Özkan has given
voice to one form of anti-Sufism, which is religious and rationalistic, in a country
where the Sufi Orders were banned, but at the same time where Rumi and other
Sufi heroes represented the case for a religious policy. This mix of reason in
favour and against Sufism is also the real enemy of the practice of Sufism along
the Ottoman and Turkish Republic history.
4
The Shrines of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani

in Baghdad and his Son in ʿAqra: Current
Challenges in Facing Salafism
Noorah Al-Gailani
Introduction
Since the invasion of Iraq in 2003, the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani
(1077–1166) in Baghdad has witnessed the upheaval of society. As a Sufi place of
worship it has faced the dual challenges of rising sectarianism and the threats of
modern Salafism. At the same time in the Kurdish region of Iraq, in the city of
ʿAqra, the Qadiri takkia and Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz ibn ʿAbd al-Qadir
al-Jilani (1133–1206) has experienced the same. The interconnectedness of these
two shrines, both belonging to the same religious endowments trust, has helped
them steer their way through these unprecedented times.1
Jihadi Salafist agitation
On the afternoon of Monday 28 May 2007 the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir
al-Jilani,2 the patron saint of the Qadiriyya3 Sufi Order, received a direct hit – a
huge car-bomb explosion – by its outer fence at the junction of Sharʿi al-Gailani
and Sharʿi al-Kiffah.4 According to media reports at the time, the bomb was
thought to have been the work of either a local al-Qa’ida-affiliated organization
known as al-Qa’ida in Mesopotamia, or a similar Sunni Arab salafi takfiri group
operating in Iraq. The bomb killed twenty-four passers-by and injured sixty-
eight; some later reports noted that the injuries rose to ninety. The bomb caused
serious damage to the recently built outer minaret of the Shrine, which is situated
at the corner of the site and the junction of the two streets. The bomb also caused
the Shrine’s windows to shatter and damaged the historical carved doors leading
into Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s burial chamber.5
The news coverage, both national and international, puzzled about the
motives behind such an attack, and quoted the condemnations issued by the
political establishment in Baghdad. Locals’ reactions were recorded too, and
included questions by devastated lovers of the Shrine, who tearfully wondered:
‘why would they target our Sheikh ʿAbdul-Qadir?’6 The senior imam of the
Shrine was interviewed over the phone, and he condemned the act, stating that
all ‘the takfiri terrorists’ have achieved is disrupting the Shrine’s charitable works
and denying widows and orphans and the poor from benefiting from its soup
kitchen.7 The newspapers also recorded protest announcements from President
Jalal Talabani, his two deputies and Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki, with the
latter ordering that the damage be repaired immediately at the government’s
expense and the security provision for the Shrine be increased.8 Sufi groups
such as the Kurdish Qadiri Kasnazaniyya Sufi Order also issued condemnations,
which they published in their periodical Al-Kasnazan.9 But despite the general
reaction of outrage at the act, no militant group, Salafist or otherwise, officially
claimed to have carried out the attack, nor was any justification for it put
forward.
Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s resting place
But before going any further in describing recent observations of how this shrine
is facing the challenges and threats of rising Salafism in Iraq, let me introduce it
to you. The site is that of the late-eleventh-century Hanbali theological school
built for Abu Saʿid al-Mubarak al-Mukhrimi (1054–1119), who was a theologian
and the judge of the Bab al-Azaj district in Baghdad, where the school lies.
Al-Mukharimi was the tutor of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani, from whom he
also received his Sufi khirqa – mantle or cloak.10 In 1128 the school was offered
to Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir to run and teach in. It became his base in Baghdad, and
subsequently his resting place upon his death in 1166, when he was buried in
its riwaq (portico). After his death, his son ʿAbd al-Wahhab (d. 1196) succeeded
to the position, and beyond that several others of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s
descendants were associated with it – though, for a short time, responsibility
for the school passed to their rival, the famous Hanbali jurist and historian Ibn
al-Jawzi (d. 1200). This madrasa and its ribat-complex subsequently evolved into
the Shrine we know today.11
The Shrines of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani in Baghdad and his Son in ʿAqra 73
The Shrine and Mosque of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani is situated on the
east side of the river Tigris, within the walls of the old city of Baghdad. The
neighbourhood that surrounds it, historically known as Bab al-Azaj, is today
known as Bab al-Shaykh, after him and his shrine. The multi-domed shrine
complex comprises of the main burial chamber of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, the
burial chambers of two of his sons – ʿAbd al-Jabbar and Salih – and several
other of his descendants. There are five prayer halls, two large accommodation
quarters for Sufi lodgers and pilgrims, reception rooms, two kitchens (one of
which serves daily the famous rice-and-lamb soup of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir), a
sheep-pen, various facilities for ablutions, the administrative offices of al-Awqaf
al-Qadiriyya (the endowments of the Shrine), a funerary parlour, Gailani family
burial chambers and a walled graveyard. But that is not all; there are also the
all-important three minarets, a clock tower and a public library that boasts
some 86,000 printed volumes – excluding the periodicals and publications in
foreign languages – and some 2,500 Arabic manuscripts, covering every field of
knowledge.
The Shrine’s users are from a variety of backgrounds. Local Shiʿa women are the
most frequent on a daily basis; Sunnis, Sufi and non-Sufi, from all over Baghdad
and other parts of the country; rich and poor; professionals, skilled and unskilled;
and people of various political persuasions. Foreigners visiting the Shrine
include a substantial majority of Asian Qadiris from the Indian subcontinent
(India, Pakistan and Bangladesh), South East Asia, South Africa and from the
United Kingdom.12 Their background varies too, from villagers to government
ministers, and includes businessmen, professionals and Sufis. The Shrine has
a local Qadiri Sufi circle – al-Halaqa al-Qadiriyya – which conducts its public
dhikr on Friday afternoons. The mosque part of the Shrine also offers the five
daily prayers and the Friday prayers and sermon. The soup kitchen feeds the
locals on a daily basis – both the poor and those seeking baraka (blessings)
through eating Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s soup.
The Shrine complex is managed by the custodians of al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya
fi al-ʿIraq, the Qadiri endowments in Iraq.13 They head a large staffing structure
that consists of some eighty-four permanent paid staff and a fluctuating number
of casual workers. The permanent staff includes the main shrine’s caretaking
team, the soup kitchen team, the library team and the administrative team. The
latter cares for the endowments that consist of agricultural land, commercial
buildings and various other assets. Three imams are appointed to the Shrine
by Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni, the governmental department responsible for
overseeing Sunni religious affairs and endowments.14 Also, since the invasion
of 2003, the Shrine has been allocated an armed security force by the central
government.
The custodians of the Shrine have traditionally been descendants of Shaykh
ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons, ʿAbd al-Razzaq and ʿAbd al-ʿAziz; and since the first half
of the nineteenth century, exclusively of ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s line. At some point in
their history, the Gailani family of Baghdad became Hanafis, probably under
Ottoman influence. From 1534, the Ottomans bestowed upon them the Niqabat
al-Ashraf of Baghdad – the marshalling or superintendence of those who claim
to be descendants of Prophet Muhammad.15 The Niqabat al-Ashraf of Baghdad
remained with the descendants of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir in Baghdad until its
relegation to history in 1960, when the head of the newly established republican
government refused to approve the appointment of a successor to the last Naqib
upon his death.16 The then president, ʿAbd al-Karim Qasim, is said to have stated
that there was no need for such a religious post, as all Iraqis are Ashraf.17 But the
most probable reason for this snub is the flowering of nationalist and Marxist
ideals that began to grow in the 1920s and flourished during the early republican
period.18
Despite the marginalization of the Shrine’s role in religious public life in
subsequent decades, Saddam Hussein took an interest in it in the 1990s, after
visiting under disguise one evening in 1993 and finding the place overcrowded.
Orders were issued to the architectural office at the Presidential Palace to expand
the Shrine complex, without prior consultation with the custodians of the
Shrine.19 The footprint of the Shrine increased more than fourfold and included
the construction of the new minaret that was targeted in the 2007 bombing.
According to the staff, this interest in the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir seems
to have existed since at least the early 1990s, with several accounts of Saddam
Hussein being spotted visiting the Shrine disguised as a taxi driver and dressed
in Arab tribesman’s garb, or in the company of look-alikes. Except for one
encounter in 1991, Saddam Hussein seems not to have revealed his identity to
staff while at the Shrine.20
However it is worth noting that this interest in patronizing the Shrine’s
expansion came at a time when Saddam and the Baʿth Party-led government
had set up their Faith Campaign: al-Hamla al-Imaniyya.21 This was launched
in 1993 and was overseen by Vice-President Izzat Ibrahim al-Duri, who had
also become the political patron of some of the Sufi groups in Iraq, the Qadiri-
Kasnazaniyya and the Naqshbandiyya in particular.22 The Baʿth regime’s interest
in manipulating religion is beyond the scope of this paper, but it must be noted
that the regime’s u-turn on secularism during the 1980s served several of its
agendas, one of which was to face and counteract the rise of Salafism in Iraq.23
This u-turn on behalf of the regime, and Saddam’s unwelcome attention towards
the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani, has had a detrimental effect on both
Sufism in general and the Shrine in particular. As regards Sufism, its association
with the Baʿth Party, through Izzat Ibrahim’s patronage, led to its being dismissed
for having compromised its spiritual integrity, while Saddam’s patronage of the
Shrine led to the loss of a whole section of its historic architecture to make way
for the expansion of the site.24
For fear of the wrath of the totalitarian regime, the custodians found
themselves unable to oppose the government’s continued interference and its
consequences, both on the fabric of the historical buildings of the Shrine and
on the employment of its imams, which became the exclusive privilege of the
government.25 The implications of having imams chosen and paid for by the
central government opened the door for candidates whose loyalties – both
religious and political – and the reasons for nominating them lay elsewhere. This
trend eventually led in 2004 to the appointment of an imam with strong Salafist
beliefs and sympathies.26
Facing Salafism on a daily basis
Returning to the May 2007 car-bomb attack on the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd
al-Qadir, this bombing came as part of the latest episode of upheaval in Iraq’s
history, and at a time of reorientation in Iraqi politics along sectarian grounds,
following the fall of the country in the 2003 invasion and the start of a new
struggle for power and dominance in post-Saddam Iraq. Although the Shrine’s
custodians are, and have been since the 1920s, traditionally apolitical, and have
long lost their religious leadership position within the Sunni sect in Baghdad,
the Shrine and its resident – Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani – is still seen as
a Sunni bastion of faith, and one of Iraq’s symbols of non-Salafist traditional
Hanafi Islam.
In the absence of police investigation results concerning the 2007 bombing,
conversations with staff and members of the Gailani family revealed a number of
speculative explanations for the reasons behind the bombing. One explanation
was that the bombing was a warning to the Shrine’s staff for having exposed
to the authorities a stash of weapons and explosives that had been secretly
stored in the adjacent Qadiriyya School. This theological high school is run
by the governmental department of Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni as a preparatory
school for those wishing to study Islamic law and jurisprudence at university
level. Fearing that the explosives might endanger the Shrine, the police were
alerted to the presence of the stash. However, reviewing the news coverage for
references to the story of the explosives at this school reveals that the incident –
or a similar one – had happened a year earlier, in May 2006. As no insurgent
group had claimed ownership of this stash of arms, coupled with no declared
results for the authority’s investigation into the 2007 incident, it is not possible
to independently verify the claims of association between them.
As for the explanation behind the school’s name, al-Madrasa al-Qadiriyya,
the original school of this name was once an integral part of the Shrine of Shaykh
ʿAbd al-Qadir, where the custodians employed leading religious tutors and
theologians to teach Qurʾan recitation and interpretation, Prophet Muhammad’s
traditions and sayings, jurisprudence and Sufism.27 But with the nationalization
of private educational institutions in the 1970s, this school was taken over by
the then Ministry of Endowments and Religious Affairs.28 With this change the
Qadiriyya School lost all association with the Shrine and with Sufism.29 The
current building for this school was constructed during the final years of the
Baʿth regime, as part of the development of the area, which was partly prompted
by the decision to expand the Shrine. The school was completed after 2003.30
But the effects of Salafism on the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir are not
limited to the 2007 bomb attack alone. Field research and interviews with the
custodians of the Shrine and a number of personalities associated with it over
the four-year period between November 2009 and February 2013 revealed the
Shrine’s entanglement in a dual struggle to resist two types of extremism that
have dominated the country since the 2003 invasion. On the one hand is the
sweeping wave of Sunni Salafist Islam that is indifferent, if not hostile, to Sufism
and its symbols in the country; on the other hand is the rise in Sunni/Shiʿi
sectarianism in Baghdad in general and in Bab al-Shaykh and neighbouring
districts in particular.
With regard to facing Sunni extremism – be it labelled by ordinary people
in Baghdad as Salafist, Wahhabist, Takfiri or Muslim Brotherhood-style
fundamentalism – the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir seems to have started dealing
with this extremism, even though at a much subtler level, in the decades prior to
2003. Books published by the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir in the 1970s and
1980s that deal with its history and its founder’s life and works contain apologetic
sections defending the permissibility, from the Islamic shariʿa perspective, of
honouring saintly figures such as Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, and pointing out the
duty of, and merits of, visiting the places associated with them.31
On speaking to two religious figures at the Shrine, the local Shaykh of the
Qadiriyya dhikr circle and the resident Qurʾanic studies tutor, about how they
saw the criticisms thrown at them by anti-Sufis regarding their practices and
beliefs, well thought and rehearsed answers were given. These answers used the
same theological and historical sources that had been quoted at them by their
adversaries – principally the Qurʾan, the prophetic Hadith collections and the
early history of Islam. The use of these sources will be explored in detail below,
but it is worth noting at this point that neither of the two figures mentioned here
was tempted to use polemical material or counter attacks that discredited their
adversaries outright as part of their response to the criticisms levelled against
their Sufi beliefs and practices. They also seemed to have found no benefit in
using other theological material in their defence, such as the pro-Sufism works
by Abu Hamid al-Ghazali. Nor were they tempted to try to reinterpret, in a
favourable manner, Ibn Taymiyya’s views regarding their practices, as other
defenders of Sufism have done.
In defence of Sufi practices
First, let us consider Shaykh al-Halaqa al-Qadiriyya – the Shaykh of the

Qadiriyya dhikr circle – who has a BA in fiqh (jurisprudence) from the then
Kuliat al-Shariʿa (College of Shariʿa) at the University of Baghdad (subsequently
renamed Kuliat al-ʿUlum al-Islamiyya – the College of Islamic Sciences). In
1985 he succeeded his father as the head of the dhikr circle at the Shrine. In
refuting the Salafist accusations against his Sufi practices, Shaykh al-Halaqa first
acknowledged that some criticisms were fair, especially those concerning wrong
practices within Sufism that stem from ignorance among some Sufis. He then
stated that in life ahl al-jahal (the people of ignorance) overshadow ahl al-haqiqa
(the people of the truth).32 He explained that in his experience not all those who
were attracted to Sufism and wished to join a Sufi Order had come for the right
reasons. When a seeker approaches his circle to join it, the Shaykh tells him that
if he has come for the tambourine – to enjoy the chanting and the accompanying
beating rhythms – this was not the place for him, but if he has come seeking
la illah illa Allah (There is no God but Allah) this is the right place for him.
But Shaykh al-Halaqa vehemently defended the legitimacy of holding halaqat
al-dhikr (remembrance circles or gatherings) and the use of tambourines, which
are the only instruments they use in his circle, and which he considered to be the
closest of instruments to Prophet Muhammad – though he did not qualify this
understanding with a prophetic tradition. However, Shaykh al-Halaqa quoted

three Qurʾanic33 verses to illustrate the argument that dhikr was requested by
God (the specific phrases he emphasized are in italics within each verse):
Then do ye remember Me; I will remember you. Be grateful to Me, and reject no
Faith (2.152);
It is no crime in you if ye seek of the bounty of your Lord during pilgrimage.

Then when ye pour down from Mount ʿArafat, celebrate the praises of Allah at
the Sacred Monument, and celebrate His praises as He had directed you, even
though, before this, ye went astray (2:198);
O ye who believe, remember Allah with much remembrance (33.41).
Shaykh al-Halaqa then went on to explain and to reinforce with further evidence
the centrality of the practice of dhikr to the believer’s life, starting with the role
of remembrance in fortifying the believer’s faith as illustrated in the Qurʾanic
verse 8:2.34 Dhikr also gave peace to the heart as stated in the verse 13:28.35
Dhikr inhibits the believer from wrongdoing, as stated in the verse 3:135.36
Dhikr effects success, as in the verse 62:10.37 Remembrance is a sign of those
who endure hardship, as mentioned in the verse 22:35.38 God willed that
remembrance accompanies other religious rituals, as stated in the verse 2:198
above, and in the verses 2:20039 and 4:103.40 Two Qurʾanic verses, those of
24:35-841 and 33:35,42 demonstrate God’s promise of great rewards to those
engaged in his remembrance.
Shaykh al-Halaqa also pointed out that God condemned those who abstain
from remembrance with warnings of its consequences, as expressed in the two
verses 2:11443 and 18:28.44
Prophet Muhammad also encouraged the practice of remembrance and
celebrating the praises of God. Shaykh al-Halaqa quoted four prophetic Hadiths
in which dhikr is praised and encouraged (the following are translations of the
Hadiths as uttered by Shaykh al-Halaqa.)45:
The Prophet said: ‘Indulge in the remembrance of Allah until they say he must
be mad’.
On the authority of ʿAbdallah ibn ʿAmru: I said ‘O Prophet of God what is

the prize of remembrance assemblies?’ He said: ‘The prize of remembrance
assemblies is the garden of heaven, the garden of heaven.’
Prophet Muhammad said: ‘If you passed by the gardens of heaven linger there.’ They
said: ‘And what are the gardens of heaven?’ He said: ‘The circles of remembrance.’
Prophet Muhammad said: ‘God has roaming angels whose preference is to seek
out remembrance assemblies.’
Shaykh al-Halaqa also explained that remembrance was conducted in a variety

of ways, and for a variety of reasons, that have been sanctioned by God and his
Prophet. These ahwal al-dhikr (ways or conditions of remembrance) are eight. He
described them as follows: al-dhikr fi al-khafaʾ (discrete remembrance), which
is conducted in secret, and is referred to in the Qurʾanic verse 7:205.46 Prophet
Muhammad also instructed that believers raise their voices in remembrance –
al-dhikr fi al-jahr (that which is proclaimed in public) – as exemplified by the
Prophetic tradition:
Gabriel came to me and said that Allah orders you to order your followers to
raise their voices in responding to his invitation and in invoking his name.
Al-dhikr al-muqayyad (restricted or conditional remembrance) explained

Shaykh al-Halaqa, is that which is restricted or specific to a place, such as that
uttered when entering the mosque or when entering the home or the market; or
that which is bound to a specific time, such as the dhikr uttered after the prayers;
or which is uttered when seeing the new moon; or as a person breaks his fast; or
that uttered as part of the morning and evening Qurʾanic recitations. Al-dhikr
al-mutlaq (unrestricted remembrance) is the opposite of al-dhikr al-muqayyad
and includes all manners of dhikr and for non-specific reasons.
Then there is remembrance that is conducted when standing al-dhikr fi
al-qiyyam and when sitting al-dhikr fi al-Quʿud. These position-related types of
remembrance are recognized and praised by God in the Qurʾanic verse 3:191.47
The last two kinds of ahwal al-dhikr concern dhikr and motion haraka, and dhikr
and stillness sukun. Shaykh al-Halaqa explained that motion – bodily motion –
in dhikr assemblies arises from ʾinjdthab ʾila Allah (gravitation towards God).
The Shaykh pointed out that whoever objected to this motion (the swaying from
left to right or back to front as is done in his dhikr circle), he would answer
him by saying that no nahi (prohibition), or karahiyya (odiousness) or tahrim
(forbiddance) have been issued by God or his messenger against it. He further
defends dhikr as being one of the ʿibadat (forms of worship) through which
nearness to God can be achieved. He reasoned that, as all forms of worship in
Islam have prescribed steps and rules, and have beginnings and ends, what valid
objection can there be to dhikr assemblies having prescribed steps with regard to
tartil – modulation of the chanting in praise of God, and showing reverence in
standing and sitting, as is done in the other forms of worship? Shaykh al-Halaqa
concluded his defence of Sufism by explaining that all Islamic Sufism and its
various orders is built on the one main article of faith, which is La illah illa
Allah (There is no God but Allah), and that the various shariʿa-compliant Sufi
Orders that base their faith and practice on the Qurʾan and the Sunna of Prophet
Muhammad differ only in the ʾawrad (the prescribed liturgies of each order) and
the Sufi Shaykhs they choose to follow for their spiritual guides.
Mawlid festivities at the Shrine
The second to defend Sufi practices in the Shrine is the resident Qurʾanic studies
tutor Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Janabi.48 He was traditionally tutored at the
hands of the mulali49 – the traditional ʿulamaʾ or religious scholars. In the 1960s
he became a tutor in the Qadiriyya School at the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir,50
where he taught recitation and other related subjects until the school was taken
over by the central government in the 1970s. After that he carried on teaching
in the Shrine, running his own classes in a more personal and informal manner.
After reaching the age of retirement, he was given a room in the Shrine to
lodge in as a Sufi, while his family continued to reside elsewhere in the city.
As a Sufi, Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab came from a Rifaʿi family background, with
both his father and grandfather having been Rifaʿi Sufis. He became a Qadiri
after reading a book about Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilāni at the age of twenty-
two. That reading prompted him to pay Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir a visit by partly
walking and partly hitchhiking his way to the Shrine in Baghdad from the town
of Musayyab in the mid-Euphrates region, some 85 km to the south-west.
In defence of the Sufi practice of conducting the Mawlud al-Nabi celebrations –
the annual festival commemorating the birth of Prophet Muhammad (mawlud is
the Iraqi vernacular pronunciation for Mawlid; and al-Nabi (the Prophet) refers
to Muhammad) – Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab published a sixteen-page pamphlet
defending the practice against Salafist criticisms. In it he focuses on arguing its
legitimacy in accordance with the Shariʿa and prophetic traditions, and historic
precedence.51
First he reminds his readers that the prophethood of Muhammad was God’s
saving gift to the believers, which should be commemorated as a thanksgiving
gesture. He then gives a brief history of public celebrations in Islamic history,
starting with the earliest documented according to his sources, which were
the Mawlid celebrations for Prophet Muhammad held at the beginning of
the thirteenth century by al-Malik al-Mudhafar Abu Saʿid Gukburi bin Zain
al-Dīn ʿAli bin Baktakin, the ruler of Irbil (Erbil in northern Iraq). Shaykh
ʿAbd al-Wahhab describes the lavishness of these Mawlid celebrations in detail,
footnoting the text with his sources. He then describes those held in Egypt during
the Mamluk period (1250–1517). For these he highlights the celebration held by
al-Malik al-Dhahir Barquq (d. 1399), where the custom of performing melodic
recitations and chanting by the Sufi Orders and faqirs throughout the night until
dawn was stupendously rewarded by the ruler, who distributed handfuls of gold
upon each of the performers.52
Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab then goes on to quote five traditions transmitted by
Prophet Muhammad’s companions about their recollections of the miraculous
things that happened on the night of the Prophet’s birth: from the appearance of
a special star, to the emanation of light from earth, to the trembling of the throne
of Persia. This is then followed by his argument for the importance of celebrating
the Prophet’s birthday, stating that one of the main tenets of the Islamic faith is
the love and glorification of the Prophet, which is a fard (an obligation), and for
this he quotes the Qurʾanic verse 9:24 in which God states:
Say: if it be that your fathers, your sons, your brothers, your mates, or your
kindred: the wealth that ye have gained; the commerce in which ye fear a
decline: or the dwellings in which ye delight – are dearer to you than Allah or
His Messenger, or the striving in his cause; – then wait until Allah brings about
His decision: and Allah guides not the rebellious.
This is followed by two prophetic Hadith traditions, two Qurʾanic verses (4:69
and 3:31) and an Arabic poetic verse to further illustrate the point and the
rewards promised for those who love the Prophet.
Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab then moves on to argue that the Prophet deserves to
be commemorated through the annual Mawlid, in thanks for all that he has done
to teach the believers their faith and guide them to the path of righteousness.
He praises the elements that make up the Mawlid celebrations: the gathering
of people; the recitation of the Qurʾan; readings from the Prophet’s biography;
eulogies extolling his character and ways; and recitations of prophetic praises
and ascetical poems, which in his view serve to encourage listeners to do good
deeds and remind them of the hereafter. Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab then refutes
the claim that showing excess in celebration, by doing good deeds, giving alms,
fasting, feeding the public and expressing happiness and joy, is haram (forbidden)
by shariʿa.
He then goes on to answer those who attack the celebrations as being bidʿa
(innovation), which is frowned upon in religious practice.53 He explains that not
all innovations are bad, giving examples from both the Prophet’s life and from
Caliph ʿUmar bin al-Khatab’s time,54 where they are personally quoted praising
specific innovations that they acknowledged and adopted as being good and
worthy of practising. The example he gives from the Prophet’s life concerns
imitating the Jews of Medina in commemorating the day God saved them from
Pharaoh when Moses led them across the Red Sea, which they celebrated by
fasting on its anniversary. Prophet Muhammad is said to have found this a
worthy celebration, as Moses was God’s prophet, and joined in the fasting.
Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab then clarifies the meaning of the much-discussed
Prophetic saying ‘all innovation is deviation’ (kul bidʿa dhalala), and explains
that the innovations of concern here are those that breach the teachings of
the Qurʾan, the Sunna, and that which has been adopted by ijmaʿ (collective
consensus). And for this, he reasons that if impermissible practices were to
appear in the Mawlid celebrations, such as mixing of the sexes, indecent singing
or the danger of sedition that disturbs the peace, then these celebrations are to
be banned, but this ban is because of the particular impermissible practices and
not because it is a Mawlid celebration. The pamphlet finally concludes with an
eight-verse poem that praises the night of the Mawlid celebration.
In the views of both Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Janabi and of Shaykh
al-Halaqa al-Qadiriyya, celebrating the Mawlud of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, a
three-day festivity that starts on the night before the morning of eleventh Rabiʿ
al-Thani, is only right and proper, and forms part of the thanksgiving offered
to God by the believers for the legacy of good works by one of his awliyaʾ (the
friends of God).
Perhaps by restricting themselves to justifying their practices without counter-
attacking their adversaries, in the two examples above, the two Sufi Shaykhs
showed their determination to avoid entering into arguments in religion? It is
also interesting to note that Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab avoided using historical
events that would not be acknowledged as being of value by both Salafis and
sectarian Sunnis. In this regard, most notable by its absence, is any reference
to the Shiʿa Fatimids of Egypt and their celebrations of the Prophet’s Mawlid,
which is the earliest written evidence of the custom in Islamic history.55
On asking the junior imam (the third of the three imams in the Shrine),56
who is also a Qadiri Sufi, about his understandings of Salafist logic and how to
counter it, he pointed out that one of his Sufi masters, the illustrious Kurdish
Qadiri Shaykh ʿAbd al-Karim al-Mudaris,57 used to impress upon him and fellow
students not to engage in religious argumentation, advising them that al-tark
ʾawla (abstinence is more becoming). This stance may well explain why neither
Shaykh al-Halaqa nor Shaykh ʿAbd al-Wahhab al-Janabi used any polemical
arguments in defending their beliefs and practices.
A daily tug-of-war
The Shrine has also been under constant pressure to prove its conformity to what
is perceived as Islamic orthodoxy in religious expression. Examples include the
staff ’s close monitoring of the public and the prohibition of several contentious
activities and practices. These prohibited practices include dharb al-dirbasha58
(self body piercing with sharp metal skewers and the like to illustrate strength
of faith) by Sufi dervishes during religious festivals and Sufi ceremonies. As the
Kasnazaniya Qadiri Sufi Order is especially known for this practice in Baghdad,
its followers have been prohibited from entering with any devices that could
be used to perform dharb al-dirbasha. But despite this, at each of the Mawlud
celebrations I have observed, Kasnazani Qadiris have attempted, with varying
degrees of success, to carry out dharb al-dirbasha and have been intercepted by
staff and security guards, and their instruments confiscated.
Other suppressions of unorthodox practices include exaggerated expressions
of love for Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir by pilgrims in his burial chamber. These involve
shaking the silver cage encasing his tomb; addressing him loudly and requesting
help in such a manner that may seem to be committing shirk (polytheism)
in public; tying pieces of cloth or strings or fastening locks onto the grills of
the silver cage when requesting Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s intercession to fulfil
their murad (wishes or desires); and inserting written messages and requests
addressed to Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir into his cage. The attendants of the burial
chamber were observed repeatedly explaining to such visitors that a silent prayer
to God, in Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s presence, is enough to achieve the task of
beseeching God in the name of his wali (friend). The burial chamber attendants
were also observed waiting for offenders to leave the chamber before promptly
removing the knotted strings or strips of cloth that had been tied to the silver
cage. However, because the cage is not accessible for the removal of any inserted
objects or papers through its grills, visitors who are caught in the act of trying
to insert their material are intercepted and prevented from doing so in a more
overt fashion.
Over the years, the Shrine has also had to bow to pressures from various
imams appointed to the mosque since the mid-1980s. One such example was the
pressure to modify the traditional custom of reciting the tamjid (the exaltation
of God, Prophet Muhammad and Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir) after each daily prayer,
and an extended version of it that follows the afternoon prayer on a Thursday.59
This tamjid is the privilege of the main muʾadhin (muezzin) of the Shrine. The
criticism was twofold. The first was an accusation that the tamjid was not a
tradition of the Prophet’s time, and adding it to the end of the call to prayer or
following the prayer was a bidʿa. The second criticism was levelled at the part
of the tamjid that concerned the praises bestowed upon Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir,
which was seen as unorthodox if not shirk. The current senior imam – who
started his secondment to the Shrine in 2004 – in his attempt to ban the tamjid,
has introduced a mawʿidha (exhortation) that immediately follows the Thursday
afternoon prayer, leaving an inadequately short time gap for the tamjid before
the ʿIshaʾ (night-time) prayer is due.60 The staff in the Shrine were aware of the
senior imam’s views of the tamjid, and some expressed their indignation at this
tactical move on his part.61
Since the senior imam’s arrival at the Shrine, a tug-of-war started between
him and the deputy imam (who is his son)62 on the one side, and the Shrine’s
custodians,63 staff and Sufi lodgers on the other side.64 The senior imam’s stance
with regard to the Shrine’s life and activities are seen to be of a negative Salafist
nature, and he is viewed as belonging to the Salafist movement.65 The imam is
criticized for having shown little empathy for the life of the Shrine as a place of
saint visitation and as a place where Sufis lodge. In his early days at the Shrine
he had enquired about having the burial chamber of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir
closed and visitations to it curtailed for being inappropriate. The senior imam
unsuccessfully attempted to stop Kurdish Qadiri Sufis from lodging at the Shrine
during the festive season of Mawlid Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, and equally failed to
ban them from holding their hadhra and associated dhikr in its courtyard.66
The senior imam and his deputy imam have also insisted, on theological
grounds, on refusing to receive female worshippers seeking religious advice or
fatwas if they are not accompanied by a mahram (a male next of kin who is either
a husband or a person not eligible to marry the female he is accompanying). This
strictness on behalf of the two imams forced the Shrine’s custodians in 2010 to
accept the appointment of an additional imam to attend to such needs. This
third imam is the junior imam referred to earlier. Needless to say, while the
junior imam agreed to give me an interview, the two other imams have not been
available so far.
From my interviews and observations it became clear that the removal of the
two imams with Salafist leanings – the senior and his deputy – would not be easy,
as they seemed to be involved in the sectarian wranglings of the government and
its various poles of power, as well as having the backing of the leaders of Diwan
al-Waqf al-Sunni. The Shrine’s custodians expressed their concerns about the
senior imam’s interests in politics and his engagements with various political
groups on both sides of the sectarian divide. They feared for the Shrine being
dragged into the country’s politico-sectarian struggle and its unpredictable
consequences. Although the custodians defended their unwillingness as Sufis
to play the current politico-sectarian game to remove the senior imam, they
expressed their determination to carry on resisting the unreasonable Salafist
demands he presented.
But having said all that, and despite the senior imam’s disapprovals, the
Shrine has managed to continue to permit several tabarruk (seeking blessings)
practices which may be seen as unorthodox by Salafis. These include the
touching and kissing of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s silver cage and, when opened
on special occasions, also the draped wooden chest inside it, which covers the
saint’s grave. On such occasions, pilgrims are permitted to place onto the grave
both gifts to the Shrine – such as embroidered drapes – and objects brought for
tabarruk but intended for taking away again with them. These objects include
bottled water, rosary beads, embroidered textiles and other personal belongings.
Visitors are also permitted to perfume the burial chamber, its thresholds and
the draped chest covering the grave. Pilgrims, especially those from the Indian
subcontinent and South East Asia, are also permitted to sing and chant within
the burial chamber, but with no musical instruments.67 The distribution of
sweets by seekers whose prayers have been answered is also permitted. Finally,
a compromise was found to enable the staff to continue permitting Shiʿi women
in mourning from neighbouring districts such as Abu Saifain to mark the
completion of their mourning at the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir.
These Shiʿi women mark the end of their mourning of a loved one by changing
their black cloths for coloured ones at the Shrine.68 This ritual usually takes place
in a mosque or a shrine of importance where the females come in with their
coloured cloths packed in a bag and change into them at the holy place. In the
Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir this custom takes place in the females’ prayer
hall adjacent to the saint’s burial chamber. The discarded black garments are
gifted to the establishment or its staff or other female visitors present at the
time as an act of zakat (thanksgiving) and accepted by the recipients for the
same reason. Despite the discreetness of the ritual, the attendants in the Shrine
are uneasy about it in fear of the senior imam’s condemnation of unorthodox
practices. This led the staff overseeing the visitations and the prayer halls to
take it upon themselves to find a compromise that averts the wrath of the imam
while fulfilling the needs of the mourners. This compromise involved asking
such females to modify the ritual through refraining from taking their black
garments off, but wearing the coloured garments over them, so that they can
leave the Shrine having ended their mourning, fulfilling the main purpose of the
ritual. Of course this compromise has meant that the discarded black garments
are not given out to other attendees at the moment of changing back to wearing
coloured cloths, and therefore depriving both the givers and the receivers from
the zakat element of the ritual.
The staff ’s initiative at anticipating and finding a solution to avert a
confrontation with the senior imam over the matter of a benign custom for
ending a mourning period and discarding its garments at the Shrine, reveals the
amount of tension that exists there on a daily basis, where people are constantly
being judged over the legitimacy of their beliefs and worship practices. It stands
as a microcosmic example of what is happening within the city and the country
at large, both within each sect, and between the sects.
The Jilani in Kurdistan
Three of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons’ burials are recognized by the Gailani family
in Iraq. Two are within the precincts of the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir –
those of his sons ʿAbd al-Jabbar and Salih, and the third is in Kurdistan, on
the outskirts of the mountainous city of ʿAqra (also spelt ʿAqrah and Akre) an
hour’s drive from the ancient city of Erbil, the capital of the Kurdish Regional
Government in Iraq. This Jilani shrine houses the burial and takkia of Shaykh
ʿAbd al-ʿAziz ibn Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani. Like its sister shrine in
Baghdad, it forms part of the endowments managed by al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya
in Baghdad and is managed by their Qadiri agents in ʿAqra. This shrine and its
caretakers have also experienced the pressures of the rising tide of Salafism in
the region and beyond.
Very little is known and written about ʿAbd al-Qadir’s son Shaykh ʿAbd
al-ʿAziz (1137–1206), but he is mentioned by the contemporary historian Sharaf
al-Din Abu al-Barakat Ibn al-Mustawfi al-Irbili (1167–1239), an influential native
of the city of Erbil (ʾIrbil), who wrote a key work on its history and residents.69
In this book, al-Mustawfi describes Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz as having been one of
those who had a zawiya, and who were withdrawn from life for spiritual reasons,
but as having also been outwardly religious. Al-Mustawfi relates that Shaykh
ʿAbd al-ʿAziz learnt and transmitted Hadith and was heard in Erbil, which he
visited a number of times, as well as other cities in the region. Al-Mustawfi
also states that Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz lived for a while on the outskirts of Sinjar,
further west in Kurdistan and nearer to the Syrian border. He goes on to say that
he himself had listened to Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz lecturing in Erbil.
The twentieth-century Iraqi historian Ibrahim al-Durubi70 lists Shaykh ʿAbd
al-ʿAziz’s tutors, who include his father Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir. Durubi also dates
the year in which ʿAbd al-ʿAziz migrated to Hiyyal, a village in Sinjar, as being
1184; and states that ʿAbd al-ʿAziz participated in the campaigns against the
Crusaders in the Levant, and also being present at the recapturing of ‘Asqalan
(Ashqelon) in Palestine by Saladin’s army in 1187.
Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s shrine is situated in one of ʿAqra’s mountain enclaves,
which is named Galli ʿAbd al-ʿAziz after him. The site is topographically higher
than the town and nestles at the top of the mountain just below its rim. It
encompasses four sets of court-yarded buildings. They include the domed burial
chamber of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz, his cave and lodging rooms, Sufi takkia with its
reception rooms, prayer hall, library and open courtyard, and a female reception
building, which includes the kitchens and food stores and a private residence
for the caretakers’ family. The site also has an orchard with a sheep pen and a
chicken coop, a small burial ground and a number of small ancillary buildings
for storage, ablution and electricity generating.71
The caretakers of the Shrine on behalf of al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya in Baghdad
are the leaders of the Qadiriyya-Wuliyaniyya Sufi Order, a Kurdish Order led by
the al-Wuliyani family of the Barazancha tribe. The family’s base is in the village
of Rovia a few miles south-east of ʿAqra, where they have a Qadiri takkia and
the shrine of their ancestor Shaykh Ismaʿil al-Wuliyani (d. 1737), who was a
Qadiri Sufi Shaykh and the founder of the Wuliyaniyya Sufi Order. Incidentally,
or perhaps deliberately, the burial plot of Ismaʿil al-Wuliyani is adjacent to what
is locally believed to be the grave of Muhammad al-Hattak, one of Shaykh ʿAbd
al-ʿAziz al-Jilani’s sons, who is reputed to have died sometime in the second half
of the thirteenth century.72
As for the history of the Shrine and takkia of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz in ʿAqra,
how it came to be there, and how it evolved into a place of pilgrimage, no written
evidence or reference has yet been found. The fragmentary anecdotal information
based on secondary sources, oral transmission and on collective memory is too
basic to be adequate. Nevertheless, the site is indeed a very active Qadiri takkia,
and receives visitations from across the western region of Iraqi Kurdistan.
Preliminary findings revealed an interesting similarity in reverence and regard

for the two shrines under the Wuliyans’ control by them and their followers, and
an identity-based attachment to both the son and the grandson of Shaykh ʿAbd
al-Qadir al-Jilani, being the direct descendants of their patron wali.
The territory of this branch of the Qadiriyya Sufi Order spreads over some
eighty villages in the District of ʿAqra and the surrounding region. The Order
also has takkias and followers in the cities of Erbil and Mosul, as well as two
takkias in Istanbul in Turkey. The Order’s sphere of influence encompasses parts
of the wider Kurdistan region and on both sides of the borders between Iraq and
Syria and Turkey.73 Field observations revealed a gradual shift in importance
taking place between these two shrines, from Rovia towards ʿAqra, with Shaykh
ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s shrine gradually becoming the Order’s spiritual headquarters,
even though the current head of the Qadiriyya-Wuliyaniyya himself does not
live there or in Rovia, but in Mosul.
As for the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz’s encounter with Sunni
fundamentalism and Salafism, the Wuliyanis also expressed well-formulated
counter-arguments to the criticisms directed at Sufism, not dissimilar to those
heard from their counterparts in Baghdad. The Wuliyanis pride themselves on
having avoided entanglement in local rivalries for power within their part of the
Kurdish region, and having shielded the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz from
being competed for among the various Kurdish political factions throughout the
past five decades.74 These decades included the period of the Iran–Iraq War in the
1980s and what it witnessed by way of forced relocations of Kurdish populations
across the region, the Persian Gulf War of 1991 and the ten years of unofficial
autonomy in the region that was aided by an internationally imposed no-fly
zone to protect it from the Iraqi government. The caretakers believe that their
consistent apolitical stand has earned them much respect and protection within
Kurdistan, even though the Kurdish region within which they are situated has
witnessed Salafi activity over the past two decades, with ʿAqra being known for
its more religiously conservative culture in comparison to other cities within the
region.75
The Wuliyanis’ Qadiri Sufi allegiances, and their Barzanchi tribal loyalties and
alliances are closely intertwined, to the extent that, in a conversation in March
2011, the head of the Qadiriyya-Wuliyaniyya Order pointed out his ability to call
upon the allegiance of 200,000 men if need be.76
The Qadiriyya-Wulianiyya Sufi Order’s relationship with the Qadiri
endowments in Baghdad has not been restricted to the caretaking of the Shrine
of Shaykh ʿAbd al-ʿAziz. The Wuliyaniyya have had an active presence in the
Shrine in Baghdad for decades, and have named lodging rooms allocated to
them. A large contingent of the Order travels down to Baghdad to participate in
the seasonal religious festivities that mark the calendar of the Shrine. The loyalty
of the Wuliyani Qadiri Order was called upon during the early days after the
invasion of 2003, when they helped protect the Shrine from the lawlessness and
widespread looting that spread across the city, and then again during the civil
unrest between 2005 and 2007, with the eruption of sectarian violence in nearby
neighbourhoods and across the city.77
But, because of their presence in the Shrine in Baghdad, the Wuliyanis and
their Qadiri followers experienced the senior imam’s unease about their presence.
They expressed their concern about the senior imam’s Salafist leanings, and his
disapproval of their dhikr and hadhra, and of their lodging at the Shrine, which
have already been mentioned above.
An incomplete story
The findings presented here regarding the interaction between Sufism and
Salafism in these two Qadiri shrines are very much from the Sufis point of
view. To form a more complete picture of this interaction, the experiences of
the senior imam and his deputy are needed. From published material on the
internet, especially film clips of sermons posted on YouTube, and from the four
Friday sermons attended during the field research period,78 all fail to reveal any
connection to Sufism that distinguishes the post holders from other imams in
other Sunnī mosques, despite the explicit reference to them being the imams of
the Shrine of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir. It was especially interesting to observe that
no use was made in their discourses of the literary legacy of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir
as a Hanbali theologian and preacher.
Answers needed to complete the story include what the experience of the
imams has been working in a mosque that forms part of an active Sufi shrine,
and what are the challenges they face in accommodating what may be seen as
unorthodox practices that take place in a religiously mixed neighbourhood,
with a congregation that flocks from around the world. For according to the
administration of the Shrine, the senior imam actively sought his appointment
at this place of worship.79
This briefly shows a few aspects of a much more complicated scene, and
draws attention to the need for research into the role of Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni
(and its predecessor the Ministry of Endowments and Religious Affairs) in the
promotion of Salafist ideology in Iraq. This governmental body’s mandate is not

only to monitor and oversee the administration of religious endowments, but
also to actively propagate the faith through a variety of programmes, as well
as the employment of imams and their allocation to Sunni mosques across
the country.80 A critical examination of the role and syllabus of Sunni Islamic
theological colleges and universities in the country is also needed. This is
especially important because Sunni imams’ recruitment, being the monopoly of
Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni, depends largely on the pools of graduates from these
colleges and universities.
Also, an investigation is needed into the impact of regularly attending
the hajj season in Mecca in Saudi Arabia by some Iraqi religious leaders and
imams, especially with regard to influencing Sunni imams with Salafist ideas
and understandings. Between 2009 and 2013, the senior imam at the Shrine of
Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir attended at least three of the annual hajj seasons in Mecca:
in 2010, 2011 and 2013, not as a pilgrim but as a leading Sunni cleric.81
And finally, to better understand the Sufi–Salafi struggle at the Shrine of
Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir, it would be interesting to investigate how widespread
the apathy towards Sufism is among graduate imams in Iraq, and to find out
how common it is for these two groups, Sufis and Salafis, to be in such close
engagement with each other on a daily basis, as is the case at the Shrine of Shaykh
ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani.
5
The Political Participation of Sufi and

Salafi Movements in Modern Morocco:
Between the ‘2003 Casablanca
Terrorist Attack’ and the ‘Moroccan Spring’
Aziz el Kobaiti Idrissi
Introduction
The 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks together with the 2011 Arab Spring
constitute very important stages in the history of the Moroccan state in the
context of the impact of these events on various religious movements that
influence the religious and political landscape in Morocco. These movements
can be classified into four types. First are Sufi movements supportive of the
Moroccan state’s political choices. One of the best examples of this type which
will be examined in this chapter is the Qadiriya Boutchichiyya Sufi Order, which
has chosen to support elements of Moroccan Islam as defined by the state as
well as the Moroccan regime itself. Second are Sufi movements that oppose the
state’s choices. The example that will be studied in this chapter is the Justice and
Charity Organization (Jamaʿat al-ʿadl wʾal-ahsan) which since its inception
has chosen to resist the directions of the state, and refuses to integrate into the
political system without resorting to violence. Third are Salafi movements that
support the Moroccan state’s political choices. The Justice and Development
Party (PJD) is a good example of this type. PJD has benefited politically a lot
from the Arab Spring, since it won the parliamentary elections of 2011 and
formed the first government subsequent to the Moroccan Arab Spring. Fourth
are Salafi movements that oppose the state’s choices. In this chapter, I will focus
on a group of extreme Salafi sheikhs who have been implicated in Casa-2003
terrorist attacks, although they have begun to revise their ideological rhetoric
and to decrease their high degree of hostility towards the Moroccan state and
civil society after the Moroccan spring of 2011.
In this chapter addressing Sufis and Salafis in Morocco, I will demonstrate
through these examples that both Sufi and Salafi movements can provide a basis
for either statist or oppositional stances regarding the Moroccan regime. I will
also indicate how significant events, in this case the Casablanca terrorist attacks
of 2003 and the Arab Spring of 2011, can initiate shifts within the positions taken
by such movements, leading to important changes in the political landscape, in
this case, Moroccan internal politics.
The 2003 Casablanca terrorist attacks and

state policy of ‘Restructuring the religious field’
Over the course of the twentieth century, Morocco, like most other Muslim
countries, experienced the rise of Salafi and Wahhabi doctrinal beliefs that were
extremely critical of Sufism. During the first decade of the twenty-first century,
however, a return to Sufism has become prominent in Morocco and perhaps
other Muslim countries. In the case of Morocco, I will argue that this shift was
prompted by the May 2003 terrorist attacks in Casablanca that killed forty-five
people and shocked the nation.
On 16 May 2003, Casablanca – Morocco’s economic capital – was hit by
a series of suicide bombings, the first such type of terrorist attacks in the
country’s history. The perpetrators of these attacks were young Moroccans
from the shantytowns of Casablanca who claimed to belong to a secret group
of the Salafiya Jihadiyya, a branch of al-Qaʾida. In response the Moroccan
government immediately initiated a policy of ‘restructuring the religious field’
that involved placing particular emphasis upon Sufism. This policy has involved
the implementation of a series of measures meant to reform, monopolize and
control theology and the production and circulation of religious discourse
within Morocco. This policy involves having the Ministry of Religious
Affairs bring all places of worship in the country under its authority and
having it implement a programme for training imams and preachers, thereby
maintaining control over the Friday sermons. In 2006, the Ministry published
a manual for imams1 stressing Moroccan religious authenticity and warning
that failure to adhere to such authenticity would lead to religious fanaticism
and terrorist violence:
The Political Participation of Sufi and Salafi Movements in Modern Morocco 93
If … the preacher ignores that, then he deeply contradicts the civilizational

uniqueness of Moroccan society, which has been shaped through the
accumulation of deep historical strata. This is the ground for the failure of his
religious discourse. He then creates pockets of pathology and closed-mindedness
that lead to the tearing of Moroccan social fabric.2
The reform project also involved the reorganization of the Supreme Council of
Ulama that for the first time appointed a woman among its members. The Council
was authorized by and reports directly to King Mohamed VI. The Ministry has
created councils of ʿulamaʾ in all municipalities that include a total of thirty-five
women (ʿalimat) and has assigned to these bodies exclusive authority to issue
fatwas or religious opinions. The role of the Council of the ʿUlamaʾ as defined
by King Mohamed VI is to ‘contribute to strengthening the nation’s spiritual
security, ensuring the preservation of its religious doctrine, which draws on
tolerant Sunni Islam’.3
The project of restructuring the religious field, first announced in a royal
speech in 30 April 2004, has involved a redefinition and re-articulation of
Moroccan Islam. The four cornerstones of such Islam are Ashʿarite theological
doctrine, Maliki religious law, positioning the king as the Amir al-Muminin
(Commander of the Faithful) and, adding a new dimension, Sunni Sufism.4
The government manual explicitly recommends Sufism as an essential part of
Moroccan religious identity.5 This addition of Sunni Sufism as a defining element
of what is officially called ‘Moroccan Islam’ is certainly the most important
innovation in this policy. This affiliation between the state and Sufi orders is
also compatible with principles of the Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya, one of the most
important and influential Moroccan Sufi Tariqas.
The Sufi Qadiriyya Boutschichiya and the state
The Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya appeared in the early twentieth century in the

village of Madagh, near the city of Berkane, in the north-east of Morocco.6
The jihad against colonial occupation led by the Boutchichi Shaykh Sidi Mukhtar
Ben Hajj Mouhyi Eddine, gained the Order tremendous popularity among the
local tribes of Beni Znassen. After the death of Shaykh Mukhtar in 1917, the
leadership of the confraternity went to Sidi Bu Madyen (1873–1955), who is
considered the real founder of the Boutchichiyya as a spiritual institution.7
The subsequent national and international dissemination the Boutchichiyya

achieved is due essentially to the innovative and reformist vision of Shaykh Hamza
(b. 1922), who succeeded to the leadership of the Order in 1972. Sidi Hamza
has anchored the order in the Qurʾan and the Sunna and shifted its focus from
tabarruk (the Shaykh’s spiritual blessing and ecstatic ritual) to tarbiyya, spiritual
education and moral edification. With this shift, the Boutchichiyya succeeded in
expanding beyond its rural environment into the major Moroccan cities, among
the bourgeoisie, scholarly circles, and the educated and French-speaking and
Westernized elite. Among its prominent Moroccan intellectual recruits, mention
can be made of Taha Abderrahman,8 Ahmed Toufiq,9 Faouzi Skali,10 and a great
number of university teachers as well as attorneys, pharmacists, medical doctors,
engineers and high officials.
During the 1980s Sufism in Morocco was viewed with suspicion and held
under very close surveillance by the State because radical Islamists either tried
to conceal themselves among mystical brotherhoods or infiltrated them with the
intention of co-opting the rhetoric of political and social justice and the ideology
of jihad within Islamic Sufism. Hammoudi writes:
the advocates of radical Islamic reform join either a brotherhood or a new-
style charismatic community headed by a venerated master. The phenomenal
success of the brotherhood formula is perfectly illustrated by the Boutchishiya:
in addition to its main lodge in the Oujda area, which is the residence of the
paramount shaykh, it has branches scattered all over the country, particularly
in Casablanca, Fez and Rabat. While the groups advocating government by
God and scrupulous enforcement of the shariʿa are not necessarily constituted
within the institutional structure chosen by the master of the Boutchishiya,
their organizations invariably re-enact the potent paradigm of the prophet,
with his guidance of devoted adepts. At any rate the master-disciple relationship
articulates all power relations and tactics. The schemata of submission,
ambivalence, rebellion and access to masterhood are enacted on a daily basis, in
the present and historically all at once. Hence the special position of this living
archaism, which operates at the heart of Moroccan authoritarianism11
Apart from the Kettaniyya, Rissouniyya and Shadhili Sufi orders which continued
to believe in the political role of Sufism, all the other Sufi tariqas had explicitly
distanced themselves from politics. The Boutchichiyya as well disassociated
itself from political rivalries, focussing only on the action of tazkiyat al-nafs
(purification of the soul) which helped in increasing its membership. While in
the year 2000, the tariqa’s followers were estimated at about 25,000, by 2009 the
number has risen to 100,000.12
Sidi Mounir, Shaykh Hamza’s grandson, attributes the popularity of the

brotherhood to its living Shaykh,
Sidi Hamza … inaugurated a new era of Sufism based on flexibility, love and
beauty. It is easier to follow now than before but this does not mean that it has
lost its value. The addition of flexibility to spiritual education has attracted the
hearts of disciples from all over the world. Today, Sufis are more integrated in
their social lives. They can enjoy the Sufi experience without it affecting their
social rhythm or losing their social identities. One aspect of the Tariqa Qadiriyya
Boutchichiyya … is that the retreat of the Sufi is inside the heart, al-khalwat fi’l-
qalb. Sufis do not need to isolate themselves in order to find their way to God.
On the contrary, they can participate in their social activities as much as they
can without affecting their beautiful spiritual experience, providing they are
‘happy in their hearts.13
The Boutchichiyya is perceived as being a tariqa that promotes in its teachings

the values of peace and tolerance. For Sidi Mounir, ‘Today, only Sufism is
capable of holding the torch of the way of peace, the way of good character,
and the way of balance and communication with everybody from all over the
world.’14 The Boutchichiyya wishes to carve out for itself the role of equipping
the fuqara (disciples) with a ‘spiritual security’ capable of keeping them from
joining radical Islamist groups.
In addition, the Boutchichiyya is presented as a tariqa which is open to
Muslims and non-Muslims alike. Sidi Mounir says in this respect: ‘Sufism
accepts without condition people with different levels of knowledge. Everybody,
Muslim and non-Muslim, is welcome to the Sufi path, as long as they want to
purify and enlighten their hearts and souls.’ Sidi Mounir goes on to quote a Sufi
saying, ‘Do not hate a Jew or a Christian, but your own ego (an-nafs) that is
between your sides.’15
Shaykh Sidi Hamza has changed the order’s dhikr and has endeavoured
more particularly to cultivate followers among the educated elite. In this respect
Sedgwick observes:
By the year 2000, perhaps half of the order’s approximate membership of

at least 25,000 was ‘educated’. Many of these were young men and women,
sometimes school-leavers. Many came from the Islamic Studies departments
that proliferated in Moroccan universities after 1979, and so were more from the
educated than the Francophone classes, less elite but still modern.16
What also makes the Boutchichiyya order an ideal partner for the state is its
adherence to the discourse of modernity, which coincides perfectly with the
state’s cultural modernization policy as part of the project to reform theology.

The Boutchichiyya order does not have strict codes regarding, for instance,
female dress or beards for males. In an article titled ‘Sufism as Youth Culture in
Morocco’, Mokhtar Ghambou writes:
Sufis distance themselves from fundamentalists, whose vision of Islam is a

strict and utopian emulation of the Prophet Muhammad and his companions,
by placing great emphasis on the community’s adaptation to the concerns and
priorities of modern times. Sufis neither condemn unveiled women nor censure
modern means of entertainment. For them, the difference between virtue and
vice is determined on the basis of intent, not appearances.17
Although Ghambou is speaking of Moroccan Sufism in general, his statement

applies more accurately to the Boutchichiyya, which has being seen by the
Moroccan state as the guarantor of the balance between Islamist movements
inside Morocco, since the religious and political importance of this Sufi order
comes from a wide membership (nationally and internationally), recruits from
middle-class and high-profile intellectuals and social elites, enjoys influence in
both rural and urban areas throughout the country, has a stricter adherence to
the Shariʿa and Sunni Islam and has large and youthful members.18
The significant role of this order spurred King Mohammed VI to appoint
Ahmed Taoufiq, a disciple of the Boutchichiyya, as Minister of Religious Affairs in
2002, thereby officially granting his patronage to this tariqa. From the perspective
of the state the Boutchichiyya helps consolidate the monarchy, combat radical
Islam and promote an image of Moroccan Islam abroad as moderate, pluralistic
and peaceful. However, according to the strict teachings of Shaykh Sheikh Sidi
Hamza, the Tariqa Boutchichiyya has no connection with political affairs since
the main role of the tariqa is providing spiritual education to its disciples. He
always reminds his followers: ‘We are not the seekers of the wooden chairs
(this means ‘political positions’) but we seek the best ranks of Paradise.’19 Even
while the Boutchichiyya order distances itself from direct involvement in political
affairs, most of time it finds itself practising politics. Once Shaykh Hamza said,
‘We could intervene in Moroccan politics only in three cases: when the Islamic
religion, Moroccan territory, or the king, are threatened.’20
The Boutchichiyya is a tariqa that insists on loyalty and obedience to the
king/sovereign. This loyalty is based on the Boutchichiyya’s religious view which
sees the king as the commander of faithful/believers who took the bayʿa (the act
of allegiance) from the population of Morocco. This bayʿa makes obedience of
the king a necessary act for Muslims within Morocco. Hence, The Boutchichis
poured into the street in thousands on three occasions: in February 2006 to

denounce the Danish cartoons degrading the Prophet Muhammad; in January
2009 to support Palestinians in Gaza against the Israeli attack; and on 26 June
2011, to support the proposed constitutional reforms after the royal speech of 9
March 2011.
Jamaʿat ʿadl wʾal-ihsan (JCO) and the

combination of Sufism and politics
Not all Sufi movements share the same attitudes and tendencies of the
Boutchichiyya towards the state and political affairs within Morocco. For instance,
the Sufi group Jamaʿat al-ʿadl wʾal-ihsan (Justice and Charity) has opposing
views regarding three points: participation in the national elections; accepting
the status of the Moroccan king as Amir al-Muʾminin; and the response to the
‘Arabic popular revolution’ or what is called the ‘Arabic Spring’.
JCO is a movement created by Shaykh ʿAbdessalam Yassine, a Berber born
in Sus, Morocco. In 1965, Yassine joined the Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya tariqa
and became one of the order’s active and prominent followers. He was a devoted
disciple of Shaykh ʿAbbas al-Qadiri (d. 1972). Two years after the death of
Shaykh ʿAbbas, Yassine left the Brotherhood because Shaykh Sidi Hamza, the
new leader of the Boutchichiyya, was reluctant to articulate a political role for
the tariqa.21
Having left the Boutchichiyya, Yassine began expressing his spiritual and
political views in a series of publications, including in 1972 al-Islam bayna
al-Dawla wa al-Din (Islam between Politics and Religion) and in 1973 al-Islam
Ghadan (Islam Tomorrow). Yassine first rose to prominence as a religious rebel
in 1974 when he addressed a 114-page letter to King Hassan II under the title
al-Islam aw al-Tufan (Islam or the Deluge) urging him to implement the shariʿa
and admonishing him about his duties as Amir al-Muʾminin who should rule
with justice.22 Yassine asked the king to ‘get rid of his advisers and entourage
(makhzan), seek the advice of the propagators of the daʿwa (those who preach
in favour of Islamic revivalism) after abolishing all political parties, establish
an Islamic economy, and … pronounce repentance loudly and clearly’.23 This
daring letter cost Yassine three and a half years of imprisonment without trial,
but it gained him tremendous popularity. Yassine soon founded a new religious
movement based upon Sufi principles.
In 1983, Yassine created a new magazine under the title al-Subh that published
militant and subversive articles for which he was imprisoned. Yassine waited
until 1987 to name his Jamaʿa as ʿAdl waʾl-Ihsan, which was never recognized
by the state despite Yassine’s many attempts in this regard. After that Yassine was
banned from preaching at mosques, and his movement was repressed and many
of his followers were arrested and persecuted. Yassine also subsequently spent
more than ten years under house arrest in Salé. He gained his freedom only in
May 2000 by order of Mohammed VI. Immediately after, Yassine published his
second letter, Mozakkira Ila Man Yahommoho Al-amr (Memorandum to whom
it may concern), written in French in thirty-five pages, this time addressed to the
young king Mohammed VI, addressing him to restore to the people the goods
that they are entitled to, and purify the government from the corrupted persons
in order to regain people’s trust.24 Unlike the Boutchichiyya that supports the
monarchy and encourages its adepts to participate in the religious and political
institutions of the country, JCO is critical of the monarchy and refuses to
participate in the country’s political system.
JCO combines Sufi spiritual education with political militancy. Its followers
go through an inward mystical education, outlined in Yassine’s book al-Minhaj
al-nabawi (The Prophetic System) which is the spiritual educational manual for
his adepts. The book combines Sufi educational methodology and the politico-
religious teachings of Hassan al Banna, the founder of the Egyptian Muslim
Brotherhood, which encourages political activism and resistance.
Yassine has carved for himself an image that combines that of a Sufi spiritual
educator with a social and political reformer. The Sufi aspects of his movement
are expressed in the idea of the Shaykh as a guide (murshid) and we can attribute
Yassine’s ‘issues of socialization, moral education, and spiritual preparation’ to
Sufism’s influence.25 He always spoke favourably about his former Boutchichiyya
master, Hajj ʿAbbas, as a Sufi Shaykh to whom he was much attached.
He recommends Sufism for spiritual education, the spreading of knowledge,
and jihad. ‘I have discovered truth with the Sufis as did al-Ghazali’, says Yassine.
In his advice to his disciples Yassine says, ‘You will also run into Sufis inebriated
with “spiritual ecstasy”; take to heart their advice to love God.’26 Yassine often
quotes Sufi saints such as ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani and Abu ʾl-Hassan al-Shadhili,27
and borrows many terms from the Sufi glossary such as murid (disciple), suhba
(companionship), tarbiyya (spiritual education) and salik (wayfarer). In fact,
the very term ihsan (righteousness/spirituality) is a profoundly Sufi concept.
Lauziere explains, ‘the notion of ihsan implies a framework of mystical gradation
that is typical of Sufism’.28
In February 2011 (the beginning of Moroccan Spring), Yassine’s JCO declared

its participation in the Moroccan Spring, and joined the 20 February Movement.29
Thousands of Adlawis took to the streets of the Moroccan economic capital
Casablanca every Sunday, to rally against ‘corruption’, and to protest against
the absolute authority of the king as well. On 9 March 2011 Yassine’s Group
rejected the king’s speech about the Constitutional reforms, deciding to boycott
participation in Referendum on the proposed constitution, and the parliamentary
elections, which led the Islamic Party of Justice and Development to form the
first government after the Moroccan Arab Spring. In December 2012, Yassine
passed away, and the shura council of his Jamaʿat chose Muhammad ʿAbbadi,
the oldest member of Yassin’s disciples, to be his successor. Until the present, the
relationship between JCO and the Moroccan state is still dominated by chaos
and tension, an example being the state’s attempts to integrate this group into
the Moroccan political and institutional system by relying on the ability of the
PJD to persuade the Islamic politico-Sufi group of al-ʿAdl to change its strategy
towards the state.
Salafi Jihadists and the dilemma of Moroccan state
Al-‘Adl is not the only challenge to the Moroccan state. Salafist Movements
also pose problems. The police investigations into the perpetrators of the 2003
Casablanca terrorist attacks led to the arrest of at least 2,000 Salafi suspects.
Among those arrested, we find Shaykh Fezazi, Shaykh Kettani, Shaykh Abu Hafs,
and other leaders of Jihadi Salafis and Wahhabis. Those figures represented the
radical Islamists who refused to participate in the political process under the civil
state. But at the same time they secretly worked to establish an Islamic caliphate
by destroying constitutional rule in Morocco, and the Moroccan regime as
well. However, the resistance of the Moroccan state against these extreme Salafi
groups pushed some of them to revise their ideological attitudes towards the
main political concerns inside Morocco. The beginning of the ‘Moroccan Spring’
in early 2011 was a good opportunity for Salafi Jihadists and Wahhabis to ask
for the release of their leaders and members from jail. This request was partially
fulfilled by the king after the beginning of Moroccan Spring.30
In 2013, a number of Salafi Jihadist leaders, who were still in prison,
submitted a chart entitled, ‘The Political Charter of the National Committee for
Reconciliation and Review’. The charter adopts a civil state as a political option
along with individual freedoms that had been long regarded as a stumbling
block before any tangible progress in the dialogue between the state and the
Islamists. Many daily newspapers in Morocco were reported to have received
the charter which is made up of sixteen articles. It stated that the royal regime is
the symbol of unity, calling for consolidating the identity of the nation which is
embodied in the Islamic religion and a national unity of different aspects under
the umbrella of a parliamentary monarchy and civil state.31 A source from the
National Committee for Reconciliation and Review in the prisons said that the
aforementioned political charter had been received by the Ministry of the Interior
and various security services that were taking charge of supervising the case of
the Salafi Jihadists. The source added that the purpose was to send an encrypted
message to the authorities and to public opinion that those Islamists had a
clear and coherent political vision.32 According to Hassan Khattab, one of Salafi
leaders in the prison:
The charter accepted political action on the basis that it brings forth
an opportunity for the people to express themselves, to reform their institutions
and to ward off corruption. Furthermore, it regarded Islam as the state religion,
but stressed its duty to guarantee the right to religious diversity, intellectual
freedom and justice, emphasizing the sovereignty of the judicial system and a
separation of powers.33
The charter urged the building of a diverse modern state that guarantees social
justice. It also highlighted the protection of human rights, from individual and
group freedoms to racial and linguistic diversity, to equality at the economical,
political, social and cultural levels, while taking into consideration the country’s
identity and its Islamic background. Additionally, it called for banning any form
of discrimination on the grounds of sex, colour, belief or culture as well as that
of social, regional or linguistic affiliation. It also demanded legal, social and
economical protection of families.
Conversely, Press-Maroc e-newspaper also reported that the political initiative
taken by Hassan Khattab, leader of the Ansar Al-Mahdi cell, and ʿAbd-Erazzak
Samah, Amir of the Moroccan Jihadist movement, had been rejected by some
Salafist detainees including Omar Maarouf, Noureddine Nafiaa and an unknown
group called the ‘Free People in the Moroccan Prisons’. Noureddine Nafiaa sent
a letter from prison in which he denounced involvement in political action,
describing politics as a ‘dirty game’.34 Another letter with the same initiative was
addressed from Hassan Khattab to the King Muhammed VI mentioning that he
has revised his ideological theology and adopted a new vision towards political
affairs in Morocco.35 On the other hand, certain political Islamic movements
which had Salafist tendencies accepted from the beginning to adhere to the
political process within Morocco. At the forefront of these, we find the PJD.
PJD: A moderate political Salafism
The PJD is considered to be the first oppositional party in Morocco. It is ‘a

conservative Islamist movement, which borrows inspiration both from the
Muslim Brotherhood and from Wahhabi Salafism’.36 Before it was recognized
as a political party, the PJD showed its rejection of the use of violence and its
support for the Moroccan constitution which entails the king’s full executive
power and presents him as the highest religious authority as the Commander of
the Faithful.37
The Casablanca 2003 bombings were used by the leftist parties to discredit
the PJD and they accused it of having had a hand in terrorism. State authorities
held the PJD to be ‘morally responsible’ for the bombing and sought to
undermine the party by preventing it from fielding candidates in more than 18
per cent of the 1,544 municipalities in elections held during October 2003. The
government, however, stopped short of actually abolishing the PJD.
Saàddine El Otmani, one of the most prominent leaders of PJD, responded
in an interview
We know this accusation arose because the Party is a new political actor that
quickly became one of the five largest parties in Moroccan politics. … We tried
not to respond in turn, choosing instead to wait until the difficult time passed,
for the benefit of the Moroccan people. We engaged other actors in internal
talks and it soon became clear to the government that the PJD could play an
important role in marginalising extremism in Moroccan society.38
However, the Moroccan Spring of 2011 was a new opportunity for the PJD
to show itself to be an influential Public Party. It is one of the only political
parties that knew how to develop a ‘forceful discourse on internal democracy
and respect for party rules’ and they ‘set up comparatively democratic internal
structures for selecting leaders and electoral candidates’.39 In this way they gained
a lot of support, as they seemed to be much more trustworthy than other parties.
In the 2011 parliamentary elections, organized after the changing of constitution
under street pressure, the PJD was able to win the election and to form the first
Moroccan government after the Arabic Spring.
Conclusion
Below is a table explaining the various attitudes of the Moroccan Sufi and Salafi
Movements regarding:
1. The status of the king as the commander of faithful.
2. Political/Electoral Participation.
3. Constitutional Changes after the ‘Moroccan Spring’:
1. Radical Salafi Jihadist
After 2003 Casablanca After 2011 & during the

terrorist attacks Moroccan Spring
Status of the King as The Boutchichiyya is a tariqa The Boutchichiyya is a tariqa
the Commander that insists on loyalty and that insists on loyalty and
of Faithful obedience to the sovereign obedience to the sovereign
as a Commander of the as a Commander of the
Faithful. Faithful.
Political/Electoral No direct participation. But it Ahmad Tawfiq, a prominent
Participation does not refuse if its adepts figure of the Bushishiya
participate in the religious became Minister of Islamic
and political institutions of Affairs.
the country.
Constitutional No opinion. Thousands of Boutchichis
Reforms poured into the street
in support of the new
constitution.
2. Charity & Justice Group (CJG)
Before 2003 Casablanca After 2011 & during the

Status of the King as It is critical of the monarchy It rejected the constitution
the Commander and calls for overthrowing which confirmed the
of Faithful it and establishing a King’s Rule as Amir
republican regime. al-Muminin.
Political/Electoral Refuses to participate in the It claims that Moroccan
Participation country’s political system. Political Institutions are
corrupt and they will never
affiliate without a total
change of the system.
Constitutional The constitution must not be Refused the changes done, and
Reforms accepted because it belongs the nominated committee
to a corrupt political which revised the
system. constitution, and joined
20th February Movements
in protests for a while.
3. Party of Justice & Development (PJD)

Status of the King as The political wing accepts It supports the status of the king
the Commander it but some of its leaders as a symbol of Moroccan
of Faithful refused it. For example, unity.
Ahmad Rayssoni was
obliged to resign from
the Tawhid wʾal-islah
movement, the religious
wing of the PJD.
Political/Electoral It was always in political It won the elections of 2011
Participation opposition in the for the first time in its
parliament history. Its leader, Abdelilah
Benkiran, was nominated as
the Prime Minister after the
Moroccan Spring.
Constitutional Calls for partial Change. Says yes to the constitution
Reforms
4. Radical Salafi Jihadist

Status of the King as It refused the King’s Rule. Many of its leaders show
the Commander The only legitimate Rule their readiness to accept
of Faithful is the caliphate based on this status.
the prophetic system.
Political/Electoral It is a dangerous bidʿa, A number of Salafi Jihadist
Participation which must be avoided leaders, detained in prison,
by Muslims, because it submitted a political charter
comes from the ‘Kafirs’ entitled, ‘The Political Charter
of the West. of the National Committee for
Reconciliation and Review.’
Constitutional The only constitution of It accepts the constitution
Reforms all Muslims is the Holy after the mediation of some
Quran. influential members of PJD.
Through this schematic presentation, it is evident that Sufi and Salafist

movements in Morocco are not bound to specific supportive or oppositional
attitudes towards the state by virtue of being either Sufi or Salafist, and that their
internal policies and choices of action regarding the regime and its institutions
are responsive to major political trends and events. This supports and helps
to explain the distinctiveness of the Moroccan context and its trajectory both
during and subsequent to the Arab Spring.
104
6
Sufis as ‘Good Muslims’: Sufism in the

Battle against Jihadi Salafism
Mark Sedgwick
The strategy of supporting Sufis as alternatives to Salafis has been a popular

one, both in the Islamic world and in the West. But despite its popularity, it is a
strategy that has generally not proved successful, as this chapter will show. This
lack of success, it will be argued, results partly from the particular choice of Sufi
tariqas (orders) that particular governments have chosen to support, and partly
from the organizational nature of Sufism, which makes it hard to mobilize Sufis
in large numbers.
The basic idea of supporting a religious group that is presumed to be friendly
against another religious group that is presumed to be hostile is an ancient
one. It seems, for example, to have lain behind the Abbasid mihna of the ninth
century. More recently, in the late nineteenth century, the Ottoman Sultan
sponsored various Sufis against the enemies of his regime.1 British and French
colonial authorities followed similar approaches. In the Sudan, support of loyal
Sufis such as the Khatmiyya against dangerous Sufis such as the Mahdists was
a key element of British policy, until the Khatmiyya became too close to Egypt
and Britain began to support the Mahdists against the Khatmiyya instead.2 The
French were still supporting loyal Sufis in Algeria in the 1930s: Ahmad al-Alawi,
the ‘Sufi saint of the twentieth century’ of Martin Lings’ best-selling biography,
benefitted from French support as well as from sanctity.3 What is new about
current strategies of supporting Sufis against Salafis, then, is principally the
emergence of Salafism.
Salafism is, of course, notable for its opposition to Sufism, an opposition that
it inherits from Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab, and that is perhaps inherent
in Islam, as Ernest Gellner has argued. According to Gellner’s ‘pendulum swing’
theory, Sufism typifies one ‘style of religious life’ in Islam, and ‘scripturalism’, the
text-based puritanism of which Salafism is an example, typifies an alternative style.

These two styles, according to Gellner, are in constant competition.4 Salafism is
hard to define, partly because it is a loose movement, which develops as it grows.
One characteristic of Salafism that seems to remain constant, however, in the
Arab world and in Europe, is its condemnation of Sufism. Sufism seems to be
one crucial ‘other’ against which Salafism defines itself. This makes Sufism an
obvious ally for those who oppose Salafism.
Examples of support of Sufism by anti-Salafis can be found in many places,
in the Muslim world and the West, and also in Israel. This chapter will take four
representative cases, two from the Arab world and two from the West. The cases
from the Arab world are Moroccan government support of the Boutchichiyya
(Budshishiyya) and Egyptian liberals’ attempted alliance with various Sufis during
the parliamentary elections of 2011–12, which will be dealt with in outline. The
two cases from the West are support of Sufis in the United States and the United
Kingdom in the context of the so-called ‘War on Terror’. The Moroccan case has
been selected as one of the most successful instances of the use of Sufism in the
battle against Islamism and Salafism by an Arab government. The Egyptian case
has been selected as the major recent non-state attempt in the Arab world to use
Sufism against Islamism and Salafism. The American and British cases have been
selected because those two governments stood in the front rank of the ‘War on
Terror’ after 9/11.
Morocco
Moroccan government support for Sufism is visible in its treatment of the

Boutchichiyya, which since the 1970s has become the country’s most important
tariqa, and also in a policy of promoting a ‘national’ Islam that is partly Sufi. The
Boutchichiyya initially attracted not support but repression from the Moroccan
state after the 1974 publication of a long ‘open letter’, Al-Islam aw al-tufan
(Islam or the deluge), from Abdessalam Yassine (ʿAbd al-Salam Yasin), a former
Boutchichi, to King Hassan II. In this letter, Yassine called on the king to repent
and rule as a proper Islamic ruler. Rather than repenting, Hasan II had Yassine
arrested and detained in a mental institution for four years. On his release in 1979,
Yassine organized what is now called Al-ʿadl waʾl-ihsan (Justice and Charity), a
Sufi-tinged Islamist opposition movement.5 Although the Boutchichiyya was
innocent of any part in the letter or the opposition movement, and Yassine had
separated himself from the Boutchichiyya some two years before writing the
Sufis as ‘Good Muslims’: Sufism in the Battle against Jihadi Salafism 107
letter,6 the association between him and the Boutchichiyya seems to have been
enough to account for numerous government restrictions on the Boutchichiyya
during the following years.7
Government policy changed, however, under King Mohamed VI, the young
and innovative successor to Hassan II, who had died in 1999. In dealing with
Islamist groups, Mohamed VI switched the emphasis from repression to co-option.
His policy has been generally successful. Although Yassine’s Al-ʿadl waʾl-ihsan
refused to be co-opted, the larger and more important PJD, the Justice and
Development Party, became a ‘loyal opposition’, participating in parliamentary
politics despite the limited powers of the parliament. As part of Mohamed VI’s
new policy, oppression of the Boutchichiyya was replaced by co-option.
Government support of the Boutchichiyya became visible with the
appointment in 2002 of a Boutchichi, Ahmed Toufiq, as Minister of Habous
(awqaf, religious affairs),8 and even more visible in 2004 with the appointment
of a son of the shaykh of the Boutchichiyya as governor of the province of
Berkane.9 It was also visible in the end of the official obstruction of the tariqa’s
activities that had been the norm under Hassan II. Which was more valuable to
the tariqa, the new support or the ending of former obstruction, is not clear, but
it is possible that the ending of obstruction was most significant.
The policy of co-option of the Boutchichiyya has evidently succeeded,
and the makhzan (palace) has secured the loyalty of one of the country’s
major religious movements. Positive loyalty is visible in small ways, as when
the Boutchichi shaykh displays a photograph of the king, or in bigger ways,
as when at the time of the so-called ‘Arab Spring’ the Boutchichiyya helped
mobilize a demonstration in favour of the king’s amended constitution,10 part of
a response that succeeded in preventing Tunisian- and Egyptian-style protests
from spreading to Morocco. Perhaps more importantly, loyalty is also visible in
negative ways: the Boutchichiyya and its followers do not take part in activities
and demonstrations critical of the king. As Abdelilah Bouasria has argued, under
certain circumstances, silence may be a political action.11
It is hard to say whether government policy towards the Boutchichiyya is aimed
primarily at securing the loyalty of the Boutchichiyya itself, or at strengthening
the Boutchichiyya as a bulwark against Salafism. Perhaps it is both. It is easier
for the government to have a large movement like the Boutchichiyya on its side
than to have it in opposition. There is also a stated policy of general support
for Sufism. This was announced by Mohamed VI in a speech in 2004, given
in the aftermath of the 2003 Casablanca bombings, which were carried out by
an al-Qa’ida affiliate and galvanized the Moroccan government. In his speech,
the king outlined a policy of protecting national, Moroccan Islam, which he

defined in terms of Ashʿari aqida (doctrine), the Maliki madhhab (codification
of the Shari‘a), the role of the king as amir al-mu’minin (leader of the believers)
and Sufism.12 The objective was to stem the advance of Salafism, understood
as foreign and alien. Sufism, in contrast, is Moroccan, national and authentic,
like the Maliki madhhab. To some extent this is true: historically, Sufism and
the Maliki madhhab have indeed been important in Morocco, as in all of North
Africa, and Salafism and Hanbalism are indeed of eastern (Saudi) origin. Salafis
do not welcome the Ashʿari aqida, either prefer the rival Hanbali madhhab to
the Maliki or attempt to avoid the madhhabs altogether, do not recognize anyone
as amir al-mu’minin, and are, of course, opposed to Sufism. To some extent,
however, the king’s 2004 speech announced a deliberate attempt to construct
tradition, a typical project of modernity. Three of his four points (the Ashʿari
ʿaqida, the madhhabs in general, and Sufism) coincide with a trend found in
the United States and the United Kingdom towards a revival of what is often
called ‘traditional Islam’13 but should perhaps be called ‘neo-traditionalism’. This
derives in part from critiques of modernity in certain circles in the West with
which some key members of the Boutchichiyya are connected.
The Moroccan policy of promoting Sufism and (neo-)traditional Moroccan
Islam is being implemented partly through the revitalization of the High Council
of Ulama, and partly through the Ministry of Habous, which in 2005 launched a
programme for the retraining of Moroccan imams. This programme trains some
200 imams a year to a high level with a special curriculum, and these imams are
then meant to retrain all of Morocco’s remaining 45,000 imams.14 After ten years
this programme should result in a trainer/trainee ratio of around 1:25, and so
might be expected to have some impact. It is more likely to promote the Maliki
madhhab, however, than Sufism.
Sufism may well be promoted simply by the absence of official obstruction,
and the position of the Boutchichiyya has certainly improved under King
Mohamed VI. To what extent this has resulted in a decline in Salafism in Morocco
is impossible to say, but it has certainly resulted in some increase in support for
the king and the makhzan, which from the Moroccan government’s perspective
is a desirable outcome.
The United States
The extent to which the US government, and especially the administration of

the second President Bush, has provided direct and indirect support for Sufism
remains unclear. Recommendations that such a policy should be adopted,
however, have been made repeatedly. Even before 9/11, in 1999, the Lebanese-
American Naqshbandi shaykh Hisham Kabbani, the American khalifa (deputy)
of the important Turkish-Cypriot shaykh Nazim al-Haqqani, told a gathering at
the State Department that 80 per cent of America’s mosques were controlled by
Wahhabis – what would today be called Salafis – and that this was a threat to the
United States that could best be countered, in effect, by supporting the Sufi form
of Islam that Kabbani espoused.15 Kabbani then established an Islamic Supreme
Council of America in competition with the well-established Islamic Council of
North America and the Council on American–Islamic Relations, neither of which
were, in most analyses, very Salafi. It is unknown how much support or funding
Kabbani’s Islamic Supreme Council received, but it at least attracted the favourable
notice of one major Neo-conservative commentator on Islam, Daniel Pipes.16
After 9/11, a new proposal for support of Sufism against jihadi Salafi was
made in a 2003 report, Civil Democratic Islam, Partners, Resources, and Strategies,
published by the Rand Corporation and authored by Cheryl Benard, a political
scientist and feminist writer17 who was married to Zalmay Khalilzad, the
Afghan-born former Rand employee who had become President Bush’s special
envoy for Afghanistan and then became the first post-invasion US ambassador
there, before moving on to Iraq as US ambassador in Baghdad. Benard’s 2003
report identified four ‘essential positions’ within Islam: Fundamentalists,
Traditionalists, Modernists and Secularists. Given the weakness of Secularists,
Benard recommended supporting Modernists, among whom she (rather
oddly) counted Sufis.18 ‘Sufism’, wrote Benard, ‘represents an open, intellectual
interpretation of Islam. Sufi influence over school curricula, norms and cultural
life should be strongly encouraged in countries that have a Sufi tradition, such
as Afghanistan or Iraq.’19
It is not known to what extent Benard’s husband followed this advice as
US representative in Afghanistan and Iraq, but it seems likely that he was too
busy with other matters to focus much on Sufi culture. In the United States
itself, however, the idea expressed by Benard and others seems to have become
established: Sufism was a natural ally, as ‘a mystical form of Islam that preaches
tolerance and a search for understanding’, to quote a Time article partly inspired
by Benard’s report.20
This understanding of Sufism had various consequences, including a meeting

between Shaykh Kabbani and President Bush. One other consequence was
sponsorship of another American Sufi, Feisal Abdul Rauf, both by private
individuals and by the Malaysian government, which is reported to have donated
$3 million to Rauf ’s projects.21 This Malaysian sponsorship may have been direct
Malaysian support, since Rauf has Malaysian connections, or may have been
indirect US support, since the US government sometimes routes contributions
to favoured causes through friendly governments.
Rauf, the son of an Egyptian imam who moved to the United States in the
1960s, was himself the part-time imam of a small mosque in lower Manhattan
belonging to the Jerrahi tariqa, which he had joined in 1983 at the hands of
its Turkish shaykh, Muzaffer Ozak, who was then making regular visits to the
United States.22 After Ozak’s death in 1985 his American following split into
two branches, with the Manhattan mosque where Rauf was imam becoming the
centre of the more universalist of the two. This was led not by Rauf but by an
American writer and broadcaster on religion, Lex Hixon, whose understanding
of religion derived partly from Plotinus, partly from a PhD in comparative
religion from Columbia University, and partly from his own explorations of
various religious traditions. At the time of his death in 1995, Hixon was not only
a Sufi shaykh but also a devotee of Kali and a member of the Russian Orthodox
Church. His Sufism, then, was certainly tolerant of other religions. Hixon was
succeeded as shaykh of this branch of the Jerrahiyya by Shaykha Fariha Fatima,
an American-born Jerrahi heiress well known for her earlier sponsorship of
conceptual art, and whose understanding of Islam is extremely progressive.23
Rauf cooperated with both Hixon and Fariha. The Manhattan Jerrahiyya, then,
was about as far from Salafism as it is possible to get. It was also linked indirectly
to the neotraditionalism with which Moroccan anti-Salafi policy is aligned.
After 9/11, Rauf became active in a number of ways. His American Sufi
Muslim Association, established in 1997, launched itself in January 2002 as the
ASMA Society with a performance by Muslim artists (painters, photographers
and poets) in New York’s Cathedral of St John the Divine. The ASMA Society
then developed into the American Society for Muslim Advancement, with
programmes for young Muslim leaders, women’s rights in Islam, arts and
culture, and interfaith work. These programmes proved so successful that it was
proposed to establish a permanent home for them, to be called Cordoba House,
referring to the memory of the medieval city of Cordoba as a place where not
only arts and philosophy flourished but where there had also been amicable
relations between Muslims, Christians and Jews. The Cordoba project gave rise
to a second organization, the Cordoba Initiative, with activities mostly directed

towards non-Muslim audiences. At the time of writing this chapter, for example,
the Initiative’s homepage announces three upcoming events and links five
media reports of past events. Only one of these eight posts relates to a Muslim
audience – an annual fundraising dinner at the Islamic Center of Boston. More
typical is a forthcoming address to an Institute for Christian and Jewish Studies
in Baltimore, and an op-ed in a Memphis newspaper, evidently in connection
with a past visit to Memphis.24
The Benard report was not a statement of US policy, but simply one among
many proposals circulating in Washington during the first Bush administration.
No direct linkage between the US government and Rauf ’s programmes is visible,
but those programmes were supported by external financing which the US
government may have facilitated, and fitted with a progressive conception of Islam
of a variety that Benard and many in the US government would have welcomed.
Rauf ’s activities were not exactly Sufi, but were certainly progressive, and the
progressive and the artistic fitted well with the Jerrahi Sufi milieu in which Rauf
had previously been active. To this extent, then, Benard seems to have been right:
the ASMA and the Cordoba Initiative were certainly alternatives to Salafism.
How many Muslims they attracted is not known, and how many of those who
were attracted might otherwise have been attracted by Salafism or jihadism
cannot be known, but America-friendly Islam was certainly being promoted.
This also served a broader counter-radicalization objective, as radicalization is
often a two-way process of polarization. From this perspective, improving non-
Muslim perceptions of Muslims serves the same objective as improving Muslim
perceptions of non-Muslims.
In the end, however, Benard, ASMA and the Cordoba Initiative may have
achieved the opposite of this. First, the Benard report became well known in the
Arab world, where it was taken by some as proof of a secret American conspiracy
to replace ‘true’ Islam with a fake pro-American pseudo-Islam. Hostility to the
United States was thus increased rather than decreased. Secondly, the proposed
Cordoba House caught the attention of activists within the American anti-Islam
movement, notably Pamela Geller and Robert Spencer of the American Freedom
Defense Initiative, later known as Stop Islamization of America, who objected
to what they called ‘the 9/11 mosque’ or the ‘Ground Zero Mosque’.25 This led
to an acrimonious nationwide debate that may have left American Muslims and
non-Muslims further apart than they had been at the beginning, precisely what
Benard’s plan and the Cordoba Initiative were trying to counter.
The United Kingdom
Although British Prime Minister Blair followed US President Bush in seeing

the War on Terror as a clash between good and evil, and although the British
government under Blair generally followed the lead of the US government, it
was not until after the London bombings of 2005 (known to some as ‘7/7’) that
the British government really began to focus on ideology. To this end, the British
government launched a well-funded counter-radicalization programme named
‘Prevent’. Among the beneficiaries of this programme were two Sufi-based
organizations, the Sufi Muslim Council and the British Muslim Forum. Both
of these received government funding of around £150,000 ($260,000) per year
between 2006 and 2009. In total, the British Muslim Forum received £435,000
($700,000), and the Sufi Muslim Council £390,000 ($630,000).26 Funding was
less generous than that given to Rauf ’s activities in America, then, but still
significant.
The British government seems to have had two motivations in supporting
these Sufi-based organizations. One motive was the support of ‘moderate’ Islam,
one of the declared objectives of the Prevent strategy. Another was to provide
alternatives to the Muslim Council of Britain, then Britain’s major national
Muslim body. The Muslim Council of Britain evidently appeared insufficiently
‘moderate’, given its public opposition to the 2003 invasion of Iraq and its long-
standing failure to attend Holocaust Memorial Day commemorations.27 Neither
of these are particularly Salafi positions, of course, but both could be understood
as ‘radical’. For some, ‘radical’ meant ‘Salafi’.
Neither Sufi-based organization was known before the launch of the Prevent
programme. The British Muslim Forum was allegedly founded shortly before the
bombings, in March 2005,28 but first became visible when it organized a fatwa
against bombing and murder, delivered outside the British parliament in July
2005.29 The Sufi Muslim Council first became visible inside the British parliament,
where it held its launch in July 2006, in the presence of Ruth Kelly, the minister
responsible for Prevent.30 The British Muslim Forum was based on the British
following of a Chishti shaykh resident in Pakistan, Muhammad Imdad Hussain
Pirzad;31 the Sufi Muslim Council was based on the British following of Shaykh
Nazim, the shaykh of Kabbani, whose 1999 address at the State Department had
first suggested Western government support of Sufism against Salafism.
Both Sufi-based organizations tried to increase their support beyond their
original base, but without much success. The British Muslim Forum listed nine
Sufi shaykhs on its website,32 and at one point claimed the loyalty of 200 mosques
around Britain, but – according to one critic – most of those mosques had never
actually heard of the British Muslim Forum.33 Kabbani spent time in the United
Kingdom visiting other Sufi leaders on behalf of the Sufi Muslim Council,34
and the Sufi Muslim Council’s UK-based organizer, Haras Rafiq, organized a
public dhikr, a so-called Tariqa Conference, and a ‘Hundred Colours of Sufism’
meeting.35 These events attracted mostly Naqshbandis, however. The latter two
events were attended by representatives of only three other groups: the Minhaj
al-Qur’an, devotees of a Pakistani Pir named Sultan Bahu, and a Pakistani
Naqshbandi branch.36
Both Sufi-based organizations were criticized in Britain’s Muslim press for
their close links to government and for representing only themselves.37 By 2010,
the Sufi Muslim Council had folded,38 and its organizer, Rafiq, had moved
on to head CENTRI, a small counter-extremism consultancy.39 The British
Muslim Forum still existed in 2013, but only as a small organization devoted
mostly to protesting the provocative anti-Islamic YouTube video ‘Innocence of
Muslims’.40
The failure of both these Sufi-based organizations may be ascribed partly to
their closeness to a British government that was suspect to many British Muslims.
It may also be ascribed, in the case of the Sufi Muslim Council, to the position of
the Naqshbandiyya within British Islam, which is somewhat marginal. Finally,
it can also be ascribed to excessive political emphases. While the Sufi Muslim
Council claimed to represent, or at least appeal to, apolitical Muslims interested
in spiritual Islam, its website and its amateurish and short-lived magazine,
Spirit,41 focused largely on political issues such as terrorism and radicalization,
and on invective directed at Wahhabis, not on spiritual matters. An article
entitled ‘Threat Levels and the System to Assess the Threat from International
Terrorism’42 is hardly calculated to appeal to the apolitical, spiritually minded.
The Sufi Muslim Council also focused excessively on Kabbani, who on its website
was shown meeting the British Foreign Secretary and an Anglican bishop,43 and
described in one caption as ‘His Holiness’,44 a title normally given to the Catholic
Pope and the Dalai Lama, not to Sufi shaykhs. The promotion of Kabbani could
hardly be expected to attract Sufis from other tariqas.
British attempts to use Sufis against Salafis, then, were even less successful
than American attempts, which had at least promoted ‘moderate’ Islam before
an American audience, if not a Salafi one. The groups and individuals sponsored
by the British were more marginal, and for some this association with the
marginal made the British government look foolish. A subsequent government

evaluation of the original Prevent programme observed that money had been
wasted,45 and this observation may well have referred to initiatives such as the
Sufi Muslim Council and the British Muslim Forum. A parliamentary committee
also noted in 2010 that the support of Sufis against Salafis made it appear that
the government was engaging in Islamic theology, something that it had said it
would not do and, in the view of the committee, indeed should not do.46
Egypt
Before the January 2011 uprising in Egypt, there were occasional suggestions that
the Mubarak regime was supporting Sufis in the same way that the Moroccan
government was, for example, in appointing a Sufi, Ahmad Al-Tayyib, as Shaykh
al-Azhar (one of the two senior posts in Egyptian Islam) in 2010.47 There were,
however, no clear indications of such a policy to compare with Mohamed
VI’s 2004 speech in Morocco, and the Mubarak regime clearly also remained
interested in restraining Sufis rather than supporting them, for example, through
its Supreme Council for Sufi Affairs.
The most interesting attempt to use Sufis against Salafis in Egypt was made
not by the state but by so-called ‘secular’ or liberal politicians in the run-up to
the 2011/12 parliamentary elections, that is those politicians who took a stand
against both the Salafis and the Brotherhood. Three parties in the ‘secular’ block
were established on Sufi foundations: the Sawt al-hurriyya (Voice of Freedom)
on a Rifaʾi basis,48 the Hizb al-tahrir al-masri (Egyptian Liberation Party) on
the basis of the Azimiyya49 and the Hizb al-nasr (Victory Party) on the basis of
another tariqa, as yet unidentified. In addition, the shaykh of the Shabrawiyya
aligned his tariqa with the Hizb al-shaʾb al-dimuqrati (Democratic People’s
Party),50 and another Rifaʾi shaykh established a Coalition of Egyptian Sufis.51
Of these Sufi entrants into a crowded political field, one of the best known was
Mohamed Alaʾa al-Din Abu al-ʿAzaʾim, shaykh of the Azimiyya, and so the
Sufi voice in the Hizb al-tahrir al-masri. Abu al-ʿAzaʾim had been one of two
contestants in 2010 for the post of head of the Supreme Council for Sufi Affairs;
he had lost to ʿAbd al-Hady Ahmad al-Qasbi, who was appointed by Mubarak
to that post.
The expectation among the ‘secular’ politicians associating themselves with
these Sufis was, presumably, that they would prove effective allies against the
Salafis and the Muslim Brothers. Some commentators expected the Sufis to
make an important difference. There were estimated to be 15 million Sufis in
Egypt,52 and the Hizb al-sha’b al-dimuqrati, for example, was estimated to have
200,000 Sufis among its 3 million members.53 The Hizb al-tahrir al-masri spoke of
contesting 150 seats.54 Matt Bradley, writing in The Wall Street Journal, assigned
to Sufis a role not very different from that assigned in the United States and the
United Kingdom: Sufis, he wrote, ‘represent Egypt’s silent political majority, and
define the mainstream Egyptian religious identity: moderate, inclusive and far
more personal than political’.55
In the event, however, the political impact of these Sufi parties and politicians
was slight. In August 2011, for example, Al-Shabrawi and Abuʾl ʿAzaʾim were
among those who called a major anti-Salafi demonstration in Tahrir Square.56
Only a handful of demonstrators showed, however.57 When it came to the
parliamentary election, the Sufi parties were reported to have joined in the Hizb
al-muatamar al-masri (Conference Party), a ‘secular’ umbrella, which secured
only nine seats for its thirteen constituent parties. Sufi influence among voters,
then, seemed slight. Sufis, in the end, failed to deliver any more in the contest
with Salafism and Islamism in Egypt than they had in Britain.
Conclusion
Of our four examples, it is only in Morocco that attempts to use Sufism against
Salafism may have met with some success. In the United States, such attempts
promoted visions of ‘moderate’ Islam, but to American rather than Salafi
audiences. In the United Kingdom and Egypt, they failed to achieve anything
significant.
In the United States, Feisal Abdul Rauf ’s ASMA and Cordoba Initiative
sponsored some Manhattan artists who happened to be Muslim and supplied
a good speaker for interfaith events, but probably had more impact on non-
Muslim opinion than on Muslim opinion. Sponsoring Abdul Rauf, then, was not
unproductive, but probably was not productive in the fight against Salafism. In the
end it backfired, when the Cordoba Initiative became the Ground Zero Mosque
outrage. This was not Rauf ’s fault: he was just one of Gelner’s various targets and
incidental to her main objective. However, the damage done to Muslim–non-
Muslim relations in the United States by the Ground Zero Mosque controversy
may well have exceeded the good done by Abdul Rauf ’s other activities.
Attempts to use Sufis in the United Kingdom were even less successful than
in the United States, since not even non-Muslim audiences seem to have been
reached. Again, the project backfired. The British government ended up looking
foolish, and also appeared to be intervening in internal questions of Islamic
theology, thus strengthening the jihadist narrative of a Western war on Islam

rather than undermining it.
In Egypt, attempts to use Sufis against Salafis do not seem to have backfired, at
least. Egyptian Sufis simply failed to achieve any significant impact. In this they
were not alone: in post-Mubarak Egypt’s fractured and dysfunctional political
scene, only the Muslim Brothers and the Salafis achieved the basic objective of
organizing themselves effectively and achieving some measure of success on a
national level.
In general, it seems clear that Sufis have not proved effective in the fight
against Salafism. This might be explained by Sufism’s apolitical nature, which
is emphasized by some Sufis and by some of their sponsors. An apolitical force
would not, a priori, be expected to be very effective in a political arena. In fact,
however, this does not seem to be a valid explanation, as Sufis are not in fact
naturally apolitical. In Morocco, Yassine was political, and his Al-ʿadl waʾl-ihsan
was of Sufi origin. During the nineteenth century, Sufis were often political: in
fact the religious groups that the British and French were using Sufis against, as
briefly referred to at the start of this chapter, were themselves Sufi. That Sufis can
be very political is also indicated by the fact that two Arab states of the twentieth
century, the Emirate of Asir58 in the 1920s and the Kingdom of Libya in the
1950s and 1960s, both had a Sufi origin. States are political entities. The idea that
Sufis are apolitical, then, is based on lack of information. As Isabelle Werenfels
observes, it may be true of Sufi writings, but has not historically been true of Sufi
activities.59
One major explanation of the failure of Sufis to prove effective in the fight
against Salafism in recent years is the tariqas chosen for support. ‘Sufism’ is an
outsider category, used by Salafis and scholars but not much used by the Sufis
themselves. Sufis self-identify not as Sufis, but as members of a particular tariqa.
And in any tariqa, there is generally a trade-off between size and intensity.
A tariqa may be very intense, like the Jerrahiyya of lower Manhattan or the
Naqshbandiyya of Shaykh Nazim, but in that case it will be small – probably no
more than 50–100 people in Manhattan, and 100–200 Naqshbandis in England
(with more in other countries). There are obvious limits to what can be achieved
by a small and intense tariqa, then. The Azimiyya and the Rifaʾiyya, in contrast,
are old and large tariqas. Rifaʾis may indeed be counted in the hundreds of
thousands. Those Rifa’is, however, have only a loose connection to the Rifaʾiyya.
If asked about Ahmad al-Rifaʾi they will express respect and even some degree
of devotion, but if asked to come to Tahrir Square during Ramadan in August,
most will not. There are important limits, then, to what can be achieved by both
the small and intense tariqa and the old and large tariqa. In both cases, it is
hard to mobilize Sufis in large numbers. Only the Boutchichiyya, as a new and
expanding tariqa, combines size and intensity, rather as the Sufi enemies of
the British and French in the nineteenth century did. This is one reason why
Moroccan sponsorship of the Boutchichiyya was somewhat successful. The
Moroccan government was dealing with what was already a national force, not
with a handful of aspirants like the Sufi Muslim Council in Britain. There are,
however, disadvantages in supporting a large and powerful tariqa, as Werenfels
points out. The government may find the Boutchichiyya increasingly difficult
to control, given both its capacity to mobilize and its extensive network within
state institutions.60
Even if it were possible to mobilize Sufis in large numbers, Sufis would still
probably prove ineffective in the fight against jihadi Salafism. Shortly after 9/11,
Newsweek famously asked ‘Why do they hate us?’ The answers suggested had in
common that they were generally about ‘them’, the Arabs, and not about ‘us’, the
Americans. The correct answer to the Newsweek question lies beyond the scope
of this chapter, but it can be argued that jihadi Salafism has primarily political
causes. Since the US and UK governments after 9/11 were reluctant to admit
to such political causes, however, they naturally emphasized theological and
civilizational ones instead. Support for Sufism was thus a theological remedy for
what was conceived of as a theological problem. To the extent that the problem
was political rather than theological, however, theological remedies could not
be effective. This chapter thus supports the conclusion of a recent article on the
same topic in Perspectives on Terrorism, that ‘policy makers and policy-oriented
scholars would be well advised to abandon the quest for theological roots of
violence and theological tools for combating it’.61
Sufism may be the natural enemy of Salafism, but this does not mean that
Sufism is the natural ally of those who are opposing Salafism, especially when
they are opposing Salafism for their own reasons.
118
7
Mystical Traditions and Voices of Dissent:

Experiences from Bengal
Kashshaf Ghani1
Along with prominent Sufi Orders like the Chishtiyya and the Suhrawardiyya,
and to some extent the Qadiriyya, Bengal also has a rich tradition of the Pir
and Fakir cult. These cults hinge on Sufi traditions while expounding their own
beliefs and principles, which came to be labelled as be-shariʿati by Salafis.2 I
plan to explore this cultural-religious space of Bengal in the contemporary
period.
This is an experience unique to Bengal. In most other regions of South
Asia, Sufi Orders are considered the primary carriers of the Islamic mystical
tradition. But the influence of Pirs and Fakirs, stretching well into Bangladesh,
offer an interesting dimension towards studying popular mystical trends in
contemporary Bengal.
In Bengal what we have by the Salafi tradition is the Ahl-i Hadith community,
present in significant numbers in rural Bengal, where, interestingly, mystical
cults and Sufi orders also command a great degree of respect. Throughout the
twentieth century we come across literature produced by the Salafi groups
voicing their protest and resentment against many practices prevalent among
Sufis, Fakirs and Pirs, along with reflecting their own understanding of
tasawwuf.
These literatures, written throughout the twentieth century, will be situated
within the context of Bengal to bring into focus some recent understandings
on the interactions between Sufi/Fakir/Pir and Wahhabi/Salafi groups operating
within the geographical and religio-cultural space of India’s easternmost
province, where Islamic mysticism carries a tradition as old as Delhi and
Multan.
Introduction
The establishment of Muslim political authority, by the Turks, in the early

thirteenth century created a haven for Muslim holy men or Sufis who came
not only from north India, but also outside the subcontinent and settled down
comfortably within the emerging Muslim society in Bengal.3 These pious
immigrants formed an important medium through which the inhabitants of
the land came to experience Islam, steeped in Arabic and Persian symbols.
The sharpness of swords was mellowed to a great extent by these Sufis who
presented a more humane face of Islam. Eventually this socio-cultural proximity
strengthened the bond between the immigrant and the indigenous population,
which allowed for mutual understanding of cultures and religious beliefs.
In course of their close contact with the local population over centuries, Sufi
masters were successful in influencing a large section of the resident population.
A fifteenth-century Sufi master, Sayyid Ashraf Jahangir Simnani, noted,
‘numerous saints and ascetics came from many directions and made it their
habitation and home’.4 He goes on to say that ‘in the country of Bengal there
is no town and no village where holy saints did not come and settle down’.5
Sufis too were in turn influenced by certain traditions of indigenous culture.
Mystical teachings preached by ancient Hindu seers, practices of Nathapanthi
Yogis, Tantric and Sahajiya cults and other indigenous trends came to influence
the Sufi tradition in Bengal in varying degrees.6 In the same way as Chishtiyya
masters in north India welcomed Nathapanthi Yogis in their khanaqahs and
engaged with them in spiritual practices and discussions, with the coming of
Sufism, congenial atmosphere was created in Bengal whereby mystics differing
in their spiritual paths came together to share their knowledge on various
mystical issues. A successful culmination of this exchange was the acceptance
of yoga manuals in Sufi khanaqahs, like the translation of a Sanskrit Yoga text
Amritakunda (Pool of Nectar), first into Arabic and then Persian by Qazi Rukn
al-din Samarqandi during the reign of ʿAli Mardan Khilji in the early thirteenth
century.7 The translation, titled Hawz al-Hayat, drew the attention of Bengal
Sufis into the realm of human physiology.
Masses brought within the fold of Islam failed to distance themselves
completely from the religion of their ancestors and continued to practice some
rituals from their former faith. As a result a popular form of Islam came to be
practised through a combination of Islamic beliefs and practices with local
rituals, traditions and superstitions. This cultural fusion soon found expression
with the formation of sects like Aul, Baul and Fakir.8 In spite of their mystical
Mystical Traditions and Voices of Dissent: Experiences from Bengal 121
leanings these sects were not considered part of the Sufi tradition, as their
training and practices reflected non-Sufi and non-Islamic traits.
In the following discussion the paper will explore some aspects of the sect
of the Fakir in Bengal. Though their beliefs and practices – singing songs as a
spiritual exercise – have much in common with the Sufi tradition, Fakirs differ
in their approach towards adherence to the principles of Islam in their daily life.
Their meditational practices, though largely performed behind the public eye,
have invited the ire of the conservative clergy and religious leaders of the Muslim
society. The paper will look into the various forms in which such hostilities were,
and still are, expressed against the Fakirs. In the process it will be argued that
while Islamic mystical tradition did not follow a linear trajectory in Bengal, at
the same time it is unjustified to look for a single ‘voice of discontent’. Rather
protests against the beliefs and practices of Fakirs need to be explored across
layers, in order to gain a better understanding of its multiple trajectories.
Fakirs of Bengal
Fakir literally means a poor person. Over time it also came to denote a mendicant
or a guide (guru) in the mystical tradition of Islam. The origin of this sect can be
traced to the Sufi traditions in Bengal that flourished between the fifteenth and
seventeenth centuries. With the rise of popular or folk Islam, terms like Pir, Fakir,
Baul, Awliya and Derwesh came to be used rather synonymously, representing
a spiritual sect with elements drawn from both Islamic and Hindu traditions.
Fakirs were greatly influenced by the Sufi tradition in Bengal and beyond,
though they lacked any formal training in the Sufi path (tariqa). Not all could
avail training from a Sufi master and be spiritually disciplined in a Sufi khanaqah.
As a result, Natha, Sahajiya and Tantrika teachings came to supplement, and in
turn influence, their spiritual training. These cults, indigenous to Bengal, hardly
followed a strict code of religion and ethics.9
Such an amalgamation of spiritual trainings resulted in the formation of a
hybrid sect of mystics – the Fakirs.10 Following the literal meaning of the word,
Fakirs consider themselves to be free from all possessions, except their quest for
God. Drawing from the Sufi tradition, their preaching carries the message of a
monotheistic belief in God, and at the same time underlined ideas of liberty,
equality, brotherhood and universality – rising above sectarian and socio-
religious hierarchies. Religious scriptures, for the Fakirs, carry nothing more
than dry religious pronouncements, which contribute little to eliminate social
differences. Fakirs express their thoughts in the language of the masses, devoid
of any complicated spiritual jargon, yet reflecting the problems that plague the
society around them. Following the example of leading Sufi masters from the
Chishtiyya, Suhrawardiyya and Qadiriyya Orders, Fakirs strive hard against
the sectarian divisions of society. Towards this aim they preach the message of
love and unity within the masses. Providing happiness to human heart, for the
Fakirs, proved a duty greater than Hajj.
Dil ba dast e-ahwar ke hajj e-akbar ast
Az hazara ka’aba ek dil behtar ast
Provide happiness to the human heart, for it is the greater hajj

A happy heart is better than a thousand kaʿba
Since the human heart is God’s creation, Fakirs consider it as the dil kaʿba, or
the Kaʿba of the heart.11 In contrast Fakirs attach less importance to the Kaʿba
at Mecca – the qibla for Muslims, which they consider a human creation, built
by Abraham.12
Fakirs also reject ideas of the after-world, heaven, hell, before-life and
rebirth.13 Rather they never lose sight of the reality and prefer to believe in what
is apparent, or present before the eyes.14 Going by this logic, they even do not
believe in the unseen God. Instead they find God within the human body. And
since humans take birth only from a human body, Fakirs argue that God has
no role to play in this process. This ideology of the Fakirs reflects a clear Natha,
Sahajiya and Tantrika influence, following which Fakirs attach more importance
towards meditation through the human body. Unlike Sufis, who believe in
mortification of the flesh towards attaining spiritual union with the Divine,
Fakirs imagine the Divine within the human body itself and hence consider it
the centre of their meditation.15
For Fakirs, such meditation through the human body holds the key towards
spiritual elevation and unravelling of the divine mystery. Hence in their ways
of meditation and interpretation of the faith, Fakirs choose to rise above the
doctrines put forward by religious scriptures though, as stated below, the
universal beliefs of Islam are accepted by them on many occasions. Fakirs argue
that since they have not seen God, they imagine Him within the human being.
In doing so they argue that since God breathed Himself into Adam and His
throne is in the heart of the believer, therefore the best way to find God is not
in sites of pilgrimage, but inside His finest creation (ashraf al-makhlukat) – the
human being.16 So, for the Fakirs God resides within the human body, and the
path towards knowing the Divine is inextricably linked to human physiology.17
Thus the human body is the most important medium for meditation, and hence
must be explored from within – in the path towards spiritual freedom, eternal
love and divine realization.18
In such an exercise four bodily excretions are considered important by the
Fakirs – menstrual blood (rajo), semen (birja), excrement (bistha) and urine
(mutra). Fakirs believe that the human body is constituted of four elements –
water (ab), fire (atash), dust (khak) and air (bat), also known as the ʿAlam-i
khalq.19 However Fakirs do not attest to the ʿAlam-i amr composed of self (nafs),
heart (qalb), spirit (ruh), secret (sirr), intuition (khafi) and mystery (akhfa),
which together with the ʿAlam-i khalq constitute the supersensory perceptions
(latifa) in Sufi psychology.
The inner bodily matters corresponding to these four elements, recognized
by Fakirs, are urine for water (aab), menstrual blood for fire (atash), excrement
for dust (khak) and semen for air (baat). Metaphorically these four bodily
elements are called by Fakirs the four moons (chari chandra) or four stations
(maqam).20 Fakirs argue that since the bodily excretions are created through
the four elements, intake of the former in measured amounts begins a cycle of
chemical reaction, which in turn enhances the stamina of the Fakir to undertake
longer durations of spiritual exercises.21
Fakirs consider the human body, and not the divine Creator, to be their source
of origin. Therefore semen and menstrual blood become the two basic substances
that constitute that origin. While the former carries the legacy of the father, the
latter, from the mother, nourishes the unborn foetus till the time it is born. As
a result Fakirs consider womb blood to be a form of sustenance provided by
nature, to the foetus.22 Through consumption of these two substances – semen
and menstrual blood – as part of their meditation exercise, Fakirs strive to retain
the very sources of their origin within their own body. It is precisely for the
fulfilment of such requirements that Fakirs insist on having a female partner,
on many instances in the form of a wife, in their meditation exercises. Since
Fakirs consider the human body to be the focus of their spiritual exercises, the
‘body’ of a woman is therefore considered indispensable in this exercise. Bodily
productions of both man and woman, like semen, menstrual blood and breast
milk, are considered important components used by Fakirs in course of their
meditation exercises.
Such principles and methods of meditation through the body are not always
well documented. Neither do Fakirs have any well-defined manual or treatise
elaborating their spiritual stages. Their entire knowledge is gained and thereafter
passed on through the oral medium.23 The rules for meditating with the body
are passed from the master (guru) to the disciple (shishya). The centrality of
the master–disciple relationship in the Fakir tradition are expressed through the
medium of song.24
Je ghore bas kori shey ghorer khabar nai
Chetan gurur sanga laye khobor koro bhai
I do not have knowledge of the house (body) I live in,

Oh brother! Take help from a learned master to gain such knowledge25
In the journey towards unravelling the mysteries of the human physiology and
through it eventually the divine, the role of the master or murshid is of central
importance. If a Fakir aspires to follow the spiritual path and gain knowledge of
the hidden sciences, he has to take recourse to a spiritual master, just like Sufi
shaykhs, to guide him in the unknown path. The disciple surrenders himself at
the feet of his master, while the latter familiarizes the disciple on the path towards
spiritual advancement. At the same time the disciple also invokes the image of
his master at times of contemplation and spiritual distress. With this the idea
of fana fiʾl-shaykh or annihilation in the master assumes a tangible shape even
within the Fakir tradition.26
Problems develop once the idea of fana fiʾl-shaykh becomes distorted into an
actual worship of the master himself. This is when the focus of the disciple shifts
from worshipping the formless God to his master, with the belief that the latter
will be able to provide help to the disciple even in the afterlife. With the worship
of the master and a belief in his unfailing assistance, Fakirs of Bengal moved away
from the foundational principles of Sufism. The murshid of the Sufi tradition
now became the primary medium through which Fakirs aimed to experience
the Divine. The master in the Fakir tradition became the living manifestation of
God on Earth, and his disciples looked up to him with respect, attaching a sense
of divinity, much similar to the idea of the Perfect Man (insan-i kamil) prevalent
in Sufi traditions. This trend became entrenched with Fakirs moving more and
more into meditation through human physiology, thereby moving away from
the Sufi principles of tasawwuf.27
In spite of deviations from the Sufi tradition, one practice that underlines
the deep influence of Sufism on the Fakirs of Bengal is their attachment to
songs and poetry as the primary medium of expressing their spiritual message.
Much like the Chishtiyya masters who revelled in musical assemblies (samaʿ),
Fakirs too use songs not only as a medium to express their religious, mystical
and philosophical understandings, but also as an important tool for training
disciples and propagating their philosophy among non-initiates.28 These songs
are laden with metaphors, intended to hide the inner meaning from those
untrained in the path, and in the process avoid invoking the ire of Salafis and
religious leaders. The multi-layered meanings of these compositions can be
deciphered only by those trained in this particular spiritual vocabulary. Any
lay individual listening to these songs will understand it literally, rather than in
the mystical sense. Fakirs call this tongue the ishara-I k ‘alam, or the language
of gesture/sign.29
Amar priya nabi r deshe jabo, pal tuley de, noukai pal tuley de
Do jahaan er badsha jini

Parey lagaben tini
Shei je par er kandari
Kadam chhuye ne
Arsh e te Allah chilo
Madinai Muhammad holo
Murshid amai bole dilo
Kalma pore ne
Awwal o akhir e nabi
Zahir o batin e nabi
Nabir nabi mahanabi
Smaran kore ne30
I wish to visit my dear prophet’s land, fix the sail, fix the sail on the boat
He, who, is the lord of the two worlds

Will guide us to the shore
He is the helmsman of the ocean
Touch his feet
When in the throne, he was Allah
When in Madina, he was Muhammad
My murshid told me such
Read the kalima31
Prophet is the beginning and the end
Prophet is the outer and the inner
Our Prophet is the prophet of prophets
Remember him
If the outer meaning reflects the desire of a devout Muslim to visit the land of
his Prophet, the inner meaning reveals a hidden message and at the same time
provides an understanding of the ways Fakirs meditate through the human
physiology.
In the above song, a Fakir imagines that the land of the beloved Prophet lies
within our own body. One can reach there only if one sails across the river-like
body. This is possible through intercourse between a male and a female. The male
and the female bodies represent the two worlds (do jahan), of which the Prophet
is the master (badshah). It is he who will guide a Fakir to his land through the
river-like body. After one reaches the destination, they must touch the feet
(kadambosi) of the Prophet. So it is evident that reaching that land, or attaining
that spiritual position, is impossible for a solitary man or woman. One needs
to find a murshid, and take oath (bayat) from him. The murshid then will guide
the disciple on his journey after making him recite the kalima. And it is only by
following the path of the Fakir that one can reach the Prophet, who is present
both in the outer and inner (zahir wa batin) worlds.32
The subject of the songs sung by the Fakirs is not limited only to their
meditation practices. Rather a large corpus of them is composed to voice protest
against social evils and acts of injustice meted out to Fakirs in the name of
religion. One such song carries a message centred on the futility of dividing
mankind along categories of caste, class and religion.33
Jat gelo, jat gelo bole,

Ek ajab karkhana
Satya pathe keu noi raazi
Sab dekhi ta na na na
Jakhan tumi bhabey ele
Tokhon tumi ki jaat chiley
Ki jaat hobe jabar kaley
Shey katha keno bolona
Caste in danger, caste in danger

Strikes up a strange cry
None is ready to follow the right path
All are going the other way
When you were born
What caste did you belong to?
What caste will you be part of, at the time of death?
Why do you not think about it?
Preaching through the medium of songs fulfil a dual motive for the Fakirs. First,
as an oral medium, songs carry and express the spiritual and mystical ideology
of the Fakirs to the lay individual, albeit in a veiled form. Secondly, these songs
lend voice and identity to a marginal sect fighting for their existence in the face
of relentless attacks from a larger section of the same society. These attacks range
from direct physical confrontation and social harassment to sharp criticisms of
beliefs and ideas that Fakirs stand for. Though largely relegated to the periphery
of both the Muslim community and the larger society as a whole, it is undeniable
that certain actions of the Fakirs attract unwanted reactions from within the
mainstream society. As a result their songs and messages, as a critique against
doctrinal religion, need to be veiled behind metaphors.
Fakirs refuse to believe in the basic difference between one man and another.
Such a belief can be traced to the twin influences of Sufism and local mystical
traditions, elaborated above, which shaped the origin and ideology of this sect.
Fakirs believe in the idea of universal brotherhood preached by Sufis as an intrinsic
pronouncement of Islam. Many scholars consider this aspect of Sufi preaching as
the primary reason for their popularity and acceptance in a severely caste-ridden
society like South Asia. This argument also holds true for Bengal, where the lower
sections of the resident population, both Hindus and Buddhists, were deprived
of their right to socio-religious freedom at par with the upper classes. With the
coming of Sufis to Bengal this section of the society, considerable in size and
number, were attracted to the egalitarian principles of Islam brought forward to
them by the compassionate mystics. This tradition continued even when Sufism
declined in popularity, and its place was taken by sects like Baul and Fakir.
The influence of Yogic, Natha and Sahajiya cults turned Fakirs towards the path
of meditation through exploring the human body. The root to this physiological
approach to meditation involved a belief in a single source of human creation –
not in the divine, but in the essential elements – semen and menstrual blood –
which combined to create life inside the womb. By replicating divine intervention
with bodily elements as the source of human creation, Fakirs at once position
themselves above social distinctions that divide human beings along parameters
of religion and belief in the divine almighty. This underlines the belief of the Fakirs
in the equality of mankind beyond religion and caste affiliations. At the same
time by preaching that the origin of creation lay hidden in the union of the bodily
elements of semen and menstrual blood, Fakirs justify their meditation practices
which aid their search for the Creator not through religious performances and
other-worldly pursuits, but through meditation with one’s own body.
Amar ghar khanai ke biraj kore
Janam bhoriya ekdin o na ekdin o na dekhlam tarey34
He who resides in my house (body)

(I) Have not seen him since birth, even for once, even for once
Though Fakirs claim to derive inspiration from the Sufi tradition, their steady
avowal against scriptural religion subjects them to constant criticism, at times
hostility, from the shariʿa-minded religious leaders of the Muslim community.
At times such anti-scriptural positions bordered on innovation (bidaʿat) within
religious canons, exposing Fakirs to intense hostility from within Muslim society,
a discussion to which we turn later. For Fakirs, reciting the testament of faith
(kalima) sealed an individuals’ belief only in scriptural religion. But it failed to
enlighten him to the inner spiritual truth. That can only be achieved by reciting
the kalima from what Fakirs’ call the dil Koran – or the Qurʾan of the heart.
Fakirs believe that Prophet Muhammad received a total of 90,000 revelations
from Allah, from which he shared only 30,000, in the form of the Qurʾan,
meaning that he kept 50,000 secret. This can only be known if one is guided by a
murshid, who will reveal the dil Koran. The remaining 10,000 revelations, sealed
in the heart of the Prophet and known as the ʿilm-i sina, can only be accessed
when a Fakir has reached the highest stage of spiritual attainment. The process
of transmission of the ʿilm-i sina to the heart of the mystic follows the principle
of sina ba sina (heart to heart).35
Therefore the teachings of maʿrifat stored in the ʿilm-i sina cannot be realized
through external (zahiri) religious practices of prayer and fasting alone. Rather
it is receptive only to the heart of the Fakir, which is trained by the murshid
and blessed by the Prophet.36 Those who believe in scriptural Islam are called
shariʿati by the Fakirs, since the former believe in the unseen God, concepts of
heaven and hell, afterlife, rewards for following religious canons in their daily
life, even though they have not seen or experienced anything for themselves.37
Pushed to the periphery of society, Fakirs engage in rituals and bodily
exercises away from the public eye. At the same time there are some Fakirs who
strive to associate themselves with Sufi establishments like khanaqahs and tombs
(dargahs), which serve them a dual benefit. First, through these institutions Fakirs
command respect from a much larger cross section of the society irrespective of
religious affiliation. Secondly, by attaching themselves to the dominant Islamic
mystical tradition of Sufism, Fakirs try to build up a stronger institutional
response to conservative and reformist groups within the community, compared
with what they could have done as an isolated individual.
Attachment to a dargah can be in the capacity of a custodian (khadim),
where a Fakir looks after the tomb complex. At the same time he takes care
of all the rituals usually attached to a dargah – attending to devotees, visitors
and, most importantly, organizing the annual ʿurs festival, celebrating the death
anniversary of the Sufi. Such an attachment continues over generations. A Fakir
called Dayem Shah is credited to have popularized the dargah complex of an

obscure Sufi called ʿAlam Baba, regarding whom nothing is known for certain.
His dargah is near the important town of Dubrajpur in the Birbhum district of
West Bengal, India. Dayem Shah’s son Naib Shah and now his son Jalal Shah is
the chief khadim of the dargah. He is primarily responsible for organizing an
elaborate ʿurs festival every year on the fourth Friday of the Bengali month of
Ashar (June–July). Popular legend has it that ʿAlam Baba came from Central
Asia/Persia and settled in this place. An extra-territorial connection with Central
Asia and Persia, the cradle of Sufism, is commonly used to trace the roots for
the majority of Sufis settled in Bengal.38 Nayeb Shah appropriated that spiritual
lineage and presented himself as the true heir of ʿAlam Baba. As a mark of his
position as the khadim of the shrine, Nayeb Shah rides on horseback wearing
a patched cloak (khirqa) with a stick in hand, the head of which resembled
the head of a snake. Such visual representations bring alive the charisma of a
Sufi master to the local population who in turn patronize the dargah with rich
endowments in cash and kind.39
However it is interesting to note that most of the people who throng at the
dargah of ʿAlam Baba during ʿurs follow the shariʿat in their daily life. They are
least aware of the maʿrifat way of life practised by the Fakirs. Rather they are
more interested in securing the blessings of the pious soul that rests there. Pray-
ing at the dargah, prostrating to the Sufi resting there, offering chadar,40 flowers
and incense are strictly censured by conservative Salafis. Yet the majority of the
population throng there in order to find respite from their daily material anxieties
and pray for the fulfilment of their desires. They combine this intensely personal
exercise with the canonical practice of offering the Friday prayers with their com-
munity brothers at the mosque adjacent to the dargah.41 In doing this they stand
at the crossroads of devotion and doctrine, where illiterate anti-shariʿa Fakirs
and religious authorities jostle for space in the hearts of the common masses.
A second form of attachment to the Sufi tradition can be located only through
participation in the annual ʿurs celebration of a major dargah. Such a tradition
is visible by the attendance of Fakirs in large numbers at the ʿurs celebration in
the dargah of Data Mahbub Shah Wali in a small village called Patharchapri in
Birbhum district of West Bengal, India.42 Fakirs of Bengal consider this shrine
to be their Mecca, where the annual ʿurs is held on the tenth, eleventh and
twelfth day of the Bengali month of Chaitra (March–April).43 Here too Dayem
Shah was one of the major khadims, before he shifted his base to the dargah
of ʿAlam Baba.44 Popular lore has it that Data Mahbub Shah belonged to the
Chishtiyya-Nizamiyya order of Sufis, and spent the last thirty-five years of his
life in Patharchapri. ʿAlam Baba on the other hand became the disciple of Data
Mahbub Shah after arriving from Central Asia/Persia.
What spiritual gain do Fakirs derive from such connections? Do they at all
connect to these holy sites or do these dargahs exist in isolation? The answer to
these questions lies hidden in a popular saying among devotees: ‘The kahgaz
of Data Baba, the qʿalam of ʿAlam Baba.’45 Looking deeper into the saying it is
explained that any individual who prays at the dargah of ʿAlam Baba will have his
name recorded by Data Baba of Patharchapri in his paper (kaghaz), using the pen
(qʿalam ) of ʿAlam Baba. But who will write the name in that kagaz? That individual
is Khwaja Muinuddin Chishti of Ajmer who is revered as Hind-al Wali or master
Sufi of India. It is implied that any individual who prays at both the dargahs of
ʿAlam Baba and Data Baba will have to visit Ajmer once in his lifetime to complete
the devotional triangle. Since ʿAlam Baba draws his spiritual lineage from Data
Mahbub Shah, who in turn belonged to the Chishtiyya-Nizamiyya order – Fakirs
of Bengal connect themselves to the spiritual hierarchy of one of the premier Sufi
Orders in South Asia – the Chishtiyya and at the same time perhaps the most
revered Sufi shrine in South Asia – that of Muin al-Din Chishti in Ajmer. In doing
so they not only establish themselves as part of a premier and hugely popular
pan-Indian mystical tradition, but also use this attachment to stand up to the
allegations, by Salafis and religious leaders, of being social and religious outcasts.
Fakirs of Bengal form a community whose existence lies parallel to mainstream
society. Their spiritual beliefs and practices are often accused of lacking any
scriptural sanction. Though the existence of Fakirs within the larger society is
often ignored by religious leaders, there exists considerable evidence to show
that this sect is the favourite punching bag of both scholars and religious leaders
within the Muslim community. Through such acts, the latter not only stamp
their authority over societal norms, but at the same time claim to clean their
community of such pollutants. The historical antecedents to this antipathy can
be traced to the reformist wave within the Muslim community in Bengal in the
nineteenth and twentieth century, which aimed to purge ‘Islam of all that they
considered spurious accretion’.46
Reformist criticism of Fakirs
The reformist tradition in Bengal owes its origin to the movement led in the
early nineteenth century by Shaykh Mohammad bin ʿAbd al-Wahhab (1703–92)
at Najd and Hejaz. ʿAbd al-Wahhab’s thought and actions, popularly called the
Wahhabi ideology, influenced a number of Bengali Muslims who visited Hejaz

during that period and brought back his kitab al-tawhid to Bengal.47 One such
individual was Shariʿatullah (1781–1840), from Faridpur district of Bangladesh.
He and his son Mohsin al-din Ahmed (1819–62) led the Faraizi movement in
the rural areas of eastern Bengal. Though primarily a peasant movement against
the colonial regime, it carried a strong message of self-purification among the
Muslims of Bengal, demanding abhorrence of customs and rituals authorized
neither by the Qurʾan nor by the Prophet.48
In western Bengal this was matched by the Wahhabi Movment led by Mir Nasir
ʿAli from 1827 to 1831. Nasir ʿAli was greatly influenced by Sir Ahmed Khan
from north India, whom he met during the hajj pilgrimage. Nasir ʿAli returned
with a zealous mission of purifying the Muslim community in western Bengal
from idolatrous and superstitious practices acquired through cohabitation with
the Hindu community.49
The first casualty of this reformist wave was the carriers of popular Islam, like
Fakirs, who were severely criticized, accompanied by physical punishment, for
their beliefs, practices, superstitions, multi-religious and cultural influences and
lack of adherence to scriptures.50 One of the earliest texts that proved significant in
influencing the anti-Fakir agitation in Bengal was Maulana Reaz al-din Ahmad’s
Baul Dhwangsha Fatwa (Legal Ruling on the Destruction of Bauls). Published in
two volumes in 1925, the text was written in response to a petition submitted by
twenty-five Muslim religious leaders from various districts in West Bengal. The
petition elaborated the heretical ways and beliefs of the Fakirs. The latter were
accused of not following the Qurʾan, Hadith and shariʿa, in spite of returning as
Muslims. It was further alleged that these Fakirs identified themselves as followers
of the maʿrifat path, and hence argued that they are under no compulsion to obey
the shariʿa or follow the advice of shariʿa-minded religious leaders. In doing so, it
was argued that these Fakirs deprive themselves from understanding true Islam.
Being misguided, these Fakirs, in turn, mislead the illiterate Muslim masses away
from the true faith, towards the path of the Fakir. As a result the entire Muslim
community is under danger of being misguided by these Fakirs. To strengthen
the petition further, the characteristic features of the Fakir sect were listed to help
in a better understanding of their misdeeds in the name of Islam.51
In his reply to this petition, Ahmad labelled Fakirs as kafirs followed by an
elaboration regarding the misdeeds of the Fakirs, which, in a sense, was intended
to justify his strong accusations,
In many places in Bengal Fakirs are beguiling illiterate Muslim masses into
their order. These Fakirs have spread their network with the intention to destroy
the Holy Qurʾan and Islam. The way in which the heretical beliefs of Fakirs are
gaining ground within the Muslim community, there is sufficient reason to be
concerned that in the coming days the Muslim society will become scattered and
powerless to stand up against the impure attacks by these sects.52
The reasons behind undertaking this exercise of writing the book was explained
in the words of the author:
Without attentively reading both volumes of Baul Dhwangsha Fatwa and trying
to understand its deep research and objective do not harbour any hatred against
the text under the influence of rage and impatience. Baul Dhwangsha Fatwa
is being preached to provide you with relief, so show respect towards it. Baul
Dhwangsha Fatwa does not harbour any hatred against you. Nor does it want
you to become part of some other community. All it intends is to purge you of
the un-Islamic influences and practices of Fakirs that have entered your belief. It
aims to free you of such impurities and restore you to the pure order under the
shade of Islam so that you may live happily with your Muslim brothers.53
In his foreword to the book, Maulvi ʿAli Ahmad Wali Islamabadi, the editor of
the weekly newspaper Sultan, remarked that:
The way in which the religion of Islam is being wrongly attacked from all sides,
such a book is necessary to protect Islam, maintain faith and bring back those
who have lost their way. This book is not written to expel some Muslims from
the community. Rather this book is aimed to prevent the spread of wrong ideas
and turn Muslims towards truth, away from disobeying the shariʿa.54
At a time when this text was being written Ahmad estimated the number of
Fakirs in Bengal to be around six to seven million, or even more. He argued that
the sum included those who could be easily recognized as being the followers
of the Fakir path. In addition there are those who live a rather clandestine life
and cannot be easily identified as Fakirs. Concerned by the large number of
Muslims who have been misguided into the sect of the Fakir, under the influence
of what Fakirs incorrectly call maʿrifat, Ahmad, through his book, extolled his
community not to fall prey to the lure of maʿrifat extended by the Fakirs.
Identifying this sect as believers in Hinduism, Ahmad argued that it was the
ploy of the Hindu community to reconvert those illiterate Muslims back to their
fold, who had in the historical past moved away from the Hindu society into the
more liberal Muslim society. Now when the Hindu society, under the influence
of reform movements, has become less rigid and more accommodating towards
differences in caste, class and order of birth – Ahmad and others from the
Muslim community anticipated a planned backlash from the Hindu society

through the Suddhi movement to regain the millions they had lost, over many
centuries, to the liberating message of Islam. Ahmad accused the Fakirs of using
Perso-Arabic terms like darwesh and fakir to identify themselves, yet reject
the five pillars of Islam. Fakirs recognize the Prophet, the Qur’an and the Sufi
tradition, yet refuse to follow the shariʿa. They also stay away from offering
sacrifice in the name of Allah, following the Abrahamic lineage, but at the same
time consume meat.
Ahmad further argued that Fakirs gained the trust of the semi-literate
Muslim masses of Bengal by luring them away from the disciplined and stoic
lifestyle prescribed by Islam towards a more liberal way of life immersed in
worldly pleasures in the name of spirituality.55 Such practices of the Fakirs, it
was alleged, reached the extent of meditating with Hindu seers, imitating their
spiritual practices, lifestyle and attire, participating in their religious practices
and visiting their places of worship, which led Ahmad to label them as ‘apostates
(morted) disobeying Islam’.56 These acts portrayed a wrong image of Islam in the
minds of the illiterate millions who follow these Fakirs in the belief of gaining
knowledge on maʿrifat. Such contradictory practices of Fakirs, coupled with
Hindu influences, led Ahmad and other Muslim religious leaders to fear that
millions of rural Muslims resting their faith in the belief and practices of the
Fakirs will end up being followers of the larger Hindu society.57
The early seeds of Salafi ideology in India were sown through such reformist
movements which gained momentum in Bengal due to its enormous Muslim
population constituting elites, middle-class literati, peasants, landlords, religious
leaders, Sufis, dervishes and Fakirs. The more recent form of challenge to
popular Islam in Bengal can be discerned from the early twentieth century, in
the form of organizations like Jamaʿat-i Islami and the Ahl-i Hadith-i Bangala.58
Attacking the very foundational ideas of tasawwuf, they question the efficacy
of superogatory prayers, dhikr and mystic practices, and address sects like the
Fakirs as bidaʿti (innovators), quburi (grave dwellers) and ahl-i mazar (people
of the tomb).59
Jamaʿat-i Islami & Ahl-i Hadith literature
The Jamaʿat-i Islami movement was founded by Sayyid Abul Aʿla Mawdudi
(d. 1979). Initially supportive of Sufi movements as representing true Islam, and
arguing for its propagation, the Jamaʿat-i Islami subsequently sharpened their
differences with a total rejection of Sufi Islam in favour of a puritan and radical
ideology.60 The Ahl-i Hadith group, representing another strand of salafi Islam,
openly denounces tasawwuf, along with its rituals and practices. Picking up the
last strands of the Wahhabi movement in Bengal, crushed during the colonial
rule in the nineteenth century, the Ahl-i Hadith, also known as ghayr muqallids,
strengthened the ‘puritan’ propagation throughout the twentieth century. These
hardliners simply reject the beliefs and practices of Sufis and sects like the Fakirs
as bidaʿat, kufr and shirk.
Muqallids are commonly identified as those who follow the tradition (taqlid)
of the four major law schools: Hanafi, Shafiʿi, Maliki and Hanbali. Ahl-i Hadith,
by rejecting the legitimacy of these law schools, emphasize a greater and exclusive
focus on the Hadith literature as an original source for guidance in matters of reli-
gion. As a result the Ahl-i Hadith are commonly known as ghayr muqallids. How-
ever Ahl-i Hadith literature produced from West Bengal resist this synonymy,
arguing that it is unjustified to use the terms ‘Ahl-i Hadith’ and ‘ghayr muqal-
lids’ interchangeably. In one such text, Marufiat Kya Hain: Haqiqat ki Aine Mein
(What is Marufiat? In the light of truth), it is argued that the path of the Ahl-i
Hadith is independent of all paths since it is based purely on the original texts
of Islam – Qurʾan and Hadith. Those who identify themselves as Ahl-i Hadith,
and choose to call themselves ghayr muqallids, have in turn defamed the spirit of
the path since, while they have left the path of taqlid, they have not familiarized
themselves with the original texts and obligatory norms (sunnah) of Islam.61
It further argues that a ghayr muqallid can choose to reject the taqlid of the
Imam, but that does not necessarily ensure his understanding of the Hadith tra-
dition and the sunnah of Prophet Muhammad. Thus emerging out of the chaos
of taqlid does not mean that a ghayr muqallid has a strong understanding of the
Quran and Hadith. As a result he then has no right to return himself as an Ahl-i
Hadith. The latter are strongly entrenched in the erudite scriptural tradition of
their ancestors, without any attachment to taqlid. As a result they are in a posi-
tion to call themselves ghayr muqallids. But since ghayr muqallids often choose
to disregard the Prophetic tradition and attach less importance to the Hadith,
they are in no position to identify themselves as part of the Ahl-i Hadith path.62
The origin of the Ahl-i Hadith group can be traced to the formation of the
All-India Ahl-i Hadith Conference in 1906, with Hafiz Abdullah Ghazipuri as
the President and ʿAllama Sanaullah Amritsari as Secretary. Like the Deobandis,
the Ahl-i Hadith were committed to the revitalization of law by reform and
custom. Towards this end they advocated a strict adherence to the textual
sources of faith – the Qurʾan and Hadith, which they interpreted rather literally
and narrowly. At the same time they refused to recognize Sufi institutions and
practices. Their emphasis on self-interpretation of texts stemmed from the
fact that they drew their members almost entirely from an aristocratic social
background, with high standards of education.63
Keeping in mind the millions of Muslims in eastern India who are non-
conversant in Urdu, the need was felt for a branch exclusively for this region. This
was finally met in 1914, when the Anjuman-i Ahl-i Hadith-i Bangala and Assam
were established in Calcutta. From the following year the organization even
started publishing its own monthly newspaper in Bengali entitled Ahl-i Hadith,
with Muhammad Babar Ali as the first editor. The content of this newspaper with
regard to the Fakirs will also be included in this discussion. During the post-
independence period, in 1951, the Anjuman-i Ahl-i Hadith-i Paschim Bangala
was formed to carry out activities only in the state of West Bengal. After a gap of
two decades the Anjuman-i Ahl-i Hadith-i Paschim Bangala was constituted in
1971, and continues to function even today.64
Publication and distribution of Ahl-i Hadith literature is the primary mode
for disseminating their ideology.65 One of the earliest texts detailing the ideology
and beliefs of the Ahl-i Hadith group is entitled Ahl-i Hadis Madhab, written by
Muhammad Babar Ali, the general secretary of the Anjuman-i Ahl-i Hadith-i
Bangala, and published from its Calcutta office in 1926. It begins by refuting
allegations levelled against the community regarding their antipathy towards
mystical ideas, Sufis and walis. The Ahl-i Hadith group considered it their duty to
counter such propagation by writing texts, mentioned above, in reply.66 In it they
defended themselves by drawing on a famous hadith-i qudsi that says ‘Whoever
shows enmity to My friend (wali) I declare war against him.’ They further state
that walis have been accorded a higher position in the eyes of Allah, compared
to ordinary believers. For the Ahl-i Hadith group, any individual who can follow
high standards of piety in their spiritual life can achieve greater respect in the
eyes of Allah. Those who insult Sufis and walis and possess hatred against them
are considered immoral (fasiqs) by the Ahl-i Hadith.67
In another text, entitled Ikhraj ul-Mubtadein and written around 1926,
Babar ʿAli continued his argument in favour of the Sufi tradition, where he
characterized Sufis as followers of the sunnat and free from the bindings of the
four law schools (mazhhab) of Islam. For Babar ʿAli, true followers of the Sufi
tradition show great respect to the Hadith and its teachings, and hence stay away
from offering taqlid to any of the four mazhabs. Thus in a sense a true Sufi, wali,
awliya, derwish is also an Ahl-i Hadith at heart, which makes it superfluous to
argue that the Ahl-i Hadith are opposed to the Sufi tradition.68
While Ahl-i Hadith leaders recognized the importance of walis and their
spiritual tradition, they fully opposed the form of Sufism, and their practices,
attached to the shrines. More precisely they voiced their protest against shrine
practices like ʿurs,69 qawwali70 and keeping taziyas,71 which to them were a great
hindrance in freeing Islam from the un-Islamic customs that could be criticized
by non-Muslims. These ceremonies, in the opinion of the Ahl-i Hadis group,
play an important role in sustaining those communities who live off Sufi shrines
and in turn mislead common Muslims in the name of Islam. While professing
respect towards the Prophet and walis, the Ahl-i Hadith prohibit any form of
pilgrimage to tomb complexes, even to the Prophet’s grave in Medina. They
express their shock and disgust at the rituals performed, in spite of the Prophets’
censure, by pilgrims in Sufi shrines, like lighting candles, offering chadars on
tombs, taking vows for fulfilment of wishes, sevenfold circumambulation of the
tomb and prostration in front of the tomb.72
In light of the above, it is not surprising that rituals and practices of Fakirs
in rural Bengal constitute the focus of criticisms levelled by the Ahl-i Hadith, of
which the primary is that of ʿurs, the most important festival in any mystical order.
Babar ʿAli states that the Prophet strictly instructed against the performance of
ʿurs at his shrine, and to make it a fair site for all to come and worship the tomb,
instead of following his teachings. When the companions of the Prophet, in spite
of their unadulterated love and respect for the Prophet, did not celebrate ʿurs,
Babar ʿAli rues that ‘we are making ourselves the subject of shame and sin by
doing this on the graves of Sufis and walis, where people take vows and oaths,
prostrate (sijda) and bend over the grave (ruku)’.73 Such excesses, through which
Fakirs attempt to seek knowledge on the nature of God, are considered by the
Ahl-i Hadith ‘to be a danger to true religion’.74
Babar ʿAli then provides an eyewitness account of an ʿurs celebration by
Fakirs he had witnessed in Bengal where Fakirs and common people circle the
grave seven times before prostrating before it. He then describes with equal
contempt the rich decoration of the tomb complex, which in his opinion should
be razed to the ground since such acts have been declared forbidden (haram) by
the Prophet and in the canons of Islam.75 In the light of such opinions, the Ahl-i
Hadith, Babar ʿAli states, are labelled as disrespectful towards Sufis and walis,
though this is not the truth. Rather he argues that people should take vows and
promises only in the name of God Almighty. Prayers, prostration and bending
in respect should also be done only for God, and not to any deceased individual.
Such acts are forbidden (haram), and the person praying or taking the vow will
be an accursed (malaun).76
Alongside printed texts, Ahl-i Hadith propaganda against Fakirs and

mystical sects continued through their mouthpiece, the Ahl-i Hadith. Articles
and news reports criticizing the beliefs and practices of what they called
‘maʿrifati Fakirs’ regularly found place in this publication. In one of their
reports the Ahl-i Hadith periodical rued that millions of Muslims in Bengal
are falling prey to un-Islamic practices in the name of following the path of
maʿrifat. As a result they are getting more and more detached from the spirit
of true Islam. As perpetrators of this great sin, the Ahl-i Hadith identified two
groups, both of whom claim to follow the path of maʿrifat and in the process
mislead millions. The first group was the Fakirs, who are miles away from
the principles of the shariʿa. They refuse to visit the mosque, offer obligatory
prayers (namaz), undertake fast and believe in the practice of hajj – all under
the premise that these are superficial practices that cannot lead an individual
closer to God. The only way to achieve the latter, in the opinion of the Fakirs,
was to take oath (bayat) from a pir, who would then train the individual in the
path of maʿrifat.77
The second group was identified as those who call themselves Sufis and
derwishes. Unlike the Fakirs they offer prayers, observe fast and claim to be
learned in the religious scriptures. Yet they do not hesitate to perform acts that
Ahl-i Hadith label as innovation (bidaʿat). Such practices include worshipping
the master (pir), prostrating before the shaykh and celebrating ʿurs at the shrine
of the shaykh. At the time of ʿurs devotees and common people throng at the
shrine complex offering rice, wheat, cereals and even living animals as a mark of
their respect to the saint and his shrine. The report identifies Phurphura Sharif78
as one such shrine complex indulging in such bidaʿati practices. At the time of
celebrating ʿurs of the patron saint Shaykh Abu Bakr Siddique, the place assumes
the form of a fair site. The degree of respect and joy people express on their
visit to the shrine gives the impression that, in the words of the Ahl-i Hadith
newspaper, ‘they have arrived at the holy city of Mecca for performing Hajj’.79
They prostrate before the shrine and pray with the belief that the saint resting
there has the power to intercede and fulfil their wishes. Some go to the extent of
becoming disciples (murids) of the current sajjada nashin.80
Rather, in the eyes of the Ahl-i Hadith, Sufis and walis who are true to their
path follow the Qurʾan and the Hadith along with the Sunnah of the Prophet.
They stay away from claiming that their knowledge is transmitted from the heart
of the Prophet, and also keep themselves away from such bidaʿati practices as
worshipping the tomb, the shaykh, performing qawwali and celebrating ʿurs.
These practices have contributed greatly in destroying the original teachings of
Islam, in the opinion of the Ahl-i Hadith, and can only be restored by going back
to the principles of the Qurʾan and the Hadith.81
Apart from the practices attached to shrines, the lifestyle and meditation
methods of Fakirs also attract an equal degree of attack from Salafis and religious
leaders. Many of these polemical literatures are written in verse, perhaps with the
aim of using the very medium to attack Fakirs that they use to defend themselves
and spread their beliefs – verses and songs. One such text, Actions of Fakirs and
Advice from Alims, printed from Dhaka, looks into some of the villages in eastern
Bengal where Fakirs reside. The author Abbas ʿAli Nazir begins by identifying
one such Fakir Daulat Bari and the activities of his disciples,
In a village in the pargana of Bhawal82

There lives a pir by the name Daulat Bari
What do I say about him
All the crooks in the vicinity have become his disciples
All day they sit together to smoke grass
And when night falls they take their women to the pir
The pir says, Oh my disciples

If you are my true servants
Leave your women with me
Then the disciples say
We leave our women with you
If you promise to remain beneficent on me
The pir then takes the woman of his disciple83
Fakirs fight such allegations by arguing that the companionship of woman is indis-
pensable for carrying their meditation physiologically, rather than satisfying their
carnal desires. Meditating with woman is an important stage towards spiritual
ascendancy. If a Fakir in the course of such meditation can control his desires of
flesh, preserve his semen and not falter sexually, only then will he be able to elevate
himself to a higher spiritual stage.84 Unless a Fakir can rise from the stage of desire
to the stage of love he cannot proceed on the spiritual path. And Fakirs attain this
through their companionship with woman as a partner in meditation.85
Nazir continues his composition by criticizing the practice of singing and
ecstasy among Fakirs and the ritual of distributing sweets among devotees as
symbol of blessing,
They sing songs with their eyes closed
Their bodies jerk along with the head
In rhythm with the song
They look like long-haired crooks

Dancing in a sitting posture
Some play mandira86 while some khartal87
In their ecstasy they roll on the floor
Making sweets with rice, lentils and clarified butter
Laying them on banana leaves
They sit together to eat and distribute88
The Salafi response to such be-shariʿa activities are meted out with physical
violence,
When such news reach the ears of the local mawlvi
He becomes aghast on hearing of such heretical practices
How could one tolerate such insult to the faith of Muhammad?
He orders his people to get such Fakirs to him by the scuff of their neck89
Nazir argues that whatever degree of spiritual power a Fakir achieves he can
never be equal to an ʿAlim, an individual learned in the Islamic religious and
philosophical tenets. In Bengal many Salafi/Ahl-i Hadith leaders are addressed
as ʿAlims. He states thus,
In this world none is greater than an ʿAlim
His words, I say, are infallible
Since none has achieved such greatness
A greatness that is bestowed upon by Qadir90 himself
Whose prayers will pardon all sins of the sinner
Alim is no common man, he is the maqbul (chosen) of God

Even Muhammad Mustafa has his beneficence upon him
Alim is no common man, he is the habib (beloved) of God
His prayers will help sinners cross the pul sirat91
Other forms of hostilities
On corroborating such literature, discussed above, with contemporary accounts,

one gets a continuous trajectory of violence meted out to Fakirs in the name of
punishment. Often their hermitage is burned down and their hair and beard
forcefully shaved.92 They are socially boycotted and forbidden from using
community wells. All this is because Fakirs, in spite of living within the Muslim
community, refuse to go to the mosque, offer prayer, observe fast, believe in
hajj, consider humans as divine and engage in meditations using the body.93 On
many occasions, as part of a punishment, they are forcefully taken to the mosque
to take an oath of dissociation from the path of the Fakir. When all ways and
means fail, then Fakirs are framed up in false cases and thrown behind bars for
months.94
The highest concentration of Fakirs is spread across the three biggest districts
of West Bengal: Nadia, Murshidabad and Birbhum. Therefore most instances
of attacks on this community occur in these districts. In 1997 Fakirs from
different districts of Bengal came together in Nadia for a two-day meeting where
discussions were held and songs sung denouncing communal tendencies within
the society, futile rituals in the name of religion and dominance of conservative
religious leaders in the Muslim society. This endeavour was severely criticized
by the orthodox section of the Muslim community. Added to this, the local
mosque carried such propaganda against the Fakirs that they were denied entry
to the community graveyard when they wanted to perform the last rites of a
Fakir.95
In 1999 in Murshidabad, Akbar ʿAli, Suleman Mondal, Hakim Mondal and
Hafizur Rahman, all Fakirs, were forcefully taken to the mosque and asked to
quit their path. They were accused of singing anti-shariʿa songs and Indian
hemp. Of the four, two were released after they paid a fine. But Akbar ʿAli and
Hakim Mondal had to face social boycott. They were physically tortured by local
religious leaders and forced to leave the village.96
In 2000, when Siddiq Fakir from Murshidabad came to Nadia to visit his
four disciples, all five Fakirs were physically attacked by the local mawlana and
his aides. They were brought to the mosque and forced to repent (tawba) for
following the Fakiri way of life. However they continued to practice it secretly.
As a result they were eventually not allowed to participate in Eid prayers and
were socially boycotted.97
Arguing that it is a community affair, with clandestine local political
support, law enforcement agencies refrain from taking active measures against
the perpetrators of such violence. Thus religious leaders get away even after
committing such attacks against the Fakirs. Instead of mitigating the violence
local police officers advise Fakirs and their family members to follow the dictates
of the community leaders. In a village in the Nadia district Fakir ʿAyn al-Haque,
with the help of his neighbour Hiru Mandal, took his wife Rehana for treatment
to the local hospital. Since then both have been threatened with social boycott
by local religious leaders.
Fakir Madhu Shaykh had to pay a fine of two thousand rupees for ignoring
the dictates of local religious leaders and marrying his sister to another Fakir.
In another instance, Fakir Jalil Shaykh had to pay a similar fine of 1,200 rupees,
and yet was not allowed to harvest his crops. Local religious leaders like Imam
ʿAli Shaykh and scholars attached to local madrasahs like Nazr al-Islam are
unambiguous in their position with regard to the Fakirs: ‘In our community
every individual has to follow the shariʿa … we have made it clear to the police
that since Fakirs do not recognize the shariʿa they should pray separately and
bury their dead in a separate graveyard.’98 They do not elucidate whether their
hostility is towards the Fakirs, or more specifically towards their practices. But
it does not take much effort to understand the propensity of these conservative
religious leaders to throttle any alternate voice within their community, lest their
authority be compromised.
Such attacks continue unabated even after the foundation of the Baul-Fakir
Association in 1983.99 The latter was formed with the sole intention of uniting
Fakirs across districts under the umbrella of an organization that would provide
them with security through legal and lawful means. Shaykh Akbar ʿAli, the
Secretary of the Association, elaborated their aims in a report:
Fundamentalist attacks on free-minded Fakirs have a long historical past. More

recently in 1983 when Fakirs were attacked more harshly than ever before in the
districts of Murshidabad, Nadia and Birbhum, the need was felt for a unified
protest. We were fortunate to have the support of Professor Shaktinath Jha, and
together we established the Baul-Fakir Association in 1983.
In times of distress we try to stand beside these people, bauls and Fakirs, who
live beyond the narrow confines of religion and caste distinctions, and respect
all humans as equal. We try to offer treatment to Fakirs through our public-
treatment methods. Towards this effort we have set up a garden for medicinal
plants in Murshidabad. Our primary aim is to help Fakirs overcome their
addiction for grass. We have been successful to an extent, though much needs to
be done. It needs to be clarified that smoking grass is a personal addiction and
has no relation whatsoever to the meditation practices of Fakirs.
From 1999, religious leaders and fundamentalists started infiltrating the ranks
of the Association with the aim to destroy it from within. When they failed in
their plans, a more fierce form of attack ensued which involved local political
networks as well. Such attacks apart from being physically violent also carried
an extensive propaganda against Fakirs and their actions. This has increased the
responsibility of our Association along with the need to expand our network
in rural areas. For this we need more members who would sympathize with
our cause and come forward to help us in protecting a group which is under
incessant attack.100
The words of Fakir Jalal Shah brings out the sentiment of the Fakirs succinctly,
‘Maulvis, ʿAlims, Shariʿatis – they can never agree with Fakirs. While they are
only concerned with texts and canons, we have to also follow the dil Koran and
search for the dil Kaʿba. Fakirs unite people, rather than dividing them. We
understand their position, but they never take any effort to understand ours. It
is a conflict that is ongoing and will continue till the day of Qayamat.’101
Chishtiyya defence
Such attacks on Fakirs at times spill over to infringe on the spiritual territory
of established Sufi tariqas like the Chishtiyya, considered the most popular Sufi
Order in South Asia. In Bengal one of the earliest Chishtiyya masters to arrive
and settle down was Shah ʿAbdullah Kirmani, who originally came from Kirman
and received his spiritual training under Muin al-din Chishti, the founder of
the order in South Asia. He started the Kirmani suborder of Chishtis in Bengal
in the early thirteenth century.102 Chishtiyya spiritual manuals were usually
written in Persian, which was incomprehensible to the vast number of Muslims
living in rural Bengal. As a result, over centuries the beliefs and practices of the
Chishtiyya Order came to be misread, and hence misinterpreted to the extent of
incorporating innovations within it.
Riding on the wave of reformist activities in Bengal, a manual entitled Fakir
Sambal was written in 1926 under the supervision of a suborder of Chishtiyyas.
Published from eastern Bengal (present-day Bangladesh), the author Muhammad
Imdad ʿAli Shah Chishti Nizami was himself an initiate of the order and, under
instructions from his master (murshid) Pir Dastgir Hazrat Mawlvi and Maulana
Shah Ahsan Ullah, undertook the task of eliminating the misconceptions and
malpractices that have crept into the order over centuries.103
Given the period when the text was composed, the readership it was aimed
towards and the issues it dealt with in its pages, it leaves no doubt in the mind
of a reader that a strong underlying motive behind the exercise was to stand up
to the reformist challenge that was sweeping across Bengal at that time – more
particularly the conservative challenge posed by the Ahl-i Hadith. Negating the
primary accusation of the Salafis that Fakirs are be-shariʿati in their religious
beliefs, Imdad ʿAli begins his text by pronouncing that shariʿa is the cornerstone
of tasawwuf philosophy and should be considered as the point of entry towards
understanding the Sufi path (tariqa) and truth (haqiqa).104
He further states that becoming a Fakir is impossible without taking recourse
to the shariʿa. Be-shariʿa Fakirs and their miracles should be considered as actions
of the evil. They are the ones who have left the practice of namaz, arguing that
they are maʿrifati Fakirs, not bound to follow the shariʿa practice of namaz, as it
is nothing more than mere standing and sitting without any spiritual succour.105
For such souls it is a reminder that the Prophet himself practised namaz and
advised his companions and the umma to follow the same.106 This has been
adhered to even by great Sufi masters like Muin al-din Chishti, Bakhtiyar Kaki
and Nizam al-din Awliya.
Therefore it is important to follow the path treaded by great Sufi masters of
the past. Their mystical qualities are rarely found among contemporary Fakirs,
who are more interested in turning the resting places of these early masters
into avenues of material benefit. Such Fakirs do not possess the same spiritual
knowledge as they themselves claim.107
The manual then goes on to attack the primary ritual of the Fakirs – singing,
by arguing that the way in which the ritual is carried out – with accompaniments
of tabla, harmonium, behala, dholki and stringed instruments, along with
dancing – is strictly forbidden. Earlier Sufi masters only allowed the inclusion
of dholak, considering it similar to the duff, while some considered instruments
unlawful.108 The ideal way of listening to music is to follow the standards set
by earlier masters, like Muin al-din Chishti, Bakhtiyar Kaki and Nizam al-din
Awliyaʾ.109 The text then moves into issues of lawful (halal) and forbidden
(haram) in the context of Sufi music.
The manual ends on a note of warning against modern-day Fakirs, who are
considered to be nowhere closer to the spiritual path. Keeping long hair, wearing
a patched cloak, carrying prayer beads and singing songs does not qualify them
to be part of the mystical tradition. Rather their only aim is to gain material
benefits as much as possible by beguiling innocent men and women. Present-
day Fakirs take disciples in thousands and proclaim themselves to be spiritual
masters, just to ensure a steady supply of resources and money.110 Rather than
immersing their ‘self ’ in spiritual quest, these Fakirs are more interested in
extravagant rituals, with the aim to attract as many devotees as possible, thereby
ensuring steady financial support for their establishment.111
Conclusions
Interestingly the common masses – who are supposed to be misled by the Fakirs
in the name of maʿrifat, and need to be brought back to the fold of true Islam,
in the opinion of the religious leaders – never participate voluntarily in the
anti-Fakir agitations. Bringing them to the folds to true Islam is a dichotomy

in itself, since a large section neither follow Islam by the scripture nor visit the
mosque for prayers. As a result they are more accommodating towards Fakirs,
their songs and sayings, while being disinterested towards the diktats issued by
members of the Ahl-i Hadith and Jamaʿat-i Islami groups. It is also true that
there is little or no direct connection between the latter and the rural masses.
Members of the Ahl-i Hadith and Jamaʿat-i Islami groups usually visit the village
mosque and houses of local religious leaders. It is the latter who then conveys the
message to the inhabitants of the village. While these masses listen to religious
discourses on what is forbidden in the eyes of Islam, they seldom apply it to their
daily lives. Even when they fail to engage the masses in their hostile activities,
the local religious leaders themselves under the instigation from Ahl-i Hadith
and Jamaʿat-i Islami groups take the onus to punish the Fakirs.
Branches of established Sufi Orders also distance themselves from the beliefs
and practices of Fakirs, especially the latter’s antipathy towards the shariʿa. While
Fakirs interpret the shariʿa as a means for inculcating humane qualities within
an individual, the religious leaders are bent towards a more scriptural reading
of the shariʿa. This inevitably leads to a conflict between the two groups. Sufi
orders and their sub-branches choose to stay away from this conflict primarily
by attesting the centrality of the shariʿa in their spiritual tradition. At the same
time the finer points of distinction with the Fakirs are fleshed out through texts
and manuals as discussed above. Such texts aim at a twofold objective – first,
by affirming the place of shariʿa as part of their spiritual training, these Sufi
orders position themselves as carriers of the true spirit of Islam, alongside the
reformist and Salafi groups. These Sufi branches then emerge as competitors
rather than collaborators to the Ahl-i Hadith and Jamaʿat-i Islami in their claim
as interpreters of true Islam. Secondly, by detailing the points of difference with
sects like the Fakirs, these Sufi Orders and their branches across Bengal stamp
their authority as primary carriers of the spiritual tradition of Islam, for which
the term ‘Sufism’ is used rather homogenously. Such texts then place Sufi Orders
as the ‘mainstream’ within the spiritual tradition of Islam, relegating sects like
Bauls and Fakirs to the periphery. Thus the entire idea of a centre-periphery gets
reworked within the mystical traditions of Islam, which in turn is believed, by
reformists and Salafis alike, to be antithetical to true Islam.
It is not to be believed that branches of Sufi Orders in Bengal are immune
from attacks by the religious clergy. But Sufi branches in Bengal, like elsewhere
in South Asia, enjoy an enormous degree of popular support that renders them
immune to a large extent from the hostile behaviour of conservative religious

leaders. Individual Fakirs, or even a group of Fakirs living in a village, usually
do not command such a large degree of reverence from the masses. As a result
they are easily overpowered and harassed by religious leaders attached to a
village mosque or madrasah. Even though Fakirs claim a similar status to Sufi
Orders, one of the primary challenges to this claim is posed by the lack of a
spiritual genealogy or shajarah to link the current sajjada nashin of a Sufi Order
to Prophet Muhammad through the genealogical tree of his ancestors. Absence
of shajarah poses a major lacuna in ascertaining the claim of Fakirs as equal to
Sufi tariqas.112
The entire spiritual-conservative discourse within the Muslim community in
Bengal is greatly layered to offer any linear patterns of deduction. The presence
of Islam in Bengal, being part of a long historical process extending over many
centuries, not only created a favourable environment for Sufis to settle and preach,
but at the same time the interaction of Islam with local religious traditions led to
the formation of sects like the Fakirs, who combine in their beliefs and practices
both Islamic and local traditions. In the same way the conservative reaction also
defies any homogenous characterization. It ranged from individual scholars like
Mawlana Reaz al-din Ahmad to conservative reformist groups like the Ahl-i
Hadith to local religious leaders and pan-Indian Sufi Orders like the Chishtiyya.
While all had their individual approaches and arguments to put forward, it is
interesting to note that the common thread that tied them together was the call
of ‘Islam in danger’. And the source for this danger was unanimously identified
to be the Fakirs. It is also worth noting that while there was less disagreement
with regard to the source of the danger – the Fakirs – the ways to remove this
so-called danger ranged from polemical literature to extreme physical violence.
Therefore it is precisely this intolerance towards an alternative voice within the
Muslim community that gives rise to this variety of responses from the so-called
leadership. Yet it is the heterogeneity of the Islamic spiritual tradition in Bengal,
together with the voices and hands that oppose it, that take this discourse
beyond a narrow, homogenous perspective, opening it to deeper analysis, which
continues to emerge as Fakirs strive for their existence at the edges of society.
146
8
Representing the Detractors of Sufism in

Twentieth-Century Hyderabad, India
Mauro Valdinoci
Introduction
India has proved to be fertile ground for the growth of modern Islamic
movements of reform (islah) and revival (tajdid).1 Since the second half of the
nineteenth century, the ‘ulama’ who belonged to these groups have engaged
in debates concerning doctrinal issues, such as the qualities of the Prophet
Muhammad and the permissibility of religious practices, such as visiting the
tombs of saints. From their respective perspectives, they have criticized different
aspects of contemporary Muslim culture and society, urging Muslims to
reform their religious views and practices by adhering more faithfully to the
principles expressed in the Qurʾan and the ahadith. Much of their criticism
has been directed against Sufism, which has increasingly come to be seen as
an un-Islamic and culturally backward religious tradition that hinders social
reform.2 As a reaction to such denunciation, certain Sufi masters (pirs) began to
engage in these debates, arguing for the legitimacy of Sufi beliefs and practices.3
The overall picture offered by historians is one of intense competition for
hegemonic influence over the Indian Muslim population,4 which has placed
these movements in opposition to each other and has often taken the form of a
war of abuses and accusations. While a wide body of scholarly literature on the
Indian Islamic reformist movements is available, the responses of Indian Sufis to
their detractors represent a more neglected field.5
The last fifteen years have witnessed the publication of several scholarly works
devoted to highlighting the perspective of South Asian Sufis, both monographs6
and articles.7 Although these studies shed light on different aspects of the reactions
of South Asian Sufis to the attacks made by their detractors, nevertheless they do
not focus on the ways in which Sufis have portrayed them. Notable exceptions are
the monographs of Usha Sanyal and Alix Philippon,8 however, since both works
focus on the leaders of the Barelvi movement, the Sufis who do not identify
themselves with the views and methods of this movement are not adequately
represented in the literature.
This article seeks to provide a contribution to an understanding of the Indian
Sufis’ responses to the attacks of Muslim reformist intellectuals by specifically
looking at the representation of the detractors of Sufism by a prominent Sufi in
twentieth-century Hyderabad, Muhammad ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi (1871–1962),
and one of his khalifas (deputies), Muhammad Anwar al-Din Siddiqi (1923–92),
who wrote texts in defence of Sufism. I suggest here that investigating the ways
in which Sufis depict their detractors is a helpful method of highlighting their
stance on controversial religious issues. Thus, it contributes to the spotlighting
of different orientations among Sufis and divergent approaches to the
defence of Sufism. To analyse this topic, I combine the methods of historical
anthropology with the philological approach of Islamic studies and analytical
tools derived from discourse analysis, drawing on both fieldwork and textual
research.9 The sources on which this chapter is based include select writings of
Muhammad ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and Muhammad Anwar al-Din Siddiqi, my
field notes, and interviews with present-day pirs and khalifas of this branch of
the Qadiriyya.
The primary purpose of this chapter is to piece together the image that the Sufi
masters of this Qadiri branch intended to convey, by focusing on the ways they
refer to the detractors of Sufism, the characteristics they attribute to them and
the arguments they use against them. Moreover, I wish to discuss this portrayal
through reference to the work of the renowned Ahmad Rida Khan of Bareilly
in order to highlight similarities and differences. Although the depiction of the
detractors of Sufism provided by ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his khalifa has much
in common with that offered by Ahmad Rida Khan, the former also differs from
the latter on several counts. While Ahmad Rida Khan clearly identified his rivals
when denouncing their views, ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi focused on the controversial
issues without mentioning specific persons or movements. On the one hand,
Ahmad Rida Khan argued quite aggressively with rival Muslim leaders, not
hesitating to label those who did not agree with his own views as infidels (kafirs),
thus drawing exclusive boundaries within the Muslim community. On the other
hand, ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi strongly criticized the excessive resort to takfir (the
practice of declaring someone a kafir) promoting the idea that divergent opinions
Representing the Detractors of Sufism in Twentieth-Century Hyderabad, India 149
can coexist within Islam. By suggesting that differences in the representation of

the detractors of Sufism may have a parallel in the different approaches to the
defence of Sufism, this chapter seeks to argue that the Indian Sufis’ responses to
their modern detractors are more complex and varied than has been suggested
in previous research. Before exploring the ways ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his
khalifa depicted the detractors of Sufism, I would like to say a few words about
the relationship between Sufi and reformist discourse in Hyderabad.
Sufism and Islamic reformism in

Hyderabad under Muslim rule
As Fabrizio Speziale observes, since the second half of the sixteenth century, Sufis
and Sufi institutions have made a notable contribution to the development of
Muslim culture in Hyderabad.10 After the fall of the Mughal Empire, Hyderabad
State became the wealthiest Muslim princely state, attracting a great number
of poets, scholars, religious men and doctors from all over India.11 While the
British gradually took control of India, despite the Subsidiary Alliance treaty
signed with the British in 1798, Hyderabad State was able to retain its autonomy
concerning internal affairs right up to the independence of India, and stood out
as a stronghold of traditional Indo-Muslim culture. Under the rule of the Nizams
(r. 1724–1948), according to the available biographical dictionaries, numerous
Sufis and Sufi shrines in Hyderabad benefited from the patronage of the court
and some sections of the nobility.12
Nevertheless, in spite of such a favourable context for the development of
Sufi traditions, Hyderabad was not immune to the spread of anti-Sufi criticism
advanced by modern Islamic reformist movements, such as the Deobandi
movement, the Ahl-i Hadith, and the circle of Sayyid Ahmad Khan (d. 1898). In
the period following the war of 1857 and the exile of the last Mughal emperor
in 1858, numerous Muslim poets, scholars and religious notables escaped from
Delhi and the old centres of Muslim patronage in north India, which gradually
came under the control of the British, in order to seek refuge and employment
in Hyderabad.13 This influx of north Indian Muslims, many of whom were
associated with the aforesaid movements, might have played a part in the spread
of reformist ideas.14
While our knowledge of the extent of the dissemination of reformist ideas in
Hyderabad during the second half of the nineteenth century is still fragmentary,
the fact that some Hyderabadi Sufis, such as Iftikhar ʿAli Shah Watan (d. 1906)
and Habib ʿAli Shah (d. 1906), felt the need to write texts in defence of Sufism15
may suggest that reformist discourse had a degree of support in the city. At that
time, several Islamic educational institutions were established, some of which
reflected reformist tendencies. The most important madrasa in Hyderabad,
the Jamiʿa Nizamiyya, was founded in 1875 by Muhammad Anwar Allah
Faruqi (1849–1918), a scholar and Sufi.16 It is interesting to note that he was
a disciple of Imdadullah Makki (1817–99), as were numerous contemporary
Indian ‘ulama’, such as the founders of the Dar al-ʿUlum of Deoband (founded
1866) and the Nadwat al-‘ulama’ (founded 1893).17 Although it appears that
Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi never criticized the Deobandi movement
openly, and his successor as head of the Jamiʿa Nizamiyya, Muhammad Ahmad,
was a Deobandi, any attempt to define the Jamiʿa Nizamiyya as an offshoot of
the Dar al-ʿUlum of Deoband would be problematic.18 Although the identity
of the madrasa seems more in line with the ideas of the Barelvi movement,19
apparently neither Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi nor subsequent leading
scholars of the madrasa ever identified with this movement. Thus it appears that
the Jamiʿa Nizamiyya was able to retain its own identity among Indian Islamic
reformist institutions.
Another significant educational institution in Hyderabad is Osmania
University (founded 1918), where the study of Islamic sciences was combined
with modern scientific education and Western humanities. The ideas and
purposes which lay behind the establishment of this modern university were
very similar to those that led to the foundation of the Aligarh school in 1875
(which later became the Mohammedan Anglo Oriental College and in 1920 was
expanded into Aligarh Muslim University) by Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan. Osmania
University undoubtedly played a part in the discussion and dissemination of
modernist ideas in Hyderabad, in a similar way as the other universities that
were established later on.
As different tendencies of Islamic reformism increasingly attracted new
supporters in Hyderabad, Sufi doctrines and practices became the target of
harsh criticism. Nevertheless, at least up until 1948, it can be safely stated that
Sufism was an integral part of the worldview and ethos of most Hyderabadi
Muslims, and that it enjoyed support, both ideological and material, from the
court and a section of the nobility. Not only did a majority of the rulers of the
Nizam dynasty, as well as many members of the local aristocracy, regularly
patronize Sufi masters and shrines by donating money and land grants, but
numerous aristocrats became disciples of local Sufi masters and even the last
two rulers, Mahbub ʿAli Khan (r. 1869–1911) and ʿUthman ʿAli Khan (r. 1911–
48), were tutored by a Sufi master, Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi.20 This
situation radically changed in 1948, when Hyderabad was taken over by the
Indian union and the Muslim princely state was turned abruptly into a modern
secular democracy.
The contemporary context
In post-1948 Hyderabad, Islam was no longer the state religion but simply a
minority religion, as the majority population was Hindu. Sufism lost a source of
legitimacy that had once been provided by Muslim rulers and became merely
one interpretation of Islam among other competing interpretations. Since then,
intellectuals and religious scholars have had to compete for hegemonic influence
over Indian Muslims and they have primarily done this through the delivery of
public lectures and the publication of polemical pamphlets, articles in periodicals,
and books in Urdu and English. Furthermore, this intense publication activity
has been paralleled by the establishment of networks of educational institutions
and mosques.
In the 1970s, the growth of Saudi Arabia’s political and economic power had
an impact on Muslim religious discourse and practices in Hyderabad.21 On the
one hand, Saudi Arabia’s policy of sponsoring the foundation of educational
institutions and mosques in foreign countries has given impetus to the activities
of reformist groups, as happened in Pakistan and Bangladesh.22 On the other
hand, the considerable flow of migrant workers to the Gulf has affected religious
discourse and practices. During their stay in Saudi Arabia or other Gulf countries,
migrants have been exposed to the ideas of the Wahhabiyya movement, and it
is likely that some of them have imbibed such views, thus becoming vehicles for
their propagation, such as in the case of the Bengali migrants studied by Katy
Gardner.23
Currently, all the major Indian reformist movements are represented in
Hyderabad. The leading Deobandi organization, Jamʿiyat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Hind
(founded 1919), has a local branch based in Amberpet, presided over by Pir
Shabbir Ahmad. Several Deobandi madrasas have been established, the most
important being the Dar al-ʿUlum Sabil al-Salam (founded 1972), which also
functions as a welfare organization and is located in Salala, Barkas; and the
Jamiʿa Islamiyya Dar al-ʿUlum Hyderabad, founded by the renowned scholar
and Sufi Hamid al-Din Husami ʿAqil (d. 2010), in 1975, located in Jamia
Nagar. The modernist tendency that takes inspiration from the thought of Sir
Sayyid Ahmad Khan and Abu’l-ʿAla Mawdudi (1903–79) has some following,
especially among the upper classes and the highly educated. Several Ahl-i Hadith
organizations have offshoots in Hyderabad, such as the Markazi Jamʿiyat-i Ahl-i
Hadith Hind (founded 1906). The missionary organization known as Tablighi
Jamaʿat (founded 1926) has established a vibrant network of mosques, with its
headquarters in the main mosque of Mallepally.
Therefore, it is no surprise that anti-Sufi discourse is so common in
Hyderabad nowadays. During my fieldwork, when chatting with common
Hyderabadis, I often came across negative or abusive comments on local Sufi
masters and shrines. On several occasions, when I told my interlocutors that
I was conducting research on Sufism, they made a point of explaining to me
the differences between Sufism and correct Islam. However, walking through
Hyderabad’s neighbourhoods, especially the older ones, one gets a sense of the
relevance of Sufism to contemporary Hyderabadis. The landscape is scattered
with dargahs and cenotaphs of ʿAli (d. 661), ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani (d. 1166) and
Muin al-Din Chishti (d. 1234) are ubiquitous. Anniversaries of the deaths of
Sufi saints (sing. ʿurs) are advertised in local Urdu newspapers and on posters.
Pious visits to the tombs of the saints (ziyarat) are common practice among
both Muslims and non-Muslims. The milad al-nabi, the annual anniversary of
the Prophet’s birth, is celebrated on a large scale, and throughout the month of
rabiʿ al-awwal a great number of processions, public gatherings, conferences,
lectures and poetic symposiums (sing. mushaʿira) are organized in honour of
the Prophet. Furthermore, Sufi masters offering spiritual training and healing
are in plentiful supply: the most widespread order is apparently the Qadiriyya,
followed by the Chishtiyya and the Naqshbandiyya. Other orders, such as the
Rifaʾiyya, the Shattariyya and the Naqshbandi branch known as Abuʾl-ʿUlaiyya
also have a following.
Offshoots of the Barelvi movement are also to be found in the city. Indeed,
while observing the city’s landscape it is not unusual to spot the domes of mosques
and dargahs decorated with black and white stripes, the typical hallmark of the
movement. In addition, some of the poems composed by the founder of the
movement, Ahmad Rida Khan, especially the one entitled Mustafa jan-i rahmat
pe lakhun salam (Thousands of Salutes to Mustafa, the Source of Mercy), are
sung daily in many city dargahs, such as the dargah of Yusuf Chishti (d. 1710)
and Sharf al-Din Chishti (d. 1710) in Nampally and that of Baba Sharf al-Din
Suhrawardi (d. 1286) in Pahari Sharif, which are the two most popular local Sufi
shrines. The Barelvi organization Minhaj al-Qurʾan, founded by the renowned

Pakistani scholar Muhammad Tahir al-Qadiri in 1981, established a local branch
in Mughalpura, in the Old City, which includes a centre and a school. Similarly,
the Daʿwat-i Islami, also founded in Pakistan in 1981, established the Sunni
Dawat-i Islami Centre in Dilli Darwaza (Nayapul) and a school in Latifabad
(Zamzam Nagar).24
During my fieldwork, visiting several Sufi circles of Hyderabad and conducting
extended participant observation among a few of them, I gained the impression
that, on the whole, Sufis are not very much concerned with the disputes between
the supporters and the detractors of Sufism. It seems that Sufis have largely
ignored the attacks of reformist movements and instead have opted to focus
on their own practices. Nevertheless, some of them have publicly defended the
legitimacy of Sufi beliefs and practices through lectures and writings. Among
the most active have been the Barelvis, who have primarily been involved in the
dissemination of the texts of Ahmad Rida Khan and leading north Indian
scholars of the movement. However, there have also been other Sufis who have
published writings in defence of Sufism, such as ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi (d. 1962),
his khalifa Muhammad Anwar al-Din Siddiqi (d. 1992), Sahwi Shah (d. 1979),
the latter’s living spiritual successor Ghawthwi Shah and Muhammad ʿAli Khan
Mujaddidi Naqshbandi, just to mention a few names. As a first step in the
broader project aimed at investigating the justification of Sufism in Hyderabad,
this chapter is concerned with the works of the first two authors on the list. The
following sections explore some of their writings, focusing on the ways they
represent the detractors of Sufism.
ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his Tafsir
The fact that ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi is mentioned in all the biographical antholo-
gies of the Sufi saints of Hyderabad is a sign of his prominence.25 As his name sug-
gests, he was a lineal descendant of the first caliph: Abu Bakr (d. 634). His ances-
tors hailed from Cheenak, a small town near Ahmedabad, Gujarat, and migrated
to Hyderabad towards the middle of the eighteenth century.26 Among his ances-
tors were religious scholars, Sufis and doctors; many of them, including ʿAbd al-
Qadir Siddiqi’s father, held important positions in the Nizams’ administration.27
ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi was born in Hyderabad in 1871. He received his basic
religious education from his father, then attended the madrasa Mahbubiyya, and
finally went to the madrasa Dar al-ʿUlum (founded 1856), where he studied
Islamic religious and rational sciences in addition to Arabic grammar and

literature, earning the degree of mawlwi fadil.28 At the age of fifteen, he began
his career as a mufti and teacher of fiqh at the Dar al-ʿUlum, where later on he
also taught subjects such as tafsir and hadith.29 When the Osmania University
was founded in 1918, he was appointed as a professor of religious sciences and
the first head of the Department of Theology, holding these positions until 1932,
when he retired.30
In his youth, ʿAbd al-Qadir became a disciple of his maternal uncle,
Muhammad Siddiq Husayni, known as Mahbub Allah (1847–95), and was
initiated into the Qadiriyya, receiving the khilafat at the age of sixteen.31 He set up
a broad network of followers, disciples and khalifas; while the number of disciples
is not known, one of his main biographers informs us that he had ninety-two
khalifas.32 When he was not at work, the centre of his activities was his home:
there he taught, wrote, carried out the spiritual training of disciples, received
daily visitors and supplicants and engaged in his own spiritual exercises and
devotions.33 He died there on 24 March 1962 (17 shawwal 1381) and was buried
in Bahadurpura, in a thirteen-acre plot he had purchased in 1935, where his
dargah is currently located. ʿAbd al-Qadir had four wives (not simultaneously),
ten sons and twelve daughters. Long before his own death, he appointed his
elder son, ʿAbd al-Rahim Siddiqi (1887–1968), to be his sajjada nashin.
ʿAbd al-Qadir was a renowned scholar in the field of Islamic religious sciences,
specializing in tafsir, and was also a prolific writer. He has numerous works to
his credit, in Arabic, Persian and Urdu, both in prose and poetry.34 The most
important of his works are an Urdu translation and commentary of Ibn ʿArabi’s
Fusus al-hikam, which was included in the syllabus in several Indian madrasas
and universities such as the Dar al-ʿUlum of Hyderabad and Panjab University,
and an Urdu translation and exegesis of the Qurʾan entitled Tafsir-i Siddiqi
(The Tafsir of Siddiqi). His writings cover a wide range of subjects, including
theology, cosmology, logic, Sufism, Sufi practices, social and moral reforms and
others. While he chiefly defended the legitimacy of Sufi doctrines and practices in
Tafsir-i Siddiqi, he also wrote an article in defence of samaʿ (meditative listening),
entitled Samaʿ, another on the notion of bidʿat (illegitimate innovation), entitled
Bidʿat, and another on the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday, entitled Eid
al-milad (The Feast of the Birth).35
ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi started working on his Tafsir at the beginning of the
1930s and the writing process took several years. Afterwards, individual chapters
of the Tafsir were published monthly in the periodical Al-Qadir under the title
Dars al-Qurʾan.36 The text was published as a single book entitled Tafsir-i Siddiqi
by ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons and khalifas Dr Musa ʿAbd al-Rahman Siddiqi (1922–85)
and Ahmad ʿAbd al-Shakur Siddiqi, in Karachi, Pakistan, in 1969, seven years
after the author’s demise. A few years ago it was republished by Hasrat Academy
Publications, the publishing house of the Siddiqi family, in a six-volume edition,
and recently it was made available for free consultation on its website. Since
ʿAbd al-Qadir’s passing, his spiritual successors have taught Tafsir-i Siddiqi on
the occasion of the weekly public gatherings that still take place every Sunday
at the dargah.
Intriguingly, ʿAbd al-Qadir writes in the introduction to the Tafsir that
after the publication of the first chapter of the Tafsir (the exegesis of the sura
al-fatiha), some unidentified ‘internal enemies (andaruni dushmanon)’ went
to a certain Mr Grigson, the member in charge of Police and Public Affairs of
the Executive Council of the Nizam, complaining about the views expressed
in the text. However, Mr Grigson remarked that a tafsir was a legitimate place
for any author to express his own opinion on religion and that if they had any
objections against the text, they could simply choose to ignore it.37 Although this
may be just a tale aimed at supporting ʿAbd al-Qadir’s arguments,38 it suggests
that Tafsir-i Siddiqi might have become the target of criticism from reformist-
minded Muslims in Hyderabad.
Since the tafsir, as an established genre in Islamic literature, is an ideal place to
explore an author’s opinions on religious issues, Tafsir-i Siddiqi offers a privileged
perspective on ʿAbd al-Qadir’s personal view on the detractors of Sufism.
Throughout the text, ʿAbd al-Qadir often refers to them. At the beginning of
the introduction, ʿAbd al-Qadir stresses that he composed his Tafsir ‘according
to the need of his age’ (iqtida-i zamana ka lahaz),39 and this idea is reiterated
throughout the text.40 It seems that he saw his age as a time in which Islam was
constantly under threat from both external and internal enemies, and it was the
latter about which he was most concerned.41 Besides extolling the virtues of the
religious scholars, who, in the past, had devoted their own lives to rebutting the
enemies of Islam,42 ʿAbd al-Qadir makes it clear that he intends to take up such
a task, presenting himself as their heir.43 As he states,
Throughout this translation, I have tried my best not only to translate Qurʾanic
passages according to Arabic idioms, but also to answer the objections of the
enemies of Islam. This kind of work is part of dialectic philosophy (ʿilm-i
kalam) but times have changed. Objectors of older days are no more. Modern
objectors object differently. The replies should also be in accordance with the
objections.44
While illustrating the characteristics of his Tafsir, ʿAbd al-Qadir reveals that its
aim is not only to translate the Qurʾanic text as thoroughly as possible, but also
to reply to the charges put forward by reformist Muslims. Another significant
characteristic of this tafsir is that while discussing objections, the names of the
objectors are omitted.45 ʿAbd al-Qadir does not mention specific scholars; rather,
he seems more interested in elucidating controversial issues by discussing them
in light of the Qur’an, the ahadith, and the opinions of the imams of the four
schools of law, particularly the Hanafi school. As I will show later, this is a key
point in his defence of Sufism, which distinguishes him from other twentieth-
century Indian Sufis.
Given that the introduction and first chapter are expressly devoted to the
defence of Sufism,46 I shall focus only on this part of the Tafsir. In the following
section, by specifically looking at the chapters and other texts mentioned above,
I seek to highlight the ways in which ʿAbd al-Qadir constructed and represented
the detractors of Sufism.
ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi’s representation of the

detractors of Sufism
Before turning to ʿAbd al-Qadir’s writings, I would like to make a few remarks
on the analytical tools I have used to analyse them. Researchers in the field of
critical discourse analysis have provided useful categories to investigate the
topic of legitimation in discourse. They have mostly analysed legitimation in
political discourse, but the categories put forward by them can also be used
to explore legitimation (and of course delegitimation) in religious discourse.
Critical discourse analysis sees both spoken and written discourse as a form of
social practice, assuming a dialectic relationship between particular discourses
and the contexts and institutions in which they occur.47 As Van Leeuwen
and Wodak put it, ‘Through discourse, social actors constitute knowledge,
situations, social roles as well as identities and interpersonal relations between
various interacting social groups. In addition, discursive acts are socially
constitutive in a number of ways.’48 Spoken and written discourse plays a key
role in the construction of certain identities and groups of people; in addition,
it can justify or condemn a particular social status quo, contributing to both
its perpetuation and transformation (or even destruction).49 Concerning the

discourses in defence of Sufism examined in this chapter, it can be noted that
they are instrumental in reproducing certain religious practices that have been
settled in South Asia but have become contested during the past two centuries.
Furthermore, these discourses play a part in the construction of Sufi identity
and that of its detractors. As Philippon states, ‘The identification of the rival/
opponent of a certain movement is a crucial process in the definition of the
identity of the group and the establishment of the boundary between we/
they.’50 From the perspective of any particular group that becomes the target of
criticism from rival groups, projecting a negative representation of its opponents
becomes an important means of challenging the legitimacy of such criticism.
In this regard, Teun van Dijk claims that the justification of a particular status
quo ‘involves two complementary strategies, namely the positive representation
of the own group, and the negative representation of the Others’.51 According
to van Leeuwen and Wodak, these discursive strategies fall into the category
of ‘constructive strategies’, namely ‘linguistic utterances which constitute a “we”
group and a “they” group through a particular act of reference’.52 Such strategies
enact a process of ‘moral evaluation’53 that implies the positive representation
of the we-group, in our case composed of the writer and his followers, and the
negative representation of the they-group, namely the detractors of Sufism.
Analysing the double process of positive self-representation and negative other-
representation, Ruth Wodak distinguishes three discursive strategies through
which such a process is accomplished. ‘Referential strategies’ are used for the
construction and representation of social actors, ‘predicative strategies’ are
used to identify or explain social actors through evaluative attributions and
‘argumentative strategies’ are related to the arguments, linguistic structures and
rhetorical devices used for the delegitimization of others.54
Referential strategies
As the selected chapters of Tafsir-i Siddiqi and other works listed above show,
ʿAbd al-Qadir combined all these strategies in representing the detractors of
Sufism. A glimpse into the ways in which he names and refers to the detractors
of Sufism reveals all his main arguments against them. As stated above, ʿAbd
al-Qadir never mentions specific persons or groups of people. Rather, he
refers to the detractors of Sufism through generic words and phrases, such as
‘one gentleman’ (ek sahab),55 ‘people’ (lug) or ‘the people’ (yeh lug),56 ‘religious
scholars’ (ʿulamaʾ-i millat)57 or ‘those who say amin loudly or raise their
hands [at the time of takbir during prayers]’ (amin baʾl-jahr aur rafiʿ yadn
karnewalon).58 Sometimes, he addresses them directly as ‘gentlemen’ (sahabu),
or ‘you’ (tum) (which, by the way, is less formal and deferential than ap)59; ‘oh
my dear wicked brothers [lit. brothers of the master of angels]’, (ae farishton
ke ustad bhaʾiu).60 The last phrase is the least neutral among these and hints
at the analogy between the detractors of Sufism and Iblis (Satan). In the same
way that Iblis refused to bow down before Adam, the detractors refuse to pay
due respect to the Prophet and the saints. ʿAbd al-Qadir sometimes calls them
jahil (ignorant),61 stressing that many of them are incompetent, as they lack
the required religious knowledge needed to discuss complex doctrinal issues
and directly interpret the Qurʾan. Most of the phrases used by ʿAbd al-Qadir
underline the detractors’ otherness in relation to the majority of Sunni Muslims,
for example, muʿtaridin (objectors),62 mukhallifin-i Islam/mukhallifan-i Islam
(enemies of Islam)63 or andaruni dushmanon (internal enemies).64 According to
ʿAbd al-Qadir, on the one hand, the detractors are enemies because their views
conflict with the principles laid down in the Qurʾan and ahadith; on the other
hand, this is the case because their views create resentment and divisions among
Muslims. Nevertheless, he does not regard them as being outside the fold of
Islam – indeed he refers to them as ‘monotheists’ (muwahhid). Phrases such
as madda parast muwahhid (materialist monotheists)65 or be ruh muwahhid
(monotheists devoid of spirit)66 serve to emphasize the detractors’ hostility to
anything related to spirituality (ruhaniyyat). Other phrases, such as bad lagam
muwahhid (unbridled monotheists)67 or ʿazab-i jan muwahhid (obstinate
monotheists)68 allude to the rudeness of their style of argumentation, their pride
and their disrespectful attitude towards the Prophet and the saints.
Despite the fact that most of these phrases certainly have a negative semantic
load, they are less insulting than words such as kafir (unbeliever) or bidʿati
(innovator), which were much in vogue among Muslim intellectuals and
religious scholars during ʿAbd al-Qadir’s time. He could have provided a more
negative portrayal of the detractors of Sufism by using kafir or bidʿati, as other
scholars and Sufis did, for example, his elder contemporary Ahmad Rida Khan of
Bareilly. However, ʿAbd al-Qadir purposefully refrains from using those words
and advises his readers to adopt the same attitude. He criticizes Muslims who
repeatedly accuse other Muslims of shirk, kufr and bid‘at, particularly in relation
to non-obligatory practices (ghayr wajibat) such as the ziyarat or the fatiha, the
annual celebration of the anniversaries of the deaths of the saints and the birthday
of the Prophet. Alluding to a famous Hadith, he asks his reader to ‘remember

that action and reaction are correlated. If someone calls an ordinary Muslim
kafir, and the accusation is not true, his accusation rebounds on himself. Water
flows out from the fountain but falls back into it.’69 For example, in another work,
he asserts: ‘Remember: when an issue is interpreted through the involvement of
independent reasoning (ijtihad), we cannot pronounce each other as kafirs.’70
While ʿAbd al-Qadir made it a point to rebut the charges of the detractors of
Sufism, he always adopted a sober style when discussing contested practices,
trying to avoid fuelling disputes and controversies.
Predicative strategies
In order to gain a clearer picture of ʿAbd al-Qadir’s representation of the

detractors of Sufism, we should now look at the characteristics and qualities he
attributes to them. Among key issues that lie at the heart of the disputes between
Sufis and their detractors are the differing conceptions of the Prophet. While the
latter emphasize the idea of Muhammad as an ordinary man, though a perfect
model for behaviour,71 the former argue that Muhammad was not only the most
exalted being of all creation but the very purpose of creation, an intercessor with
Allah on behalf of mankind, and someone who received extraordinary powers
from Allah.72 ʿAbd al-Qadir blames the critics of Sufism for being disrespectful
to the Prophet. In his opinion, they are presumptuous when they regard the
veneration of the Prophet as shirk and kufr.73 They claim that to celebrate the
anniversary of Muhammad’s birth is like the festival in honour of Rama held by
the Hindus.74 To put it briefly, they are not able to differentiate between worship
(ʿibadat) and reverence (taʿzim).75
Another quality that ʿAbd al-Qadir associates with the detractors of Sufism is
incompetence in religious matters. In all likelihood, in this case he is not talking
about the leaders of reformist movements, such as the Deobandi movement or
the Ahl-i Hadith, who were well-known learned scholars, but rather about their
followers, particularly those of the Ahl-i Hadith, who are generally encouraged
to look directly at the founding texts of Islam. As he ironically states,
Being equipped with neither necessary nor complementary knowledge, by

merely claiming to be an expert of ijtihad, one does not become a learned
man. One is not even able to read correctly four sentences in Arabic but calls
himself Ahl-i Hadith and trusts each end every incompetent Ahl-i Hadith leader
without verifying or assessing what the latter says. This is nothing but imitation
or unconditional trust.76
After explaining that one has to acquire an extremely vast array of knowledge
before one can claim to be a mujtahid, he laments that:
At present, by reading the translation of a book or two on hadith, one calls

himself a mujtahid. He does not know either the transmitters’ biographies nor
the annulling and the annulled verses of the Qurʾan nor other principles. He is
incapable of both comparison and deduction.77
However, ʿAbd al-Qadir is not against the application of ijtihad per se. Unlike
many Indian Sufis, such as those associated with the Deobandi and Barelvi
movements, he argues that if one has all the required scholarly qualifications
for applying ijtihad, he has the right to do so.78 Needless to say, in cases where
one is not in such a position, he should follow the opinions of any imam of the
four schools of law. He does not agree with the idea that in modern times the
doors of ijtihad should remain closed and no one should be able to become a
mujtahid, commenting that ‘this is just putting a limit to Allah’s Grace, favours
and bounty in endowing men with knowledge’.79 In projecting his self-identity,
he thus sets himself apart, not only from the leaders of groups such as the Ahl-i
Hadith and the modernists, but also from the Sufis and ʿulamaʾ associated with
the Deobandi and Barelvi movements:
Between the extremes of pure conformism (taqlid-i mahd) and independence

(azadi) or non-conformism (ghayr muqallidi), are different types of ijtihad
(independent reasoning), namely the ijtihad-i matlaq, the ijtihad fiʾl-madhhab,
and the ijtihad fiʾl-masla, exercised by scholars who have been engaged in
theological research and have thus followed the Truth.80
The detractors of Sufism are also portrayed as aggressive and intolerant preachers,
often engaged in abusing other Muslims and accusing them of shirk, kufr and
bidʿat. They are held liable for damage caused to the Muslim community from
inside by their tendency to generate division and conflict and by stirring up
hatred among religious groups. For example, ʿAbd al-Qadir draws a comparison
between the style of preaching of the critics of Sufism and that of prophets such
as Musa (Qurʾan 20:43) and Muhammad (Qurʾan 16:124), who were urged by
Allah to speak gently and to reason with people in a better way81:
You are by no means more beloved of Allah than Musa and Harun. The people
whom you have to deal with are not so rebellious and wicked as Pharaoh. So let
your advice be mild and your preaching attractive. Why have you become such
a fountain of shirk and kufr, and accuse everyone you meet of being a kafir and
a mushrik?
In another passage, it is stated that they (ʿAbd al-Qadir is most likely referring
here to the Deobandis) constantly quarrel with those who say amin loudly or
raise their hands during prayers (amin baʾl-jahr aur rafiʿ yadin karnewalon),
which is how the followers of the Ahl-i Hadith are sometimes called) for non-
obligatory (ghayr wajibat) issues.82 They even ‘take pleasure in calling Muslims
kafirs’.83 Moreover, they damage Islam by calling into question well-established
religious principles, for example: ‘Instead of reforming (islah) customs (rasum)
and illegitimate innovations (bidʿat), destroying the principles of religion is
stupidity, foolishness, muddle-headedness.’84 ʿAbd al-Qadir also blames the critics
of Sufism for misinterpreting the intention of persons who perform contested
practices. The detractors accuse Muslims of bidʿat, presuming that the latter
carry out recommended (mustahab) religious acts as if these were obligatory
(fard, wajib); however, as ʿAbd al-Qadir remarks, ‘whomever we asked, we were
told that people had never regarded these practices as fard or wajib’.85
Finally, the detractors of Sufism are depicted as being hostile to whatever
practices are to do with spirituality. At a certain point, ʿAbd al-Qadir comments
that they condemn particular beliefs and practices that are completely unknown
to them, just on the basis of prejudice. As he puts it:
It is nearly impossible to help these obstinate monotheists understand these

matters. If they had undertaken the spiritual path, they would have obtained
some knowledge of the soul. They form their own opinion about a thing of
which they have neither knowledge nor experience, yet they are bold enough to
call Muslims kafir and mushrik!86
As I show below, he criticizes those, for example, who, like Sayyid Ahmad Khan
and his followers, deny the possibility of miracles (muʿjizat, karamat).87 Regarding
certain contested spiritual practices, ʿAbd al-Qadir remarks that: ‘He [Allah] has
created exterior as well as interior means to acquire things. Using these means
for one’s own benefit is not shirk; rather, to acknowledge the means as effective
by themselves is shirk.’88 Elsewhere we are told that materialist monotheists do
not believe in the Prophet’s supernatural powers, such as the knowledge of the
Invisible (ʿilm-i ghayb).89
Argumentative strategies
This representation of the detractors of Sufism as being disrespectful to the

Prophet and the saints, incompetent in religious issues, deleterious to Islam and
the Muslim community and hostile to matters related to spirituality, is conveyed
both through the choice of words and evaluative attributions and also through
linguistic structures and rhetorical devices. ʿAbd al-Qadir uses several figures
of speech to create a rhetorical effect and thus strengthen his arguments. For
example, he stresses the detractors’ extensive use of the word kafir through a
reiterated metaphor, namely ‘they have become the fountain of shirk and kufr’,90
which was also quoted in a work by his grandson and khalifa Anwar al-Din
Siddiqi, which will be explored later.91 Through other metaphors, ʿAbd al-Qadir
seeks to delegitimize the modernists’ materialistic arguments. For example, two
effective metaphors of this type are found in his treatise Hikmat-i islamiyya
(Islamic Wisdom). Referring to the modernist ideas disseminated by Sayyid
Ahmad Khan and his followers, particularly their denial of the possibility of
miracles, he compares them to a colony of frogs who are unaware of the existence
of rivers and oceans:
Getting worked up by knowing a few laws and facts of nature and a few
materialistic secrets of Allah’s creation while denying other secrets of nature,
prevents the development of knowledge. Did you ever know what connection
you have with Allah? To know such things is a different affair. There is some
dirty water in a small pit and a few frogs are croaking while sitting around in it.
Do they know that in the world there are also oceans and rivers which have no
end?92
In another passage, he compares them to children, adding an Arabic saying to

his metaphor:
There is a four year old child who has always seen the sunlight but has never
witnessed a solar eclipse. On the basis of his experience, he denies the solar
eclipse saying: La tabdila li khalqillahi (There is no change in Allah’s creation)
(Qurʾan 30:30). Is his denial of a solar eclipse, or his thought that Allah’s will
depends on his unsound experience and logic correct? Of course not. First of
all, how old is your history? Secondly, how many detailed facts related to nature
are you aware of? The point at issue is that your narrow-mindedness has made
you express these denials. Al-nasu aʿadaʾun lima jahilu (People are critical of all
those facts about which they are unaware).93
In these chapters of Tafsir-i Siddiqi, there are numerous examples of hyperbole

that stress the negative qualities attributed to the detractors; for example: ‘One
is not even able to read correctly four sentences in Arabic but calls himself
Ahl-i Hadith’, or ‘by reading the translation of a book or two on hadith,
one calls himself a mujtahid’.94 Throughout these chapters, rhetorical questions
are inserted to support the author’s statements, such as: ‘Why have you become
such a fountain of shirk and kufr, and accuse everyone you meet of being a kafir
and a mushrik?’95; ‘Is everything which is new bidʿat?’96; ‘Is whatever jurists and
scholars of hadith deduce bidʿat?’97; or ‘Perhaps, you have some knowledge of
the Invisible?’98
Not surprisingly, these arguments are supported by countless quotations
from the Qurʾan and the ahadith. Like many ʿulamaʾ and Sufis of his time,
ʿAbd al-Qadir decided to ground his defence of Sufism in the founding texts of
Islam, constantly referring to these sources. This argumentative strategy, based
on reference to authority figures or tradition, is common in discourses involving
legitimation, and has been defined as ‘authorization’.99 This strategy was also
widely used by ʿAbd al-Qadir’s khalifa in his polemical tract in defence of the
fatiha, which, in a span of just twenty-one pages, includes eight quotations from
the Qurʾan and eleven ahadith.
The detractors of Sufism as depicted by one of

ʿAbd al-Qadir’s Khalifas
Anwar al-Din Siddiqi (1923–92), a grandson and khalifa of ʿAbd al-Qadir,

taught Islamic religious sciences at different institutes and colleges in Hyderabad
and authored a number of treatises in addition to a monumental biography of
ʿAbd al-Qadir. Of his works, the one I am concerned with here is a pamphlet
devoted to the legal defence of the fatiha, entitled Luzum-i fatiha. Fatiha bidʿat
nahin, sunnat hay (Necessity of the Fatiha. The Fatiha Is Not an Illegitimate
Innovation, It Is Sunna). It was published in 1958 and a second edition published
by Hasrat Academy Publications appeared in 2010. During my fieldwork, it was
distributed free of charge in the form of photocopies by members of the Siddiqi
family on the occasion of the aʿras (sing. ʿurs) of the saints of the family. The topic
of this pamphlet is very specific, as the three lines following the title suggest:
A reply, grounded in the Qur’an, ahadith and tradition of the Companions of the
Prophet, to the following accusation [advanced] by the opponents of the fatiha
(mukhallifin-i fatiha): ‘The practice of performing the fatiha in congregation,

encouraged by the innovators (ahl-i bid‘at) does not belong to the Prophet’s
teachings, therefore it is a reprehensible innovation (bid‘at) and as such, it is
wrong.’100
The main purpose of this tract is to rebut the accusation of bidʿat in relation to
the practice of the fatiha, thus reassuring ordinary believers that the fatiha is a
virtuous practice in line with the principles laid down in the Qurʾan and the
ahadith. One of Anwar al-Din Siddiqi’s primary concerns is apparently to provide
ordinary Muslims with detailed information on the origin, characteristics and
purposes of this practice, so that they would not abandon it due to the views
of the detractors of Sufism and would not lose the spiritual benefits that it
entails.101 In his opinion, it is especially because of Muslims’ lack of knowledge
concerning the fatiha that the idea of the fatiha as a later innovation has taken
root.102
Following the lead of ʿAbd al-Qadir, Anwar al-Din opts to focus more on
the statements and views of the detractors of Sufism, rather than on specific
figures or movements. Yet, he quotes from Ahmad Rida Khan, a certain Maulwi
Fazlallah professor at Osmania University, and two books by some unnamed
detractors of Sufism, namely Fatiha ka sahih tariqa (The Authentic Method of
the Fatiha) and Murawwaja bidʿat (Current Illegitimate Innovations). Like his
grandfather, Anwar al-Din refers to the detractors of Sufism by generic phrases
that simply reflect the latter’s stance against the fatiha, such as mukhallifin-i
fatiha (the opponents of the fatiha),103 munkiran-i fatiha (those who reject the
fatiha)104 or just moʿtaridin (objectors).105 These categories include the leaders
and followers of most of the Indian Islamic reformist movements. Once he
mentions a specific group using ghayr muqallidin (non-conformists),106 a phrase
that stands for those who deny the legitimacy of the four schools of law and are
in favour of a liberalized exercise of ijtihad, that is to say the Ahl-i Hadith. At one
point, he talks about an organization affiliated with the Ahl-i Hadith established
in Sultan Shahi, in the Old City, which carries out anti-Sufi propaganda, but he
does not disclose its name.107 In Luzum-i fatiha there is no trace of the pejorative
term wahhabi, nor of the abusive kafir, expressions that were extremely popular
with ʿulamaʾ and Muslim intellectuals at the time the text was composed. In this
respect, Anwar al-Din’s style of argumentation differs from that of other, more
famous Sufi ʿulamaʾ, such as those associated with the Deobandi and Barelvi
movements.
At the same time, he does not refrain from criticizing the detractors of
Sufism. He makes numerous evaluative statements about them both directly
and indirectly. For instance, concerning their frequent accusations of bidʿat, he
states that ‘whoever accuses innocent persons is a sinner’.108 In different passages,
he criticizes their habit of calumniating Hanafis’ views and practices without
investigation or verification. He laments that they have adopted such a style of
preaching that has succeeded in winning the trust of numerous common Muslims
and instilling doubts about particular beliefs and practices in the minds of many
of them. He defines such behaviour as (thagi ʿamal) (cheating, imposture).109 In
addition, the detractors of Sufism are depicted as presumptuous, as they dare
to claim that those who practice the fatiha deserve to be sent to hell and be
showered with insults.110 Ironically, they are portrayed as constantly engaged in
a ‘linguistic exercise so grand and so useless’, namely dismissing the fatiha and
other practices by quoting a famous Hadith.111
Echoing ʿAbd al-Qadir’s representation of the detractors of Sufism as
incompetent in religious matters, Anwar al-Din remarks that the latter usually
interpret ahadith inappropriately (be-muqeʿ).112 Furthermore, even though
justification of the fatiha has been provided by different ʿulamaʾ, they have
never seriously taken into consideration those elucidations, and at present they
still continue to regard it as an illegitimate innovation.113 Their accusations are
without foundation (be baniyad),114 while elsewhere in the text their speculations
are described as wrong (batil) and vain (khayali).115 In a similar way to ʿAbd
al-Qadir, Anwar al-Din quotes numerous Qurʾanic verses and ahadith to show
that their views conflict with the founding texts of Islam.
In addition, he represents them as disrespectful to Allah, the Prophet and
Muhammad’s companions. The detractors of Sufism are ‘disgusted by the word
fatiha’ and ‘consider it an illegitimate innovation’,116 even though it is one of
Allah’s gifts to mankind and a practice taught by Muhammad to some of his
companions.117 Moreover, they contradict a statement by the second caliph,
ʿUmar (d. 644), and deliberately shape the simple and clear instructions of the
Qurʾan and the Prophet according to their own purposes.118
At the same time, Anwar al-Din projects a positive image of his own group
and uses this image to create a contrast with the group of the detractors. As
he states: ‘It is common practice for us, the Ahl-i sunnat waʾl-jamaʿat, after
discharging the obligatory (fard) duties, trying to win Allah’s gratefulness (ihsan-
mandi).’119 He emphasizes that the Ahl-i Sunnat waʾl-Jamaʿat are not content
with performing the religiously prescribed obligations; they also endeavour
to carry out optional (sunna), supererogatory (nahfil) and recommended

(mustahab) practices, which include the fatiha. Contrastingly, the detractors of
Sufism not only contradict the principles laid down in the Qurʾan and Hadith,
but their behaviour is also detrimental to the Muslim community. In the
following sentence, they are compared with the first generations of Muslims:
‘Our predecessors used to turn infidels into Muslims, while these people turn
Muslims into infidels.’120 The contrast between the Ahl-i Sunnat waʾl-Jamaʿat
and the detractors of Sufism is highlighted through metaphors such as the
following:
While the aim of some persons is constructive, that of others is destructive. The
bee takes the nectar of flowers and produces honey, which is a remedy for men.
The fly which lives around dung drinks garbage and does nothing useful. What
does it do except sting the wounds and cause them to rot, bringing pus and
worsening the illness?121
Like his grandfather, Anwar al-Din uses numerous figures of speech and
rhetorical devices to enhance his arguments. For example, he stresses the
stubbornness and obstinacy of the detractors of Sufism through the following
simile: ‘It is not possible to correct the thought of the detractors, the thought of
reforming their faith is as unrealistic as the thought of recovering the chicken
from the egg.’122 Through another simile, he emphasizes that their accusations
rebound on them: ‘They are like fountains whose water jumps high but falls
back into the fountain itself.’123 Rhetorical questions are inserted throughout
the texts in order to strengthen the author’s claims, for instance: ‘Is the word
fatiha our invention?’124; ‘Those who practice it have been considered worse
than dogs; will not there be any repercussion for this? Will they be punished
or not?’125; ‘Do all these things have any purpose or are they just superficial and
well-pleasing things; did the Prophet hear those instructions in one ear and
lose it from the other or is there any special truth in these words?’126; or ‘We
should consider who provided these teachings. Except the Messenger of God,
did anybody else provide it?’127 Hyperbole is used to stress the otherness of the
detractors, for example: ‘They have a different opinion on every single matter,
even the handshake and the greetings.’128 Or it is used to underline their negative
qualities: ‘Their whole thought is limited to the mutual exchange of disdain for
the Prophet.’129
As Luzum-i fatiha shows, Anwar al-Din’s portrayal of the detractors of
Sufism is in line with the representation provided by his grandfather. Although
it is evident that while defending the legitimacy of the fatiha Anwar al-Din also
intends to delegitimate its detractors, nevertheless he does not go to the extent
of judging them as being infidels. Compared with many texts written against or
in defence of Sufi practices during the same period, the tone of Luzum-i fatiha
seems less harsh and aggressive.
ʿAbd al-Qadir’s present-day spiritual heirs
Apart from Anwar al-Din, ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons and grandsons did not produce
relevant writings on the defence of Sufism. They have been chiefly engaged in
disseminating ʿAbd al-Qadir’s teachings through their network of disciples
and the publication of his works. In the 1970s, his second sajjada nashin Abu
Turab ʿAli Siddiqi (1905–88) established Hasrat Academy Publications with
the purpose of publicizing his thinking. Almost all of ʿAbd al-Qadir’s writings
have been published in the last fifty years, including those in Arabic and Persian,
which were translated into Urdu to make them accessible to a wider audience.
ʿAbd al-Qadir’s teachings have also been transmitted orally within the framework
of the master–disciple (piri–muridi) relationship and group classes provided by
the leading scholars of the Siddiqi family.130
While ʿAbd al-Qadir’s sons and grandsons have not expressed their opinions
on the detractors of Sufism publicly, when asked to pronounce on the subject, in
private, they have been willing to talk about them at length. Although it would
be tempting to analyse the interviews I recorded with them, their statements
would not add much to what ʿAbd al-Qadir and Anwar al-Din wrote, and I do
not explore them here in order to avoid repetition. Their representation of the
detractors of Sufism is basically shaped by the opinion of ʿAbd al-Qadir, thus
highlighting the same concepts. The pirs and khalifas whom I interviewed mostly
depicted their detractors as enemies of Islam and of the Muslim community,131
disrespectful to the Prophet and the saints132 and ignorant or incompetent in
religious matters.133 To sum up, the present-day pirs and khalifas of this Qadiri
branch apparently do not seem to be much concerned with the views of the
detractors of Sufism; rather, they look more interested in providing fellow
Muslims with what they consider to be correct knowledge about religious beliefs
and practices so that they will not be misled.
Different views among the Ahl-i Sunnat waʾl-Jamaʿat
Since few researchers have investigated the responses of South Asian Sufis to
their detractors, our knowledge of the ways the former viewed the latter is still
fragmentary. Sanyal states that the celebrated Ahmad Rida Khan of Bareilly
extensively wrote about contemporary Indian Muslim groups and their leaders,
assessing them on the basis of their stance on the beliefs which, according to him,
made up the category of the ‘essentials of religion’ (daruriyat-i din).134 According
to Ahmad Rida, a Muslim became a kafir if he denied any of the ‘essentials of
religion’. As Sanyal illustrates, Ahmad Rida repeatedly used the term kafir in his
fatwas while discussing contemporary reformist movements, and even accused
specific persons of kufr, particularly in his later writings. Similarly, Philippon
states that the leaders of the offshoots of the Barelvi movement in Pakistan
explicitly referred to particular rival Muslim groups in their writings, declaring
them to be kafirs.135 From their perspective, all those who disagree with Ahmad
Rida’s view of faith are simply outside the fold of Sunni Islam. In similar fashion,
Lizzio asserts that the pir object of his study, Saifur Rahman, in his writings and
in interviews with journalists, considers modern reformists to be outside the
pale of Islam,136 and even ‘condemns as kafir virtually all Muslims not in general
accord with the exoteric teachings of the Mujaddid [Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi,
1564–1624]’.137
On the contrary, ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi did not refer to specific ʿulamaʾ in
his defence of Sufism, nor did he ever accuse anyone of kufr. Rather, he strongly
criticized the frequent recourse to takfir by contemporary ʿulamaʾ, seeing this
habit as detrimental to the unity of the Muslim community. Instead, he opted to
focus on the issues that constituted the roots of the disputes between conflicting
Muslim groups. His grandson, Anwar al-Din Siddiqi, adopted the same stance,
and so have his living descendants. Compared with the writings of Ahmad Rida
and other ʿulamaʾ associated with the Barelwi movement, the texts analysed
in this chapter appear to be marked by a mild and sober tone. They provide
a negative representation of the detractors of Sufism by constructing them as
‘others’ through the choice of words, evaluative attributions, linguistic structures
and rhetorical devices. However, this negative depiction is mitigated by the
absence of statements of takfir, which would have made the detractors’ otherness
more extreme.
The practice known as takfir, perhaps one of the worst abuses that a Muslim
can direct against a fellow Muslim, is a hallmark of the writings and speeches
of the detractors of Sufism. Since judgements of kufr abound in the writings

of Ahmad Rida and subsequent leaders of the Barelwi movement, it seems
that there are similarities in style and tone between these works and those of
rival ʿulamaʾ. As Philippon argues, there is a relationship of competition and
ambivalence between the main Pakistani Barelwi organizations and rival groups
hostile to Sufism; through competition, the Barelwis ended up appropriating
some of their rivals’ categories, values and institutions.138
That did not happen with ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his spiritual successors,
who determined to actively take part in the debate between the detractors and
supporters of Sufism and adopt a way of argumentation that was different from
that of their rivals, drawing on a less aggressive style and tone. Although the
aims of Ahmad Rida and ʿAbd al-Qadir were the same, that is to say rebutting
the accusations of the detractors of Sufism while simultaneously arguing for the
legitimacy of Sufi beliefs and practices, they set different priorities. On the one
hand, for Ahmad Rida the priority was to defend his own conception of religion,
particularly his own conception of the Prophet139; therefore it did not matter to
him if such a defence contributed to the exacerbation of disputes among Muslims.
On the other hand, ʿAbd al-Qadir’s primary concern was to clarify controversial
issues and provide ordinary Muslims with correct religious knowledge, trying
to dispel the doubts concerning the legitimacy of religious beliefs and practices.
He wrote with dismay about the conflicts and divisions within the South Asian
Muslim community, arguing for the importance of attenuating disputes and
solving disagreements among Muslims.
Because of the scarcity of studies devoted to the investigation of the Sufis’
responses to the attacks of modern Islamic reformist movements, it is the case
that some researchers have tended to view Ahmad Rida as a sort of spokesman
for all South Asian Sufis. However, evidence suggests that the leaders of the
Barelwi movement are by no means representative of all South Asian Sufis, as
Philippon remarks in relation to Pakistan.140 As far as Hyderabad is concerned,
ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi and his spiritual successors, like many other local Sufis,
did not completely identify with the ideas and methods of Ahmad Rida and
subsequent leaders of the Barelwi movement, and worked out a somewhat
different approach to the defence of Sufism. By showing differences in the
depictions of the detractors of Sufism, this chapter contributes to the highlighting
of the variety of views and orientations that exist among modern South Asian
Sufis.
170
9
Barelwis: Developments and Dynamics of

Conflict with Deobandis
Thomas K. Gugler
The majority of Sunni Muslims in South Asia is considered to subscribe to Barelwi

beliefs, only a minority to Deobandi belief systems. At the same time, a majority
of Muslims claims to consider themselves as Muslim only, thereby theoretically
putting the theological differences of interpretation between specific schools of
thought to a place of secondary relevance in everyday life. The following article
aims to understand why this could sometimes be difficult in practice.
Barelwiyat and reformist Islam
Following experiences of frustration with the British-Christian colonial

powers towards the end of the nineteenth century, several Islamic reform and
revival movements developed in northern India. Among others they aimed
to compensate for the decline of Muslim political power and authority by and
through religion. The widespread introduction and liberalization of printing,
in particular in the 1880s, facilitated the rapid spread of reformist movements
dramatically.1 The reform movements were characterized by the dynamics of
modernization, individualization and industrialization of everyday worlds. The
purist reform movement of Deoband, deriving its name from the location of
the seminary (dar al-ʿulum) founded by Muhammad Qasim Nanawtawi (1832–
79) and Rashid Ahmad Gangohi (1829–1905) in May 1866, aimed to purify
South Asian Islam from alleged Hindu and Sikh influences, and demanded a
reorientation of Islamic practice towards the way it is attributed to the companions
of the Prophet.2 As a counter-reform movement to Deoband, a coalition of
shrines and schools coalesced around 1880 around the person of Ahmad Rida
Khan (1856–1921) in Bareilly, a city located today in the Indian state of Uttar
Pradesh. This alliance gave birth to a school of thought called Barelwi. Followers
of this school of thought (maktab-i fikr)3 prefer to refer to themselves as Ahl-i
Sunnat wa-l Jamaʿat, people of the Sunnah and the majority community. They
preach practices close to popular Islam and Sufism, encouraging rituals revolving
around saints and their shrines and graves. At the centre is the veneration of the
Prophet Muhammad, who is considered to possess specific special qualities.4
Hence their most important Islamic festival is milad al-nabi, the birthday of the
Prophet.
The Barelwis are counter-reformist antagonists to the ‘reformers’ in the
sense that they emphasize tradition and the time period between contemporary
Muslims and the Salaf, subscribe to shrine rituals (including ʿurs, celebrating the
anniversary of the death of popular saints or their marriage with God), worship
potential intercessors between Muslims and Allah, and at the same time are
reformist in their emphasis on individual responsibility in salvation questions.5
Since 1772, the British Indian civil law differentiated between Hindus and
Muslims, specifying Hindu law and Anglo-Mohammadan law. The main
response of the ʿulamaʾ to the loss of the judicial bodies under British colonial
rule was a dramatic increase in the production of fatwa, that is, recommend by
issuing legal advice. A pioneer of this trend was Shah Wali Allah from Delhi
(1703–62), director of the Madrasa-yi rahimiya. This institution was founded
by his father Shaykh ʿAbd al-Rahim (1644–1718), an associate editor of the
Fatawa-yi ʿAlamgiri, who devoted his life to the study and teaching of Hadith.
Shaikh ʿAbd al-Rahim requested Muslim scholars to revive the responsibility
of giving legal opinions.6 As a contemporary of ʿAbd al-Wahhab (1703–92),
Shah Waliullah was inspired by the same ideas and scholars.7 Shah Waliullahʼs
son Shah ʿAbd al-ʿAziz (1745–1823) extended his father’s legacy further. Shah
ʿAbd al-ʿAziz is later considered by Barelwis – and others – as the mujaddid
(revivalist) of the thirteenth Islamic century.8
In 1806, Sayyid Ahmad Barelwi (1786–1831), from Rae Bareli in Awadh
(not to be confused with Bareilly in Rohilkhand), became a disciple of Shah
ʿAbd al-ʿAziz. Sayyid Ahmad founded the Tariqa-yi Muhammadiyya, a piety
movement that focused closely on the role model set by the Prophet Muhammad
and opposed rituals revolving around the graves of saints, denouncing these as
shirk.9 The teachings of this movement are canonized in the Taqwiyat al-Iman
(‘Strengthening Faith’)10 authored by Muhammad Ismaʿil (1779–1831), nephew
of ʿAbd al-ʿAziz, and in the Nasihat al-Muslimin written by Khurram ʿAli in
1824.11 By integrating elements of Sufism in orthodox Islam the Tariqa-yi
Barelwis: Developments and Dynamics of Conflict with Deobandis 173
Muhammadiyya deeply impacted on later South Asian reform movements.12

Barelwis consider the Deobandi school of thought as inspired by the theological
concepts associated with the Tariqa-yi Muhammadiyya.13
Ahmad Rida Khan (Qadiri Barkati Barelwi) (1856–1921) is the central
figure for the Ahl-i Sunnat. The term ‘Barelwi’ for the Ahl-i Sunnat school of
thought derives from his location: Bareilly. The Ahl-i Sunnat consider him to
be Aʿla Hadrat (Urdu: the Great Threshold) and the mujaddid, renewer of the
fourteenth Islamic century. Barelwis reject the term ‘founder’ while referring to
Aʿla Hadrat.14
The central biographical source is the Hayat-i Aʿla Hadrat authored in 1938
by his disciple, Zafar al-Din Bihari.15 Reportedly at the age of four, Rida Khan
recited the Qurʾan by heart and quite early his father Mawlana Naqi ʿAli Khan
(d. 1880) asked him to pen fatwa, religious opinions concerning Islamic law.16
In 1869, that is, at the age of thirteen (ten months and four days) Ahmad Rida
Khan began producing fatwa, which would remain the main preoccupation
of his life. In 1878 and again in 1905 he performed the hajj. For many years
he maintained close relations with scholars based in Mecca and Medina by
exchanging numerous letters. These scholars confirmed the legal opinions
issued by him – most famous are the thirty-four confirmations of his Husam
al-Haramain.17 In 1900 he was officially installed as a leader of the unfolding
Barelwi movement (which emerged in 1880) during a meeting of the Majlis-i
Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat, an anti-Nadwa-organization.18
Ahmad Rida Khan was primarily an ʿalim, in particular a mufti (interpreter
of Islamic law), a murid (1877) as well, and he became a pir and khalifa of Shah
Al-i Rasul (1794–1879) from the Barkatiya Sayyids of Marahra (in the Etah
district, south-west of Bareilly)19 who had studied Hadith from Shah ʿAbd
al-ʿAziz.20 As pir Rida Khan regularly gave taʿwiz, amulets containing Islamic
prayers or Qurʾanic verses. Contrary to several other Sufis the Barkatiya Sayyids
disapprove of samaʿ, music, qawwali, as well as the participation of women in
collective rituals practised at shrines. The shariʿa hence sets the clear boundaries
to Barelwi Sufism. Ahmad Rida considered ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani (1088–1166)
to be the most important among the saints,21 and he claimed he had appeared
to him in a vision during his hajj in 1905.22 Ahmad Rida founded the Ridwiya
Silsila (Rida means contentment or peace of the heart). His works include his
Urdu translation of the Qurʾan, Kanz al-iman,23 published in 1910; poetry (naʿt –
edited in the Diwan); and his malfuzat, especially the thirty-four volumes of the
Fatawa-yi Ridwiya.24 (During Ramadan 2009 Daʿwat-i Islami25 launched new
software for using the translation of the Qurʾan Kanz al-iman).
His manner has been described as aristocratic.26 He encouraged his students

with enormous personal commitment and placed great value on etiquette and
small gestures; for example he always entered a mosque with his right foot first
and left it with the left foot, and he never stretched his legs in the direction of
Mecca27:
He preferred solitude, and, when he did appear people would rush to touch
him, coming to kiss his hand or feet. He acted as a patron, a quite different role
from that of the Deobandis, who did not have the means nor the inclination
to dispense largesse. He gave Eid gifts to his students; he gave feasts on such
personal occasions as the birth of a grandchild, a practice the Deobandis
disapproved of. Around him clustered students from across upper India, for
on such occasions he prepared, his biographer noted, fish for Bengalis; sweets,
rice dishes, and kababs for Biharis; roasted meats and ovenbaken bread for
Punjabis and Afghanis. He outfitted his relatives and associates on ceremonial
occasions, as well. He seemed to have a ‘bottomless box,’ as his biographer wrote,
never exhausted when he wanted to give gifts to his family or subsidies to his
students.28
His followers are found particularly in rural areas and also among the less educated
strata of society – he wrote for the ordinary Muslim of the subcontinent. His
Islamic programme was essentially apolitical, that is, he did not act aggressively
against the British.29 Yet, in his advice on consumer behaviour, he requested that
Muslims keep their capital within the community. One example is his four-point
reform programme outlined in 1912:
First: Muslims must avoid all non-Muslim courts in their countries and solve all
their problems among themselves by following the Islamic shariʿa.
Second: Muslims should avoid the non-Muslim economy and must build up
their own independent economy.
Third: Muslims should develop their own Islamic banking system.
Fourth: The Muslim community must also develop their knowledge of Islam.30
The Barelwi movement rapidly expanded its pir-based networks throughout

South Asia, although, of course, not all Sufi shrines and organizations would
position themselves under the Barelwi umbrella, and several Sufi organizations
today are not Barelwi.31 Pirs (popular saints) are essential for the Barelwi
perception of piety, as connection to Allah has to come about through an
intercessor. Of similar importance is the recognition of the specific qualities of
the Prophet Muhammad, and Islamic rituals as practised at shrines of saints,

khanaqahs or dargahs, remain unchanged and respected. The transformative
ideas preached by other reformist actors are said to be innovations inspired
by idealized images of the time of the companions. Inherent in reformist and
counter-reformist Muslim movements is the mode to legitimate a specific
reformist agenda by distinguishing between ‘true Islam’ and ‘failing Muslims’,
and by constructing denomination-specific identities that contrast with that of
so-called deviants.
Barelwis and Deobandis both subscribe to the most prominent Sunni school
of law, the Hanafis – about 50 per cent of all Sunni Muslims follow this school
of law. Barelwis condemn Deobandis as kafir (unbelievers),32 murderers of
Muhammad, enemies of the Prophet and pagan producers of pornography,33
and they believe that they do not respect the Prophet sufficiently. Deobandis
consider Barelwis to be at best uneducated,34 rural grave worshippers, idolaters
or even crypto-Hindus. These polemical sectarian semantics of disrespect and
abuse, however, remain peripheral in everyday life, as the radical rhetoric of
the Barelwi preachers are in practice counter-balanced by local and context-
oriented blessing pirs.35
The Barelwis were among the first to support the Pakistan Movement and the
demand for an independent Islamic state. Among other things, this led to the
accusation that the Barelwis were co-financed by the British.36 The Deobandis,
however, were more sceptical of establishing an Islamic state, as they interpreted
the project as an obstacle against the Islamization of India as a whole. Ironically,
Islamic state politics in Pakistan has mostly favoured Deobandis, who have
managed to communicate their ideas of the ‘pure and original Islam’ in a more
rational and hence more convincing way. The main difference between the more
emotional Barelwi lovers of the Prophet and the strictly rational monotheistic
cultures of interpretation of Deoband,37 whose followers are considered
Wahhabis by Barelwis,38 is centred on the super-human, almost god-like status
attributed to the Prophet Muhammad; for Barelwis, Muhammad undergoes a
kind of apotheosis.39 This difference unfolds in a variety of beliefs, which in their
various forms became the centre of debate among various reformist agents. As
a result of the very strong emphasis on the love for the Prophet, Barelwis are
particularly sensitive to alleged abuse and insults against the Prophet. Barelwis,
for example, protested vehemently against Salman Rushdie40 and mobilized mass
rallies after the Regensburg lecture of Pope Benedict XVI in September 2006
and the Danish cartoon publications. During the Gulf crisis Barelwis supported
Saddam Hussein, as he was seen as an antagonist to Saudi Wahhabism.41
‘Loyalty to Allah is useless without love for the Prophet’42
Love for the Prophet is central for the Barelwis, and involves a number of
complexities, for example, on the debate whether the parents and ancestors
of the Prophet, who were never invited to accept Islam, should be considered
believers.43 Barelwis answer that Muhammad could not have been born into a
family of non-Muslims.44 This significantly increased the love for the Prophet,
which for Rida Khan is a conditio sina qua non to be a Muslim – and he refers
to a Hadith to support this claim: ‘Nobody among you will become a Muslim
unless I am dearer to him than his parents, children and all other persons.’45 ‘It
has become crystal clear that any person who holds somebody dearer than the
Prophet is not a Muslim at all.’46 Friendship with those who speak disrespectfully
about the Prophet is forbidden:
The proper way to carry out this test is that if the persons who command your
respect and love, such as your parents, your teachers, your spiritual guides, your
children, your brothers, your intimate friends, your companions, your maulvis,
your huffaz, your Muftis, or your preachers etc. etc. whoever they may be, if they
are disrespectful to Prophet Muhammad, they should lose their respect and love in
your hearts at once. You should leave them and throw them out like a fly thrown
out of milk. You should hate them. You shouldn’t value your relationship and
friendship with them. You shouldn’t feel impressed by their religious leadership
and scholarship. After all, whatever position they enjoyed was because of their
slavery and loyalty to Prophet Muhammad, and if they have acted disrespectfully
to Prophet Muhammad they have lost their position. Their religious cloaks and
turbans should not impress you. Aren’t there Jews who wear cloaks and turbans?47
This position supports the translation of his heritage in the semantics and
characteristics of new religious movements that are known to be disruptive
on the social and family level.48 Anyone, who fails to observe the command
‘Disrespect must be given to those who disrespect the Prophet’,49 is considered a
non-Muslim, if not a Satanist, because: ‘It is customary in the Holy Qurʾan to give
good tidings of blessings to the believers and to threaten the disbelievers with
the whip of chastisement.’50 ‘To respect a true scholar is to respect the Prophet,
and to respect a disrespectful scholar is to respect Satan. … The scholars of
unbelievers and infidels cannot be regarded as leaders of the Muslims.’51 ‘From

this we can deduce that a person who maintains friendly relations with such a
person ceases to be a Muslim. … It is very important to cut your relations of
respect and love with anyone who is disrespectful.’52
Rida Khan backs this thesis by quoting the Q.60:1-3.53 He adds: ‘All the
Muslims are unanimously of the view that any person who shows disrespect to
the Prophet Muhammad is a disbeliever. Anybody who doubts it, is himself a
disbeliever.’54 ‘Do not pay any respect to such people, but humiliate them.’55
Rida Khan’s most famous fatwa, Husam al-Haramain, published in 1906
(authored already in 1902), mentions among others the Deobandi founding
fathers Muhammad Qasim Nanawtawi, Rashid Ahmad Gangohi and Ashraf
ʿAli Thanwi (1863–1943) among the Wahhabiya Shaytaniya, unbelievers and
Satanists.56 For this fatwa he cites thirty-four opinions from scholars based in
Mecca and Medina who describe the threats imagined by Rida Khan in further
detail: ‘It is also true that these sects are the confidants of infidels, who are their
main sources of support and allies who are enemies of Islam. They are making
blasphemous statements and creating sacrilege faiths in order to create disunity
among the Muslims and erase Islam and the Muslims from the surface of the
Earth.’57 ‘We pray to our Lord, that He uproots their rebellious nature, and when
they wake up in the morning, find nothing save [in] their destroyed houses.’58
Also of note is the response given by Rida Khan in his fatwa ‘Did Wahabiyyah
exist in the time of the Prophet?’, on whether these Deobandis would indeed be
an old sect. He answers the question raised in the title:
Yes and of course! This is the sect which consists of those misled and heretic
people about whom Hazrat ʿAbdullah bin ʿAbbas asked permission from the
Amir al-Mominin, Hazrat ʿAli al-Murtaza, to wage war against and kill them.59
So all of them were surrounded and killed in the battle ground. … Then they
surely have killed and wiped out the most evil man from the surface of earth. …
They all praised Allah Taʿala for wiping out this filth from the face of earth. Then
he [Hazrat ʿAli] addressed his army and said that: ‘Do you think this cursed
cult is totally exterminated from the face of earth? Absolutely and definitely
not! Some of them are still in the wombs of their mothers and some are in
their father´s sperm.’ … Now in this age, this cult has appeared in the name of
reformers of Islam, and they are called Wahhabiyyah. And Islam does not need
reform but revival.’60
At the same time central to the understanding of Barelwi-Sufism and Neo-

Barelwi Sufi-Islamism61 is the surprisingly strict recognition of the shariʿa:
The shariʿa exists in every breath and in all aspects of Islamic life. … Tariqa
and maʿrifa are only a part of the whole that is the shariʿa. … If not, they are
rejected outright as deviants. The Shariʿa is a standards and a measure to which
everything must be referred.62
Shariʿa … is the only light for mankind in the whole universe.63
Tariqa cannot exist without the shariʿa.64
At present, in these times, there are some people who project themselves to be
Sufis. They claim that the driving force behind the ʿt pres is the Qurʾan and the
Sunnah whereas their guidance and energy comes directly from our beloved
Prophet. In our opinion, this is kufr, since intentionally or unintentionally these
people are taking themselves outside the fold of the holy shariʿa. … It inherently
implies that they consider the mission of all the prophets in history as a waste
of time.65
Although some issues remain a matter of controversial debate within the

Barelwi movements, the writings of Ahmad Khan serve as a canon accepted by
all Barelwis. An argument frequently repeated in the opinions given by Barelwi
scholars refers to the second part of their self-designated name, Ahl-i Jamaʿat:
‘The thing that a group of a Muslims say is good, it is accepted by Allah!’66 The
first part of their self-designated name, Ahl-i Sunnat, implies that they are Sunni
Muslims. Several Daʿwat-i Islami lay preachers I interviewed even believed that
Deobandi lay preachers of the Tablighi Jamaʿat would be Shiʿa because they
do not stick to the Sunna.67 In turn, Deobandis accuse the Barelwis of shirk
(polytheism) for the alleged deification of the Prophet, and the Barelwis accuse
Deobandis of blasphemy for being disrespectful to the Prophet.68
Main characteristics of the Ahl-i Sunnat
The two main features of spiritual-emotional popular Islam that provoke tensions
with the more rational religiously dogma-oriented reformists are the veneration
of saints and the shrine-visiting culture resulting from it. The activism of the
purists against bidʿa (innovation) implies the rejection of monasticism and
several mystical concepts. At the same time it should not be forgotten that
neither Deobandis nor Barelwis is internally a homogenous group – both

schools of thought include several subfamilies who compete internally for
interpretive power, social recognition and hard resources like funds, disciples
and institutions.69
For Barelwis the confrontation with the Deobandis began with the question
of the finality of the Prophet, that is, whether there is a final prophet for each
of the seven heavens, which is negated by Barelwis.70 Contemporary authors
further develop earlier debates and meanwhile the current discourses between
both schools of thought revolve around several points. The Deobandi scholars
Qasimi and Mahmud formulated a fundamental criticism of the Barelwi belief
systems outlined in seven volumes. More concise Deobandi criticisms of
Barelwi beliefs have been published, for example by Suhail (1999 and 2002),
Badawi (2000) and Jamiʿi (n.d.).71 The main areas of conflict focus upon the
following topics:
i Assistance from others than Allah72

Although salvation and spiritual support can only come from Allah, Barelwis
allow that the faithful and saints can be asked for blessings, knowing that these
are merely a means, as Allah has endowed the anbiyaʾ and awliyaʾ with special
abilities. The same is true even of saints who are not present or have already
died73:
The distinguished Prophets and illustrious awliya enjoy a very special proximity
with Allah and are therefore, divinely blessed to assist fellow creation. This
assistance can be of a spiritual or physical nature and can be rendered while they
are alive and even after their death. These elite servants of Allah offer their help
only by the command of Almighty Allah.74
Deobandis are more sceptical of intercessors, and consider the seeking of

assistance from the deceased an example of polytheism.75
ii Saying ‘Ya Muhammad!’ and ‘Ya Rasul Allah!’76

The invocation of the Prophet is allowed among Barelwis – but it is not fard,
wajib or sunna – whereas Deobandis consider such invocations to be shirk
(polytheism), because to them the additional ‘Ya!’ (Oh) implies the presence
of the person being invocated, and the Prophet has died like a human being
according to Deobandi interpretation. Deobandi mosques hence do not

display signs stating ‘Ya Rasul Allah!’, which are usually displayed in Barelwi
mosques. Rida Khan explains that saying ‘Ya Muhammad!’ is benedictory and
can remove pain.77
iii ‘Death’ of the Prophet78

Barelwis are accused of claiming that the Prophet Muhammad never died. This
often-repeated standpoint, however, is not the full story: Barelwis believe that the
Prophet Muhammad has died, but at the same time lives on in his grave, and from
there he passes the invocational prayers of the Muslim umma. For this reason, he
is able to appear in dreams and visions. Barelwis locate the main argument for this
is in the Qurʾan (3,169): ‘And those who have been slain in the way of Allah, never
think of them as dead; but they are alive with their Lord, get their subsistence.’79
Prophets, however, are higher than martyrs, and their place is in their grave. For
the Deobandis, direct reconnection with Allah is the only way of worship.
iv Wasila – Intercession80

For Barelwis the intercession via the Prophet Muhammad is a conditio sine qua
non of seeking proximity to God81: ‘Only the Prophet can reach God without
intermediaries. This is why, on the Day of the Resurrection, all the prophets,
walis and ʿulama’ will gather in the Prophet’s presence and beg him to intercede
for them with God.’82 For Barelwis approaching Allah (tawassul) means to
supplicate to Allah through the Prophet or another living or deceased saint, that
is, the Muslim seeks the wasila of a saint, who is considered to be specifically
close to Allah or the Prophet Muhammad and requested to function as an
intercessor: ‘O Allah! I ask You with the wasila of the Prophet. Ya Muhammad!
I am making duʿaʾ to Allah Most High with your wasila, so that Allah Most High
may accept my duʿaʾ. O Allah! Make Prophet as my interceder.’83 Lay preachers
of the Barelwi missionary movement Daʿwat-i Islami explained to me in Multan:
‘If you miss the link, you will sink.’84 Muslims who do not accept a Shaykh are
regarded as Satanists on the basis of Hadith: ‘He who has no Sufi Shaykh here,
shall have, hereafter, the Devil as his Shaykh,’85 and ‘The Sufi Shaykh in his nation
is like a Prophet among his people. … A people without a prophet is misguided
and lost. Similarly a person without a Sufi Shaikh is not on the right path.’86 ‘A
person without a Shaykh is outside the pale of Islam, his worship is void and
greeting him is prohibited and dangerous. He will be raised up from his grave
on the Day of Judgment with the band of Devils.’87 According to Rida Khan
hence the Qur’anic saying shall apply: ‘Allah (Himself) fights against them. How
perverse they are!’88 Deobandis consider this practice polytheism, as Allah alone
is worthy of worship, and third parties cannot support or increase the likelihood
of acceptance of any prayer.
v Nur – Divine light89

Barelwis consider the Prophet Muhammad not only as human (bashar) but also
as nur-i khuda (the light of God): ‘Undoubtedly, there has come to you from
Allah a light and a Book, luminous.’90 According to Barelwi beliefs the light of
the Prophet was created before the creation and is hence timeless.91 That means
that the Prophet was initially created from the light of God and after that the
creation unfolded from this light.92 Nur-i Muhammadi93 is the first manifestation
of the divine light, and out of that everything else was created dependent on it.94
‘Allah Taʿala is the Real Light and His is the Only Light. … The Holy Prophet
Hazrat Muhammad is, no doubt, created from the Self Light of Allah Taʿala.’95
The dictum of the Prophet’s infallibility originates from this concept, which is
again rejected by Deobandis as polytheistic. A detailed account of the fall and
rise of the angels in this light can be found in Rida Khan’s essay ‘Al-Hidayat
al-Mubarakah fi-Khalq il-Malaʾikah’.96 Deobandis consider the Prophet as solely
human (bashar) or insan-i kamil, the perfect human. The debate on this question
resulted in the famous fatwa-war on whether the Prophet (as perfect beauty or
figure of light) could have had a shadow.97
vi ʿIlm-i ghayb – Knowledge of the unseen98

Knowledge of the unseen, the past and future, is for Deobandis one of the
exclusive qualities of Allah: ‘Who indicates that anybody other than Allah
possesses ʿilm-i ghayb, is indeed a kafir … friendship and sympathy with him
are totally forbidden.’99 Barelwis, however, believe that Allah can reveal parts
of this knowledge to selected prophets,100 and that Allah gave Muhammad full
access to this knowledge,101 and he passed it on to selected successors.102 The
Qurʾan is more ambivalent in this regard: ‘And it is not befitting to the dignity
of Allah that O general people! He let you know the unseen. Yes, Allah chooses
from amongst His messengers whom He pleases.’103 ‘The Knower of Unseen
reveals not His secret to anyone. Except to His chosen Messengers.’104 To declare
the Prophet Muhammad devoid of this knowledge is considered blasphemous
by Barelwis: ‘Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi compares in his Hifz al-Iman the knowledge
of the Prophet with that of lower creatures like animals. … Mister Thanwi is
guilty of blaspheming the Prophet.’105 ‘The attacks of their perverse pens aim not
against the Ahl-i Sunnat scholars, but against the prophet himself!’106 Deobandis
and Ahl-i Hadith reject the idea of Muhammad being superior to man and pay
tribute to his achievements as a social reformer.107
vii Hadir-o nazir – Presence of the Prophet, who views all actions108
As light the Prophet is eternally omnipresent, hence he is present (hadir) as
a witness and a viewer (nazir)109 of all human deeds. His character as a nazir
is drawn from the Qurʾan (2:143): ‘And thus We made you exalted among all
nations that you may be witnesses to the people, and this Messenger your guard,
and witness.’110 As hadir, (as pointed out by Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624)),
Muhammad had a super-creational knowledge about the nature of things (al-ʿilm
al-huduri).111 Barelwis believe that the Prophet can be present at the same time
at different locations, and is able to view the whole creation inside his grave in
his palm. Deobandis interpret this as polytheism, and are in this regard in the
tradition of the Taqwiyat al-Iman: ‘The first distinction is to be omnipresent
(hazir o nazir rahna) and omniscient at every point, far and near, hidden or
open, in darkness or in light, in the heavens or on earth, on mountain peaks or
the depth of the sea – this is Allah’s glory alone and the glory of no one else.’112
viii Bidʿa – Innovation?113

Innovation is a highly ambivalent term, and mostly understood as opposite to
sunna, tradition or customs, the rule of actions, the eternally valid example given
by the Prophet: ‘In Islamic terminology bidʿa means introduction of some novelty
in religion which resembles and looks like a part of religion, but in reality, it is not
so. … The crux of the matter is the fact that bidʿa is usually invented with good
intentions and then is naively made a part of religion.’114 Hence there is a distinc-
tion between bidʿa sayyia, a bad innovation, which is contradicting a sunna, and
bidʿa hasana, a good innovation in harmony with shariʿa, for example, the inser-
tion of vocalization signs in the Qurʾan, mosque minarets,115 Friday sermons in a
language other than Arabic, calling for prayers with loudspeakers or making pil-
grimage by plane. In the literature Indian Sufis justify that by referring to a Hadith
of Muwattaʾ: Ma raʾauhu ʾl-muslimun hasanan fa-huwa ʿinda llahi hasan.
But as far as ibadat through which a man seeks proximity to God is concerned,
everything is duly defined and well perfected by God Himself, leaving no room
for any novelty, innovation, addition, omission, alteration or modification
whatever the condition may prevail therein. … Even a slightest change in mode,
form, presentation, quality, place and time is not allowed.’116
The circumambulation of a grave, ʿurs celebrations, celibate lifestyle and tasbih

are innovations usually heavily criticized by Deobandis.117 The debate and
possibility of good bidaʿ, for example, doing bayʿa to the al-salaf al-salih, enables
Sufi groups to perceive themselves as Salafi-Sufis. Ahmad Rida is often honoured
with the title ‘Reviver of the Sunnah, Destroyer of Bidʿah’118 because Barelwis
regard several purist Deobandi teachings as historically new.
ix Milad al-nabi – Birthday of the Prophet119

The celebration of the birthday of the Prophet (the same date as the day of his
death) is a source of conflict: whether it is bidʿa hasana or bidʿa sayyia. Barelwis say
that a gathering during which salutations to the Prophet Muḥammad are given,
donations are collected for the needy and the deeds and virtues of the Prophet
are commemorated is clearly a pious action and a good innovation. Deobandis
argue that120 ‘If at the same point of time different birthday congregations take
place, will Muhammad be present at all locations or not? He has to decide
according to his preferences where to go and where not to go. If he would be
present at all locations, how could he be at a thousand places, while his existence
is one?’121 Quite famous as well is the online fatwa given by the Tablighi Mufti
Taqi ʿUsmani, who parallels milad with the Christian Christmas celebrations,122
against which he levels the same arguments to identify them as non-biblical and
un-Christian, and likewise the milad is considered non-Qurʾanic and un-Islamic.
Rida Khan argues, ‘To celebrate the birth of the Prophet is according to the
order of Allah Taʿala who also says, “and publicize well the favour of your Lord”.
(Q.93:11). The birth of the Holy Prophet has more eminence than all the other
favours.’123 Followers of the Daʿwat-i Islami consider milad al-nabi to be the most
important Islamic holiday of the year, the ‘ʿid of ʿids.’124 Daʿwat-i Islami claims
that the milad celebration at their international headquarters in Karachi is the
largest worldwide.125 Men congregate to commemorate the Prophet, decorating
the whole area with massive additional lighting and green flags. The celebrations
happen there without music.126
x Idkhal al-tawab – Raising the spiritual status of the deceased127

Barelwis believe that spiritual benefits as well as forgiveness of sins can be
generated and asked for on another’s behalf – including for someone who has
passed away. The means for attaining that higher spiritual status are for example
prayer, giving donations, reciting the Qurʾan or making an additional hajj in
the name of that person.128 Other Muslims consider it impossible to produce
spiritual benefits for others. Barelwis, however, usually fix a date for a meeting
dedicated to this purpose after someone has died: guests gather to donate for
the needy in the name of the deceased, the Qurʾan is recited, etc. There is a
kind of continuity to ʿurs celebrations.129 Barelwi scholars, however, stress that
the family shall not provide food for the participants of this gathering (funeral
feast),130 but that the food that the participants bring along is used only for the
family members of the deceased and donations are for the needy.131
Related to this debate is the well-known fatwa-war concerning whether it is
allowed to recite the azan (the call for prayer) at someone’s grave. Rida Khan
unambiguously allows this practice:
The person who has just entered the grave is also in need of this help [recitation
of kalima]. Therefore, if we recite the azan at his graveside, he will not only be
able to save himself from the clutches of Shaytan, but he will also be able to
answer the questions put to him by the Munkar and Nakir.132
The Holy Prophet, explaining the times when the duʾa of a person is mostly
accepted, said: ‘There are two Duʾas which are not refused. One is at the moment
of azan and the other is at the beginning of jihad.’133
Indeed it is surprising that those who prohibit this wonderful deed of reciting
the azan are doing nothing but robbing the Muslims of all the above mentioned
benefits. As a matter of fact if we do recite the azan at the graveside of a brother
Muslim we are doing nothing but practising the blessed words of the Holy
Prophet wherein he has clearly stated: You should as much as you can be of
benefit to your brother Muslim.134
Idkhal al-tawab is at the same time a great opportunity to do daʿwa.135 Critics,

however, argue:
Hundreds and thousands of Muslims died during the period of Holy Prophet,
his noble companions and those who followed them. They quietly took their
biers to the graveyards, prayed for their salvation, buried them and dust off their
hands. … The installation of tent, making special arrangements for receiving
condolences from the people, their entertainment with food and beverages,
non-stop recitation of Holy Qurʾan for three days which is called Teejah in
vernacular language, are totally unlawful and forbidden.136
xi Taʿwiz – Amulet locket137

The taʿwiz is a duʿaʾ, a verse of the Qurʾan or one of the Ahadith, written on a
repeatedly folded piece of paper worn in a locket around the neck. As an amulet
it is believed, for example, to have healing powers for sick people, protective
powers for children and can repel evil. Alternatively a duʿaʾ can be blown into
the face of those seeking help or assistance. Among Barelwis it is a debate of
some controversy, however, whether numerical diagrams etc. are permitted, as
these seem to revolve around extra-Qurʾanic ‘magical’ data.
xii Travelling to the Prophet’s Tomb138

Masjid al-nabawi, the Prophet’s Mosque with the green dome in Medina, shall
be visited only with the intention to perform the prayers according to Deobandi
scholars. On that occasion the Prophetʼs tomb may be visited. Barelwis, however,
allow and stress that Muslims travel to Medina with the intention of visiting the
Prophetʼs tomb: ‘The Holy Prophet has said in a Hadith that: “Whoever visits
my grave, it is like he who has visited me in my life time.”’139 Deobandis associate
travelling to graves with Hindu pilgrimages, and hence consider this custom
un-Islamic: ‘The Holy Apostle had cursed the Jews and Christians, for they made
the graves of their Prophets mosques.’140
Processes of pluralization and institutionalization
As a counter-reformist movement to Deoband and the Ahl-i Hadith a coalition

of shrines and schools coalesced after 1880 around the person of Ahmad Rida
Khan. Throughout the 1890s the Ahl-i Sunnat organized numerous meetings on
regional levels to unify Sufi sympathizers and oppose the Nadwat al-ʿUlamaʾ.
In 1900 Ahmad Rida Khan was officially installed as a leader of the unfolding
Barelwi movement during a meeting of the Majlis-i Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat.
The first madrasa of the Barelwi movement was the Madrasa Manzar-i Islam,
which was founded by Rida Khan himself in 1904 in Bareilly. This institution
was also known as the Madrasa-yi Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat.141 Zafar al-Din
Bihari, Rida Khanʼs disciple and biographer,142 had an active role in establishing
the madrasa. Rida Khanʼs most famous fatwa, authored in 1906, in which he
calls the Deobandi elder Rashid Ahmad Gangohi a kafir, should be understood
in the context of mobilizing support for this madrasa. The main leader of
this madrasa was Rida Khanʼs firstborn son, Hamid Rida Khan (1875–1943),
who was the director of the madrasa after its launch in 1904 until his death.
Hereafter his firstborn son, Ibrahim Rida Khan (1907–65), became the director
of the madrasa. Currently about 200 to 300 students are enrolled in this
institution.143
In comparison to the reformist movement of Deoband the counter-reformist
Barelwi movement revolves more around specific personalities. The focus on
the person of Ahmad Rida Khan, who stressed fatwa production rather than
founding institutions for education, resulted in such institutions and madrasas
having initially been considered of secondary importance. Following Rida Khanʼs
death in 1921 his two sons became leading figures in the reformist movement.
Hamid Rida Khan had two sons and five daughters. His brother Mustafa Rida
Khan (1892–1981), eighteen years younger than him and also born in Bareilly,
became famous after Hamidʼs death in 1943 as the Mufti al-Aʿzam-i Hind,144
the great jurist of India – not with a title that honoured him as a Sufi saint. His
magnum opus is the two volumes of the Fatawa-yi Mustafawiya. Another quite
well-known work is his collection of poems, Saman-i Bakhshish. Mustafa Rida
Khan was a khalifa of his father, and authored, like him, his first fatwa at the age
of thirteen (on the relation of persons being breastfed by the same woman).145
He received his education at the Madrasa Manaar-i Islam. Like his father, he
attached great importance to piety in everyday behaviour, for example touching
things with the right hand only, never spitting in the direction of Mecca or
touching the earth at a graveyard only with the toes. He did not permit Muslims
to use the honorific title sarkar (leader) for government officials.146 He performed
hajj thrice, 1905, 1945 and 1971.147 According to reports of his followers Mustafa
Rida Khan was the first Muslim in India who did the hajj with a special passport
devoid of a photograph, as for religious reasons he aggressively and successfully
objected to a photograph in his passport.148 Yet, he also became famous rather as
a pir and not as an ʿalim.149 In the second generation of the movement, sunna had
to become a central concept, as the movement of the Ahl-i Sunnat considered
itself not as founded by Ahmad Rida Khan, but claimed to translate traditional
principles into contemporary practice.
Ahmad Rida Khan,

1856–1921
Hamid Rida Khan, Mustafa Rida

1875–1943 Khan, 1892–1981
Ibrahim Rida Hammad Rida

Khan, 1907–1965 Khan, 1916–1956
Ahtar Rida Khan

(Azhari)
Rehan Rida Khan,

1934–1985
Subhan Rida Khan
Mustafa Rida Khan is reported to have thousands of khalifas.150 Barelwis

consider him the mujaddid of the fifteenth Islamic century.151 It is interesting
that the Memon Mawlana Muhammad Shakir ʿAli Nuri, the first nigran of
Daʿwat-i Islami in India and the founder of the Indian Daʿwat-i Islami split off
Sunni Daʿwat-i Islami,152 is a murid of Mustafa Rida Khan.153 The well-known
author Arshad al-Qadiri and Akhtar Rida Khan, the current mufti of Bareilly, are
among the most influential khalifas of Mustafa Rida Khan in India. In Pakistan,
Shah Turab al-Haq Qadiri is his most important khalifa. Rida Khan is part of a
specific silsila, and appointed his son Hamid Rida Khan (Hujjat al-Islam, proof
of Islam) his sajjada nashin in 1915.154 Under his guidance, the grave of his father
was transformed into a shrine – one of the most central Barelwi khanaqah –
becoming an important destination of pilgrimage and a place for annual ʿurs
celebrations. Bareilly became a sacred site, with the grave of Rida Khan as a
centre for the baraka, the most important area for the emanation of positive
spiritual powers and blessing energies. At the same time Hamid Rida Khan was
the muhtamim, manager, of the Madrasa Manzar al-Islam. Both sons of Rida
Khan are buried next to their father in the shrine in Bareilly.
Apart from the works of Rida Khan, the most central pillar of contemporary
Barelwiyyat is the fatwa collection Bahar-i shariʿat authored by Mufti
Muhammad Amjad ʿAli (1879–1948),155 a khalifa of Rida Khan,156 which was
published by Daʿwat-i Islami’s Maktabat al-Madina in (currently) sixteen
volumes, in an easy-to-read language and with additional notes.157
The most important and largest institution of education of the Ahl-i Sunnat
in India is currently the Madrasa Ashrafiyya, Ashrafiyya Misbaḥ al-ʿulum, in
Mubarakpur, in the district of Azamgarh, with about 1,500 students.158 The history
of this institution dates back to 1898, however it was a completely ‘Barelwi-ised’
only in 1934, when ʿAbd al-ʿAziz from Muradabad became its director.159 ʿAbd
al-ʿAziz graduated from the Manzar-i Islam in Bareilly and was a disciple of
Amjad ʿAli. Without going into detail here,160 it should be underlined that the
local shift of Barelwi scholarship from Bareilly to Mubarakpur is significant, and
has not yet been evaluated analytically in the academic discourse.
Rida Khan focussed on fatwa production, and not on teaching. For this reason
madaris received at first relatively little support compared to other reformist
movements. Any reform movement stresses education as well as missionary
activities. The first missionary Barelwi organization began to operate, most likely,
in 1924. The Jamaʿat-i Rida-i Mustafa countered the activities of the neo-Hindu
missionary movement Arya Samaj (Aryan Society) founded in 1875 in Mumbai.
Apparently the Jamaʿat-i Rida-i Mustafa was soon outshone by the Tablighi
Jamaʿat. The Jamaʿat-i Rida-i Mustafa seems to have been active until 1957.161
In 1925 in Muradabad the All-India Sunni Conference was founded as the
new and main institution of the Ahl-i Sunnat ʿulamaʾ. This institution can be
interpreted as reaction against the JUH (Jamiʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-yi Hind) founded
in 1919 and the Khilafat Committee (1919–24).162 Its second meeting after the
foundational congregation took place during the All-India Sunni Conference in
1935 in Badayun. During the third and last conference in 1946 in Benares the
idea of the foundation of Pakistan was discussed. At the first meeting in 1925
a document of statutes was passed, outlining the institution’s aims, principles,
rules and membership details.163
In the wake of globalization of the Barelwi movement,164 numerous ‘Raza-
Academies’ came into existence in several Diaspora societies, where Rida Khan’s
works were circulated and translated, fatwa were edited and madrasas founded.
Among the globally most active centres is the ‘Imam Ahmed Raza Academy’
founded on 5 July 1986 in Durban, South Africa, which operates under its
Secretary General Yunus ʿAbd al-Karim al-Qadiri Ridawi.165 In Europe the Raza
Academy in Stockport is probably the main institution. It was founded in 1979
by Muhammad Kashmiri in Manchester and started to publish the works by
and about Rida Khan,166 as well as the magazine The Islamic Times, in 1985.167
In the United States, Ghulam Zarquani, Arshad al-Qadiri’s son, directs the Raza
Educational Circle in Houston.168 In India the Tahrik-i Fikr-i Rida in Mumbai is
an important organization and prominent Barelwi publisher. The Raza Academy
founded in Mumbai in 1978 propagates Ahl-i Sunnat aims by translations,
publications and (sometimes violent) political mass demonstrations (e.g. during
the visit of George W. Bush in India or against apparently blasphemous cultural
programmes like the screening of The Da Vinci Code in cinemas).
The dominant and main new feature of Neo-Barelwiyyat is the successful
integration of modernization and globalization strategies. The new competence
of transnational communication is clearly visible in the dramatic increase of
translations of the works of Ahmad Rida Khan, which are meanwhile mostly
translated and printed in South Africa, that is, the classical centre of Barelwiyyat
became pluralized and shifted: Bareilly itself is for the global Neo-Barelwiyyat
today of rather ideational meaning; Dubai and the United States have become
important for financial funding of the movement; South Africa became a main
intellectual hub; and Mumbai a centre for the media activities of ‘the Barelwi
movement’ in today’s late-modernity. The most visible sign of the successful
implementation of processes of modernization are the productions of the Medina
media industry, that is, the well-organized presence of eloquent and sometimes
impressively charismatic Barelwi preachers and other agents on YouTube, Islam-
specific internet sites and Daʿwat-i Islami’s TV channel ‘Madani Channel’.
Although the analysts of the Islamic spheres from South Asia are deeply
influenced by their specific civilizational patterns, their religious traditions and
institutions, the worlds of faith of South Asian Muslims remain multilayered,
complex, sometimes contradictory and often opaque. Since the end of the
nineteenth century, however, modern theological debates became increasingly
enriched by subjective experiences of God or a prophet, and their debates of self-
understanding were thus increasingly characterized by a competitive rivalry for
impact in society, in which bitterly feuding agents accused each other in their
‘race for souls’ in the sense of a radical foreign-God-critique of xenotheism and
bigotry,169 while their specific tradition of hatred remains a proof of faith: ‘Our
hatred and our disgust for the Deobandis is for their shocking words and acts
of blasphemy an obligation of our faith and will remain alive as long as we are
alive.’170
190
10
The Contested Milieu of Deoband:

‘Salafis’ or ‘Sufis’?
Ron Geaves
Building upon my own research on the presence of Muslims in Britain over

the past twenty-five years and other scholarship that has investigated the South
Asian Islamic movements that dominate British Muslim life, this chapter will
place two current theses under investigation. The first is that the Deobandis are
a strict scriptural tradition, often accused of being ‘Wahhabi’; the second is that
they are the bitter rivals of the South Asian Sufi traditions (Barelvis), and thus
the bitter opponents of Sufism. The article is based upon research undertaken in
north India in the regions of Deoband and Saharanpur in 2012, where several
sites located within Deoband’s historic origins were visited and a number of
interviews with prominent Deobandi ʿulamaʾ and Sufis were undertaken. The
objective of the research was to establish Deoband’s current relationship with
Sufism. The research was triggered by two anecdotal or fleeting observations,
the first encountered in 1994 on my first visit to Deoband and the second more
recently in 2008 at the same location. In 1994, I was permitted to carry out
research in Deoband at the intervention of the Shaykh al-Hadith (Nasir Ahmed
Khan), who had been a Deoband student and teacher from early childhood. His
span of experience stretched back over sixty years. I asked him in one of many
conversations and interviews what significant changes he had observed in the
institution since he came as a boy. His response was immediate. ‘The decline of
tasawwuf. When I first came tasawwuf was widespread in Deoband, now I am
the last practitioner.’ In 2008, I noted the presence of several practitioners of
tasawwuf staying with the senior ʿulamaʾ of Deoband as honoured guests and
advisers. In Saharanpur there were significant khanaqahs belonging to families
whose predecessors had influenced Deobandi diaspora worldwide through their
impact on Tabligh-i piety and dar al-ʿulum education. Foremost among these
was the well-known and revered Shaykh Zakariya, whose grandson still presides
over the khanaqah, holding daily dhikr and offering counselling to visitors
from across the world. In the khanaqah at Saharanpur and later in Allahabad
I was able to observe practices by Deobandi Sufis that were identical to those I
had witnessed by Barelwi Shaykhs.1 These observations raised three important
questions: a) had Sufism revived among Deobandis since 1994?; b) what was
the key difference between Deobandi Sufism and other forms of traditional
Sufism in India?; and c) to what degree was the Deobandi movement, at least
in its Indian formations, a movement of Sufi reformers? In order to discover
answers a field visit was undertaken in 2012 to interview influential ʿulamaʾ and
Deobandi Sufis and visit historic sites involved with the origins of Deoband and
Tabligh-i Jamaʿat. These included the khanaqah in Raipur of Hazrat Shah Abdul
Rahim Raipuri Saheb, a direct murid of Shaykh Haji Imdadullah, which was
established in the late nineteenth century under instructions from Sarananpur
and still functions to this day as a madrasa and khanaqah, with around 250
students. It also included Thana Bhavan, the khanaqah of Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi,
where Muhammad Ilyas and his immediate associates came to reflect upon the
reform of Islam in the Indian subcontinent and originated the idea of Tabligh-i
Jamaʿat. The age of this khanaqah is disputed between those who claim that it
was instituted by Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi in 1916, and those who state it had already
been in operation from before 1857.
Competing constructions of Deoband
Deoband is a religious movement marked by strong piety, forged in the early

British colonial period in India and arising out of the long-term concerns with
the consequences of the loss of Muslim power and a more short-term reaction to
the failure of the 1857 uprising. The founders of Deoband chose to protect Islam
in India through a dual strategy of first providing educational institutions that
could supply graduates capable of protecting and maintaining a conservative
scripturalist interpretation of Islam in the absence of a Muslim-governed state,
and second by promoting a deliberate policy of isolation that protected India’s
Muslims against both Hindu and British cultural influence. The reformers of
Deoband went on to create a network of dar al-ʿulums or madrasas across South
Asia as the institutional centres of their activities. By 1880, the original school in
Deoband had expanded to a dozen, stretching from Madras to Bengal. By 1967,
there were estimated to be 8,934 Deobandi schools across South Asia, and the
The Contested Milieu of Deoband: ‘Salafis’ or ‘Sufis’? 193
original school in Deoband had long become an international hub for promoting
Deoband’s brand of conservative Islam.
In the highly contested world of Islam in South Asia and its various
manifestations in Britain, the movement known as ‘Deobandi’ is likely to be
labelled as ‘Wahhabi’. One major area of Deobandi contestation has been with
the Barelwi tradition, spilling over into various Pakistani, Bangladeshi and
Indian Diasporas, including Britain. This contestation has led to the formation
of discursive narratives that label Deobandis as ‘influenced by the doctrines of
the Arabian reformer, Muhammad ibn al-Wahhab’. For example, Muhammad
Raza goes on to say that ‘some Islamic groups under Wahhabi influence stopped
their followers from paying respects to the saints in Indo-Pakistani history’, and
it can be surmised that he is referring to the Deobandi movement.2 Perhaps
more damning is the Deobandi link to the Taliban in Pakistan. William Maley
notes that the Taliban’s leaders were influenced by Deobandi ‘fundamentalism’.3
The usage of the term ‘fundamentalism’ to describe Deobandis compounds
the problem of locating the movement, as it is too broad and is likely to brand
unwittingly Deoband alongside Jihadist movements, and cement the label
‘Wahhabi’ or ‘Salafi’. The link to the Taliban arises from the role that the Deobandi
dar al-ʿulums played in the religious education of young Afghan refugees of
Pushtun ethnicity on the North-West Frontier during the Russian occupation
of Afghanistan.
Leading Deobandis in Pakistan have been connected to the Sipah-i Sahaba
Pakistan (SSP), which has been alleged to be involved in terrorist violence,
primarily targeted against the minority Shiʿa community in Pakistan. The
movement was part of the alliance of Jamaʿat-i Islami (JeI), Jamaʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i
Pakistan (JUP), Jamaʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Islam, and Fazlur Rahman faction of JUI and
Jamaʿat-i Ahl-i Hadith in forming the Afghan Jehad Council, which claimed that
the US action was not a war against Taliban but against Islam, and therefore, it
was essential for the Muslims to declare Jihad against the United States and its
allies.4 Jamaʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Pakistan (JUP) and Jamaʿat-i ʿUlamaʾ-i Islam are both
official bodies of Deobandi ʿulamaʾ in Pakistan. From the early 1980s until the
early 2000s, the Deobandi movement in Pakistan was a major recipient of funding
from Saudi Arabia until it ceased in favour of the rival Ahl-i Hadith movement,5
who are today far more likely and accurately to be associated with the Salafi
movement.
Vincenzo Olivetti is far more deterministic in his analysis of the relationship
between Deobandis and Salafis. He argues that the Salafi movement uses a
conscious ‘virus’ or ‘Trojan Horse’ strategy to infiltrate local Islamic movements
in Muslim nations and communities where they have little presence of their own.
He particularly cites Deoband as a victim of this approach, stating ‘particular
dupes of this shrewd thinking are the puritanical, reformist Deobandi movement
of the Indian Subcontinent (who now seem to have entirely dove-tailed with the
Salafis) and the Muslim Brotherhood [my italics]’.6 However, Olivetti appears to
be drawing upon a dichotomy of the Muslim world into hard-line movements
associated with ‘terror’ or, on the other hand, ‘traditional orthodoxy’7 linked
to traditions of spirituality and tolerance. In this regard he would appear to be
acknowledging a simplistic dichotomy of the Islamic world that is promoted
by those sympathetic to Sufism and used to polemically maintain the tariqas
as normative. Olivetti lists one of the defining characteristics of Salafism as
rejection of sanctity and especially Islamic mysticism or tasawwuf.8
An internet search for sites used by young British South Asians exploring
their Islamic identity reveals considerable confusion regarding the positioning
of Deoband. Typical questions and statements on Muslim forum sites are as
follows: ‘As I understand it, the Taliban are said to be Deobandi, while al-Qaʾida
is Wahhabi/Salafi. But the two seem similar in aims and outlook’.9 The author
of the article ‘Who are these Deobandi/Wahabi people and what is the Tablighi
Jamaat?’ conflates a number of Islamic movements as ‘the biggest threat to Islam
from within these days is from the Wahabi, Deobandi, Tablighi, Salafi sects’.10
On the other hand, the following comment identifies the Deobandis as Sufis,
‘The Deobandis and Barelvis are both from the Ahla Sunnah, and they are both
mainstream Sufis. The main difference with them is that, the Deobandis don’t
praise the Prophet(saw) as much as the Barelvis do, the rest of the problems they
have are pride issues.’11
Even scholars of South Asian Sufism seem to be caught up in the ambiguity
of Deobandi identity. Clinton Bennett notes that Deoband and its missionary
offshoot Tabligh-i Jamaʿat have Sufi roots and that its founders even belonged
to traditional Indian tariqas, but that ‘they are increasingly considered to be
opponents to Sufism and even theological allies to the Wahhabis’.12 Clinton appears
to be arguing a historic transformation in which Deoband increasingly adopted
an anti-tariqa message, especially ‘shrine-centered systems of authority’.13 In the
same volume, the anthropologist Pnina Werbner draws upon her fieldwork in
Ghamkol Sharif, Pakistan, where she spent time with the Naqshbandi Shaykh,
Zindapir, before his death in 1999, to argue an ‘ambivalent relationship’ between
Sufi and ʿulamaʾ, the popular and the legalistic.14 Bennett understands Werbner
to be saying that they are not completely polarized, but there is still a tendency to
locate ʿulamaʾ-based movements such as Deoband as being more critical of Sufi
practices.15 To be precise, Werbner is referring to the ambiguous and complex

relationships between the pirs of South Asia and the ʿulamaʾ that are loyal to
them, describing the pirs as repositories of experience and example, whereas the
ʿulamaʾ convey religious knowledge gleaned through their Islamic schooling.16
The relationship of ʿulamaʾ and Sufi is very different in the Deobandi tradition,
and requires further clarification. An ʿalim of Deoband may well be a Sufi in the
sense of tariqa membership, or he may not. Piety, however, is not measured by
tariqa membership, and nor is there necessarily the binary division of tariqa-
and shariʿa-based forms of knowledge. However, the eighth mohtamim (rector)
of Dar al-ʿUlum Deoband, Qari Muhammad Tayyid (1897–1983), described the
scholars and clerics of Deoband as Sufis. He affirmed that:
Religiously, the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband are Muslims, as a sect they belong to the
Ahl al-Sunnah waʾl-Jamaʿah, by madhhab they are Hanafi, in conduct they are
Sufis, scholastically they are Maturidi and in suluk they are Chishti – rather they
combine all Sufi orders. … And in nisbat they are Deobandi.17
He continues to elaborate the defining features of Deoband:
In essentials and beliefs, they (the Deobandis) follow Imam Abuʾl-Hasan

Ashʿari and Imam Abu Mansur Maturidi; and in sub-principles Imam Abu
Hanifah. They are initiates of the Chistiyyah, Naqshbandiyya, Qadriyyah and
Suharwardiyyah Sufi orders.18
Deoband’s official website continues to affirm the view of the eighth rector.
The ʿulamaʾ of Deoband – named after a sleepy north Indian town where a
group of scholars established a madrasah to safeguard and propagate sacred
knowledge – are adherents of one of the four imams of fiqh: Imam Abu Hanifah,
Imam Shafi‘i, Imam Malik and Imam Ahmad bin Hanbal; and follow the Ash‘ari
and Maturidi schools of creed. As epitomes of shari‘a and tariqa, the ʿulamaʾ of
Deoband were and are practitioners of a strict fiqh-based tasawwuf and follow
the Chishti, Naqshbandi, Qadri and Suhrawardi tariqahs.19
Deobandi Sufism
The interviews with senior Deobandi ʿulamaʾ in Deoband and Saharanpur

revealed that this understanding of Deoband as a Sufi tradition remained,
but there were differences of opinion with regard to the extent of tasawwuf
in contemporary practice – whether it had declined and when, how it was
incorporated into the Deobandi dar al-ʿulums alongside the study of the
curriculum and, most significantly, to what degree Deobandi tasawwuf departed
from Barelwi modes of Sufism. However, there was no disagreement with regard
to the centrality of tasawwuf in the maintenance of the relationship between a
Muslim and Allah. The most common reference point for the Deobandi ʿulamaʾ
was the well-known Hadith in which Muhammad elaborates on the differences
between islam, iman and ihsan.
There is no difference between Islami tasawwuf, or Deobandi tasawwuf. Islami

tasawwuf is the same as found in Qurʾan and the hadith. In the hadith books we
read that Jibraʾil (A) came in the last years of the Prophet (S) and asked him a
few questions about islam and iman and the third question was … what is ihsan.
The answer given by the Prophet (s) was that ihsan is that you worship Allah as
if you were seeing Him and the second level is that even if you cannot see Him
worship Allah as if He is seeing you. To bring about sincerity in your worship so
that it is only for Allah is known as tasawwuf. To reach this goal … some of the
elders who were faced with circumstances found that certain practices would
help achieve this goal. Keeping this goal in mind and to achieve it, staying in
company of an elder (buzurk) - shaykh who was close to God would become
necessary. Because keeping a company of somebody has a great impact on one’s
personality/character. In Islami tasawwuf importance is not given to miracles
or special powers, rather, emphasis is on following the shariʿa sincerely and
accurately.20
The foundation of tasawwuf is ihsan.21
Deobandi tasawwuf is that from the beginning our elders have followed the
Sunna and it means that peopleʼs relationship with God should be made strong
and the ethical impurities that contaminates a human being should be removed
from that person. A true person with integrity who is close to Allah and has good
relations with other human beings is capable of preparing a kind of tasawwuf
that will be effective and that is the tasawwuf we are inclined towards.22
The word tasawwuf has been derived from the word ‘Suf’ which means wool.
This term has been used much later. It has not come from the Qurʾan or hadith.
In Qurʾan the word ihsan has been used. The root word for ihsan is husn which
means beauty. Ihsan means to make something beautiful. The hadith-i Jibraʾil …
you must have heard of that … where Jibraʾil asks the Prophet what is iman? So
the Prophet spoke about seven beliefs that make up the iman. Then Jibraʾil (A)
asked about Islam. … So the Prophet (S) spoke about the five actions … (Salaah,
fast etc.) then he asked. ‘What is ihsan …?’ So the Prophet said that there are two
ways to beautify these beliefs and actions. The ‘high class’ way is that a person
worships Allah as if he is seeing Allah – but it is not possible for everybody
to reach this level. And for those who cannot attain this level then for them
is the lower degree. When they worship Allah they should keep in mind that
Allah is watching them. If this thought is kept in mind then the worship will be
enhanced. The first degree of ihsan is known as tasawwuf.23
First of all this terminology is not used (Deobandi tasawwuf). Deoband is the
stream of Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat and some innovations had started during
the Mughal rule due to revival movements. There are five things that are
overarching – Book of Allah, traditions of the prophet, jurisprudence, rules
of jurisprudence and qiyas – And tasawwuf is not an Islamic terminology. The
term that is used in the Hadith is ‘ihsan’ and the commentary is mentioned in
the famous hadith of Jibraʾil.24
The insistence upon replacing tasawwuf with ihsan and removing any
identification with Deoband belongs to the discourses of contestation as
identified by Talal Asad.25 Indeed the Rector of Deoband Waqf is keen to point
out that any other form of language is a device of Deoband’s opponents.
I would like to mention that do not attach Deobandi to tasawwuf. Because the
elders of Deoband are the people who have protected and presented the truth of
din and book of Allah and sunnat of the Prophet to this country. The competing
party would have, due to their own stubbornness, called it Deobandi tasawwuf.
In principle this is false. It is the stream of Ahl-i Sunnat wa Jamaʿat that has been
continuing for a long time. There was no discipline as tasawwuf during the time
of Prophet. It was later on for different reasons that people may have adopted
this discipline and initially it was called ‘Suf ’ and later on it became tasawwuf,
Suf and Safa are related. It is the cleaning of the heart and later a lot of things
was added to it.26
My interviews with Barelwi Sufis in Britain also elicited responses that referred
to the ‘Jibraʾili’ hadith and the significance of ‘seeing Allah in front of you’.27
The Deobandi ʿulamaʾ were far more likely to define tasawwuf as ‘intention’ as
opposed to more normative associations with dhikr. Some were keen to point out
that dhikr was only part of tasawwuf, and that any Islamic practice if carried out
with intention was purification of the soul. In other words ihsan had to be brought
to all the practices expected to be carried out by a pious Muslim. In this context
manners and morality were also important elements. For Deobandis, intention
(niyat) was closely linked to ihsan and taqwa (piety), as intention is the essential
ingredient that led to piety being uncovered in the context of the experience of
being in proximity to Allah (ihsan). It would not be an understatement to assert
that niyat constituted the discipline of tasawwuf according to Deobandis. As
explained by Maulana Qasimi:
Whatever intentions you have in your heart is of paramount importance. Because

Islam is a way of life according to nature (fitrat). So whatever action you want to
do make an intention for it and ikhlas (sincerity) is to earn the pleasure of Allah.
So it is the intention that purifies you. Obedience will purify you outwardly. The
inner will be cleansed through your intentions and the outer will be cleansed
through your actions. Whatever shariʿa says should be followed because our
eyes could see wrong, our ears could hear wrong. So by doing this you will get
the one biggest blessing of this world which is contentment of the heart.28
This sentiment is further developed by Maulana Ghulam Nabi:
Deobandi tasawwuf aims towards informing people that there is only One God.
And there may be many ways of asking from God but the Deobandi khanaqahs
provide nurturing in such a way that an individual develops morals and realises
that there is only one God. Tasawwuf is that where you feel the spirituality.29
However, dhikr remains an important constituent of the Deobandi approach to

Islam. With respect to dhikr, Deoband demonstrates no significant differences
to normative Sufi practices. Attendance at several dhikr sessions revealed little
difference from sessions I had attended across the Arab and South Asian regions.
The South Asian milieu of Sufism has always permitted initiation into several
tariqas, and this is also common practice among Deobandis. Maulana Abdul
Haq notes that:
Our Akabirs (founders) are related to all four tariqas and they used to take bayʿat
under all four. This influence was started by Haji Imdadullah Sahib and Deoband
was established towards his last years when he left for Makkah. There was a
tradition of taking bayʿat even during the time of Rashid Ahmed Gangohi. He
was the first one and also followed by Maulana Qasim and the silsila of Deoband
backdates to them.30
Maulana Qasimi endorses this viewpoint, and describes the flexibility in Deoband
with regard to tariqa membership. The approach is pragmatic:
The four tariqas (Naqshbandi, Chishti, Suhrawardi and Qadari) may have
different dhikr but they all come from the Qurʾan and hadith. Maulana Habibur
Rahman who was the assistant principal for a long time, and others decided to
go to a Delhi based shaykh and he taught them the Naqshbandi way of dhikr.
Two of the friends in fifteen days saw a difference in their spirituality and they
were progressing, whereas Maulana Habibur Rahman did not see any change in
his heart. So the shaykh then suggested a Chishtiyya way of doing dhikr which is
audibly in contrast to the silent way of doing dhikr in the Naqshbandi tariqa.31
Deoband’s students may also seek the formal relationship with a Shaykh in
addition to staff–student relationships that they possess with their dar al-ʿulum
teachers. Such Shaykh–murid relations are expected to be through the traditional
offering of allegiance (bayʿat), and entering into a chain of transmission (silsila),
normally into one or more of the four principal tariqas present in India. However,
Deobandi scholars are adamant that such a person must be a pious Muslim
following the sunna.
In Deobandi tasawwuf they also remember the shaykh who benefitted them and
also that the blessings that are showered on them by Allah are due to the (fayz)
of the shaykh and the chain of this is traced back. When we develop a relation
with a shaykh, he should be of that calibre that by sitting in his company – the
love of Allah is enhanced. By sitting in that shaykhʾs gathering one should get
the ability to save oneself from sins and develop a zeal to perform righteous
actions. That shaykh should be abiding by the Sunna and have some knowledge
of Qurʾan and hadith and be a performer of salah and fasting and the one who
saves himself from sins. Even if he does sin by mistake he should realise and ask
for forgiveness immediately. Such a person can be made a shaykh whether or not
he has the ability to perform miracles or engage in mystical states. People who
started innovative practices used to start following a person only because he had
the ability to perform some mystical act – whether that person was a Jogi (hindu
Saint) or Jotshi (fortune teller) or even not following the din. The masses due to
ignorance used to get impressed by such people even though they would not be
praying or fasting or reciting the Qurʾan.32
Maulana Ruqnur Deen also explains that the relationship with a Shaykh is not
compulsory, but when entered into it is related only to reform of character. He
explains:
If this is related to reform your religious practices then it is compulsory but

taking allegiance by taking a hand in hand with shaykh is desirable but not
compulsory. The shaykh will act as a guide to do good actions and stay away
from bad actions. As the shaykh himself would have walked that path – and so
he will show the follower. Yes it is important that the guide has knowledge of
shariʿa and tariqa and he should have the ability to reform. His outward and
inner character should be sound.33
Thus, it is also possible to find Deobandis who cultivate ihsan without taking
bayʿat at the hands of a Shaykh or attending formal dhikr sessions.
If a person is engaged in teaching or learning or writing and we may think he

is not practicing tasawwuf – but actually he is engaged in tasawwuf because
of his intentions. So if some people then engage or specialise one part of the
community in tasawwuf itself like in dhikr etc are practicing tasawwuf but
even the other group that is engaged in teaching/learning etc are practicing
tasawwuf. So in that sense the elders of Deoband were practicing Sufism but
it was later on due to enmity and hatred that people started giving this name
as Deobandi tasawwuf. Even today you will find people who are practicing
Sufism.34
For tasawwuf the belief or conviction in your heart should be very strong. Just
so a person does not do only the external actions to show off and this is what
tasawwuf does to develop the spirit in a heart. If you attain this state then you
are in the state of ihsan where you are worshipping Allah as if he is seeing you …
whether it is salah, fasting, zakat or other acts of ibadat. And this will strengthen
the relation with Allah. To attain this state of the heart people have adopted
different strategies. Some people say repeat the name of Allah so many times etc.
When these things are done the love of Allah becomes stronger and then even to
give up your life becomes easy.35
One meaning of tasawwuf would be understood as the person formally takes a

bayʿat (oath) and follows his guide. The other is that a person stays on Sunnat
and follows the hadith. tasawwuf is also understood by the hadith that says …
‘worship Allah as if you are seeing him or that He is seeing you …’ so basically to
develop that ‘ihsan’ is also tasawwuf which is mandatory.36
These two attitudes towards Sufism are reflected in a somewhat contested set
of responses from Deobandi ʿulamaʾ and Sufis with regard to the relationship
between the dar al-ʿulum and the khanaqah. Ghulam Nabi, who was interviewed
in the historic Thana Bhavan, the khanaqah of Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi, one of
Deoband’s founding figures, argues that Sufism can only be learnt in the
khanaqah.
Regarding khanaqahs I can say this that it has become very popular these days.
So the theory of tasawwuf may be learnt from books in madrasas but one would
need a khanaqah to put it in practice. One needs to remove all malice from
within – so if there is any malice then khanaqahs are the places where they show
you practical ways of cleansing from within. After belief any efforts in practicing
those beliefs is tasawwuf, So we merge the theory and practice.37
Others are not so sure that khanaqah and dar al-ʿulum require separation
from each other, but rather students should organically seek out the pious and
knowledgeable among the ʿulamaʾ who teach them in the dar al-ʿulum. Others
were to suggest that the study of tasawwuf would distract from the formal
curriculum learning required of the dar al-ʿulum student, and that it is better for
students to seek out a Shaykh after completing the dars-i nizami curriculum.
Mufti Azizur Rahman states that the original foundation of the dar al-ʿulum
Deoband provided the necessary qualities required for both formal Islamic
learning and the values associated with Sufism. Interestingly he suggests that it is
no longer the case and that there has been decline.
When Dar al-ʿulum was established, the foundation values of this Dar al-ʿulum
were based on sincerity, spirituality and morality. It is not like any other Dar
al-ʿulum where there is a teacher and student and education begins. This
Dar al-ʿulum was started with this idea that with education there will also be
nurturing for sincerity and even a sweeper at that time was influenced with that
idea and hence connected to Allah. Even a sweeper would consider his services
to be in the way of Allah. This was the time of the founders. These two eras
during their time was the best period of the Dar al-ʿulum and this period lasted
for about 25–30 years.38
Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali agrees with this viewpoint:
Deoband is about teaching and tasawwuf is about shariʿa and tariqa. In our
madrasa we have merged it together. Under the name of shariʿa our elders have
taught us to practice the din according to the sunna and they do tell us to do
dhikr of Allah and they make us ask for forgiveness. Basically it is all about
practicing the din and the buzurk (elders) showed us how to practice it. So they
were intellectuals as well Sufis of that time.39
However, in the khanaqahs of the Deobandi tradition there was a difference of

opinion. It was argued that the well-known Shaykh Zakiriya, who had a very
strong influence on the global Deobandi diaspora, had written that every dar
al-ʿulum should have a khanaqah attached to it. Yet some of the ʿulamaʾ were
afraid that separate khanaqahs might lead to ‘exaggerated’ practices, and argued
that wherever Islamic spirituality was cultivated the place was a khanaqah.
Wherever one sits and practices remembrance of Allah is a khanaqah.40
There are no separate spaces. It is about doing work on the soul and one does not
need a separate building for that. This is a better way that during education of
children the teachers touch upon this topic simultaneously. These days we see that
making a separate khanaqah leads to exaggeration and that becomes challenging
to handle. They call it khanaqah and then it becomes like a mazar (grave).41
Yet the ideal persists that the dar al-ʿulum students should seek out a Shaykh
after completing their studies. Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi is content with
either system of learning tasawwuf.
They study – there are two ways of doing this. One is that during the lesson
they talk about cleansing the soul and the other way is after graduating they are
encouraged to get company of one of the shaykhs – whoever they are inclined
towards. In the madrasa there is education and in khanaqah there is reformation
through tasawwuf. In the madrasa there are small children and in khanaqah
those same children who have completed their education come on their own
accord for purification.42
The idea persisted that there was a time in Deoband when the practice of seeking
out a Shaykh after completing formal study was formalized, even to the degree
that certification (ijaza) was not awarded unless the student undertook a period
of study of tasawwuf. However, it was not possible to obtain evidence of the
practice or agreement as to when it discontinued. Maulana Ruqnoor Deen refers
to the practice:
I believe the student used to be with the shaykh for about six months after that the
student would get the ijaza. Qari Tayyab Sahib about 30 years ago used to speak
about it in his speeches. But this practice may have stopped about 80 years ago.
Since the material world is more attractive the spiritual world is declining.43
Mufti Palanpuri also corroborated the practice, agreeing with the same
timeframe:
This is during the time of Hazrat Allama Anwar Kashmiri when there were
about 30 students. Then Maulana Hassan Muhammad Madaniʾs time came and
there was a large increase in the number of students. His idea was make people
maulvis so that they will not go astray so the value diminished. This was around
the 1930s.44
Maulana Niamatullah Azmi believes that the practice declined when there was
a politicization of Deoband:
‘I will not provide any names as that will not be appropriate but I can say that
when politics came in to dar al-ʿulums and madrasas this practice stopped. After
the demise of Qari Tayyab Saheb politics penetrated with speed and after that
there was a change in thought and practice.’45
Maulana Noman was more vague, stating that
‘It was not during our time … may be a long time ago … this may have been
the case’.46
Maulana Qasimi provides a more official view of the situation. He also

acknowledges that a more formal approach to the study of tasawwuf once existed,
but he considers change to have taken place due to the success of Deoband and
the extra demands of teaching so many more students in the dar al-ʿulums and
madrasas. He states that:
I do not remember the exact year. At that time there were not many distractions
and students could focus. In this busy age students are given the understanding the
principles of tasawwuf and then whatever time they have they work towards it.47
Several of the ʿulamaʾ also agreed that the formal teaching of tasawwuf was in
decline. Some, like Maulana Azmi, blamed the decline on politics, others to
the massive increase in students or the calibre of the students. However there
was also a view that the practice was reviving, and that more khanaqahs were
opening. Hassan al-Hashmi encapsulates the viewpoint of decline:
Our main aim should be to spread the ‘din’ and inner cleansing which are both
important. If politics overtakes these aims then some harm will be apparent …
and this happened in the past. For example the students of dar al-ʿulum had a
desire that their relationship should be with Sufis and they would want that while
they are studying in dar al-ʿulum they would get a bayʿat with some shaykh and
become their followers. Gradually that desire has declined.48
Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi is not so sure why there is a decline in the formal
teaching of tasawwuf, but he considers it might be because the institution of the
Deobandi khanaqah is disappearing:
There is no particular reason for that … just like before the silsila carries on.
Most of the teachers (muddarasin) always had a bayʿat with someone or the
other but unlike before there are not so many khanaqahs these days.49
However, he is among those who are optimistic that there is a revival of Sufism
among the Deobandis, going on to say:
As I told you before there are some places where this practice is being revived
again. In the past some circumstances prevented this practice.50
Maulana Azmi agrees but is more specific about the causes of decline:
The people (teachers and students) are gradually realising the repercussions of
politics and material world so they are coming back towards tasawwuf. People
have seen a deficiency and hence there will be a revival for spirituality through
tasawwuf.51
It was clear from the interviews that the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband (both Sufi and
non-Sufis) were cognizant that tasawwuf was an essential part of Islamic life,
and had always been integral to Deobandi life, both in its foundation and in
its continuation as a living tradition. The Sufis among the ʿulamaʾ were more
likely to emphasize the decline in the number of formal Sufi institutions and
practices, for example the decline of the khanaqah as a parallel institution to
the dar al-ʿulum, the numbers of students formally introduced to dhikr and
initiation into a silsila under the formal guidance of a Shaykh. The non-Sufis
acknowledged the significance of tasawwuf but looked towards its integration
with the dar al-ʿulum curriculum. They worried about the number of students
and their quality as compared with the past, and had concerns that the dar
al-ʿulums could not provide the access to such teachers as in the golden age of
the tradition. There was an overall sense of nostalgia and a hope that there would
be a revival.
The Rivalry with Barelvis
Sufism has always been a strong presence in India, dating back to the original
Muslim conquests and reinforced by various Muslim missionaries from Central
Asia, Persia and Iraq. Nile Green reminds us that in defining Sufism in India it
is more helpful to shy away from metaphysical and theosophical understandings
of the cosmos, the soul and God, and to focus on ‘embodied blessed men’ that
maintain genealogies of blessing power (baraka) believed to owe its origins and
to have come down from the blessing power embodied in Allah’s final prophet.
He states in the context of Indian Sufi landscape:
It is an Islam of blessed men and remembered saints who in living deed and
recollected narrative dwelt in the midst of communities whose supernatural
patrons they were in an India whose towns were still under settlement by mobile
individuals and factions linked to the Mughal Empire.52
Geaves has argued that it is precisely this focus on blessed men (and sometimes
women) that Sufism was able to spread successfully in the Hindu milieu of
India.53 Sufism had arrived in India as early as the tenth century but certainly
by the twelfth, and three major tariqas had been established: the Chishtiyya,
the Suhrawardiyya and the Firdawsiyya. In the Mughal period, new Sufi Orders
appeared, most notably the Shattariyya, the Qadiriyya and the Naqshbandiyya.
In addition to the orders, with their fixed disciplines and lineages of masters,
there were also wandering individual ascetics known as qalandars or fakirs, who,
in practice, would have been indistinguishable for the majority of rural people
from the wandering ascetics of Hinduism. When the Shaykhs died the focus of
their followers turned to the grave that would, in turn, develop as a shrine centre
and the focus of the continuing development of the tariqa. It was believed that
the power to intercede and perform miracles was now contained within the tomb
of the saint, as he was in some way still alive, awaiting Judgement Day. His power
was also contained in his bloodline, and it was usually his immediate remaining
family who would take over the religious functions and administration of the
shrine. The proliferation of shrines of deceased saints brought a new dynamic
into South Asian Muslim belief and practices, as millions of rural adherents
of the faith concentrated their devotional practices and petitions around the
tombs.
The development of a fully fledged theosophy of sainthood, both living and in
the tomb, was a contentious issue for many more orthodox Muslims, especially
among the ranks of the ʿulamaʾ. There was considerable criticism of the need to
submit to the authority of charismatic men who claimed a special relationship to
Allah through ecstasy. But the most bitter criticism of the orthodox was reserved
for some Sufis who began to proclaim that the intimate relationship with Allah
that is enjoyed by the wali (friend of God) excludes the requirement of obedience
to the outer laws of Islam. Some suggested that obedience to the exoteric laws
and requirements of Islam was only a duty during the early stages of spiritual
development. It was inevitable that a dichotomy between the experience of those
who claimed direct inner access to the Divine and therefore felt themselves to be
completely surrendered to the Divine will and those who dutifully followed the
external requirements of the shariʿa would develop. This difference was to follow
along doctrinal lines, in which many Sufis in India subscribed to Ibn al-ʿArabi’s
formulation of the doctrine of wahdat al-wujud (unity of existence), concerning
Allah’s unity. They were taken to India by several prominent Sufis, most notably
ʿAbd al-Karim al-Jili (1365–1428), who wrote over thirty books expounding Ibn
al-ʿArabi’s philosophy. Another important figure was Fakhr al-din Ibrahim (d.
1289), commonly known as ʿIraqi, who lived in Multan for around twenty-five
years and had been introduced to the ideas of Ibn al-ʿArabi while travelling in
Asia Minor after undergoing pilgrimage to Mecca. Not all Indian Sufis followed
Ibn al-ʿArabi’s ideas on wahdat al-wujud. There were those who followed a
modified form known as wahdat al-shuhud (Unity of Appearance). This was
first propounded by Ala al-Dawla Simnani (1261–1336) of Iran, whose disciples
travelled to India. Simnani disagreed that Being and God were the same. He
argued that unity of being was only a stage on the mystical journey, and that
the final stage reasserted transcendence. Later, in the sixteenth and eighteenth
centuries, wahdat al-shuhud would be adopted by the Naqshbandiyya Indian
reformers Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) and Shah Waliullah (1703–62).
The key factor here is that both Islamic and Hindu theism were able to interface
through ideas of unity of being and even sometimes fuse with each other as well
as with the rarer manifestations of monism. Some Sufis seemed to be taking the
Hindu ideas closer to Islam, and often the Sufis and the Hindu theists seemed
to have more in common with each other than the respective orthodoxies of
brahmin and ʿalim. Figures like Bullhe Shah (1680–1752) and Waris Shah (1730–
90) attacked the exoteric paths of both religions, and like Guru Nanak claimed
to be neither Hindu nor Muslim, but it needs to be reiterated that for many Sufis
this disregard for the shariʿa was anathema, and that both the exoteric (shariʿa)
and esoteric (tariqa) dimensions of Islam were essential.
As early as the sixteenth century, orthodox Muslims had reacted negatively
to the compromises of the Mughal Emperor Akbar (1556–1603). Akbar’s
abandonment of shariʿa law and the apparent establishment of a new religion
that placed him above the law appalled the orthodox. Akbar had made the
ʿulamaʾ sign a decree of his infallibility that in effect placed the decisions of
the monarch over and above the shariʿa.54 This situation brought to a head
the idea that Islam was in danger of being engulfed in an all-embracing sea
of Hinduism, but it is important to note that the criticisms of folk practices,
syncretism and popular Sufism were to come from within the ranks of the Sufis
themselves, and this is key to understanding Deoband. The strongest and most
influential voice of protest came from Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (d. 1625) of
the Naqshbandi tariqa. Sirhindi was determined to unite the umma under the
rule of the shariʿa, to destroy the bidaʿ (innovations) that he saw creeping into
Islamic belief and practice and to persuade Muslims to shun religious contact
with the Hindu population.55 Sirhindi attempted to clarify the relationship

between Hinduism and Islam. He considered the two religions to be mutually
exclusive, with no possibility of integration. Sirhindi also attacked heterodox
Sufis who had absorbed ideas from Hinduism, and he sought to close the gap
between Sufism and the shariʿa. Mujeeb goes as far as to argue that in spite of
his own Sufi affiliation, Sirhindi asserted the prominence of the shariʿa over the
tariqa, insisting that Sufis themselves should be exemplary in their obedience
to the law.56 Simple conformity to the shariʿa would base the Muslims’ faith
firmly on revelation rather than on the mystic’s intuitional awareness of unity.
He considered that education in theology and law should take precedence over
Sufi teaching, and that the Prophet and his companions were superior to all the
saints of Sufism. The core idea in Sirhindiʼs plan for revival, central to all later
reform movements, was the return of Muslims to perceived standards of the
Islam of the Prophet and the Rashidun (the first four rightly guided caliphs).
Haq explains that essentially, Sirhindi saw Hindus as infidels not entitled to their
dhimmi status; the revival of Islam thus meant the re-imposition of shariʿa and
the removal of cultural accretions and innovations arising out of Sufism, Shiʿa
and, in particular, Hinduism.57 Sirhindiʾs deep awareness of the need for reform,
combined with his intense suspicion of innovation and his distrust of any contact
with the non-Muslim world, made him the pioneer of Muslim isolationism as a
strategy to protect orthodox understandings of revelation.
The Battle of Plassey in 1757 ended the independence of Bengal and began the
process of final unravelling of the Mughal rule of India. The decline of Muslim
power highlighted a crucial inner tension within Islam: the tension between the
ideal and the real. For centuries the pious in India, with their vision of a pure
faith and their ideal of Islamic monotheism, had to endure the compromises
made by their rulers in order to hold the empire together. Now that the reformed
Sufi Orders and the ʿulamaʾ had seized the initiative, they predictably insisted
on a return to the first principles of Islam based firmly on the Qurʾan and the
Hadith. With the rejection of scholasticism and mysticism came the call for a
pure and uncluttered faith. Many eclectic beliefs and practices tolerated over
the centuries were now condemned as not Islamic. The authenticity of Islam
was seen in exclusive rather than inclusive terms; compromise was regarded as
abomination.
Shah Waliullah (1703–62), also a Shaykh of the Naqshbandi tariqa and often
described as the greatest Islamic scholar India ever produced, picked up the
major strands of Sirhindi’s ideas and developed them into a coherent ideology
that was to form the basis of Islamic revival in the subcontinent right through
to the present day. Through his inspiration, the religious leadership came to
believe that political leaders could no longer hold on to the empire without the
motivating force of religion. Like Sirhindi before him, Shah Waliullah reiterated
that the lack of moral standards that led to the decline of Muslim fortunes was
due to contact with Hindus and partially converted Muslims. Like Sirhindi, he
accused the Muslims of India of becoming Indians rather than identifying with
the larger worldwide umma. He was especially afraid that Islam, believed by
Muslims to be the only religion that had not been corrupted by innovation, was
itself in danger of losing its pristine and final revelation.58
Like Sirhindi, he insisted that Indian Muslims should see themselves as an
integral part of the larger Muslim world. He saw the intolerable political situation
as proof that Indian Muslims had failed to fulfil the requirements of the shariʿa.
It was incomprehensible to him that Islam itself could be at fault. Recommitment
was required, and no true Muslim should accept the contemporary decline.
He was convinced that a regenerated Islam could again be strong enough to
counteract the effects of internal decay and external domination.
Shah Waliullah’s family and religious descendants were to create a number of
reform movements that used strategies of isolation based on communicating the
minutiae of strict adherence to the shariʿa through education and the issuing of
fatwas. These strategies were created to maintain the borders of Muslim group
identity. They also allowed for some control over keeping Muslim life within the
bounds of the shariʿa when there was no Muslim state to enforce the law. The
detailed restrictions on daily activity also functioned as a boundary that isolated
those Muslims who observed these practices from both Hindu and British India.
Furthermore the issuing of fatwas confirmed that India was no longer dar al/
islam; it was now dar al-harb (a region of conflict). The use of fatwa as a means of
securing orthodoxy was to eventually result in full-blown fatwa wars, in which
various claimants to the position of ‘true’ Islam would compete with each other
and the Muslim masses, culminating in the struggle between the Barelvis and the
Deobandis. However, to see the struggle in terms of a Wahhabi/Sufi polarization
is simplistic. The Barelwi–Deoband clash is more easily perceived in terms of
reformed Naqshbandi conflicts, following in the footsteps of Ahmad Sirhindi
and Shah Waliullah with the Barelwi movement, founded by Rida Ahmed Khan,
who were diligent in defending traditional shrine-based Sufism from the end of
the nineteenth century. The answers to the questions posed to Deobandi leaders
in India bore out this supposition.
The founders of Deoband were rooted in Indian Sufi tradition, especially the
reformed Naqshbandi dating back to Shah Waliullah and also to the Chishti
tariqa. However, as with most Indian Sufis, multiple belonging to the four major
tariqas of the Indian subcontinent is common. I first traced Deobandi origins in
Sufism in 1996 when I linked back the spiritual chains of ijaza and bayʿat from
the founders of Deoband to Shah Waliullah through the famous Shaykh of the
reformers Imdadullah (1817–99). The Sufi link goes to Nasim al-din Dihlawi,
whose grandfather Rafi al-din Dihlawi took bayʿat from Sayyid Ahmed of Rae
Bareilly (1786–1831), who studied with Shah Waliullah’s son, ʿAbd al-Qadir
(1753–1827).
Both Muhammad Qasim Nanautawi and Rashid Ahmad Gangohi, the
main founders of Deoband, had been taught by Imdadullah, and Ahmad ʿAli
Saharanpur, the founder of Deoband’s sister school in Saharanpur, was taught by
Nanautawi. Gangohi’s historic khanaqah remains a part of the historic landscape
in northern India.
‘Deoband is Sufism’
The contestation with the Barelvis is not to be seen in the context of an outright
condemnation of Sufism or its practices. Indeed the questions posed to the
ʿulamaʾ of Deoband revealed a more nuanced position to South Asian Sufi
practices than is normally believed. The usual bones of contention relate to the
Deobandi concern that the Barelvis are in danger of promoting the Prophet
to equal status with Allah. The major points of contention concern prayers of
intercession, the doctrine of the Prophet’s continuing role in guiding the Muslim
umma, and the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday (milad-i nabi). To a lesser
extent this is also carried forward to the authority of the Shaykh. Here the main
criticisms concern the status of the Shaykhs after death, particularly veneration
at their graves; the elevation of the Shaykh in the Shaykh–murid relationship;
and the celebration of ʿurs, a festival held in honour of the deceased Shaykhs
on their deathday. These concerns were mentioned by the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband,
but often conditionally. Maulana Mufti Wasi Ahmad holds to the commonly
perceived polarized position to the point of accusing the Barelvis of ‘depravity’.
He is convinced that only Deobandi reform revived true Sufism in India and that
only the Deobandis maintain authentic Islam:
Attention was given to the right form of tasawwuf to correct the ‘false’ tasawwuf
which was flourishing. Now since the right tasawwuf has come to light the efforts
towards tasawwuf has also declined.59
False tasawwuf is described as anything that is not the process of purifying the
human being. He states:
Anything that is away from these two – which is cleansing and outer cleansing.
False tasawwuf is where the shaykh is remunerated by kissing his hands and feet
where women go to serve him etc. It is like a Hindu yogi in the form of a Muslim.
Everything that tasawwuf is supposed to eliminate; false tasawwuf promotes.
Like love of this world, love of oneself.60
Mufti Wasi Ahmad is convinced that the Barelvis maintain a corrupted form
of tasawwuf that is corrected by the Deobandi reformists. He also places an
emphasis on ʿaqida (correct belief) in addition to tasawwuf. This position is
normative among the ʿulamaʾ of Deobandi who teach in the dar al-ʿulums:
False tasawwuf does not exist in our Deobandi ʿulamaʾ but among the ʿulamaʾ
of Rida Khan Barelvi it is present with all its depravity. Even right tasawwuf is
not enough for your salvation. It is important to have the correct beliefs and in
the Indian sub-continent it is only the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband that have the correct
beliefs.61
Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi endorses this view but is less provocative in his
criticism. He does, however, express the commonly held view that the Barelvis
do not live in accord in with the sunna in their practices and beliefs – yet he
refers to a prominent Deobandi founder who demonstrates that Sufism itself is
a part of sunna:
In Barelvi tasawwuf there are more innovations and we can hardly see the sunna.
Deobandi tasawwuf walks the path of sunna. Maulana Thanwi has written two
books where he has used hadith and proven the path of tasawwuf.62
The criticism that the Barelvis do not follow the sunna in their beliefs and practices
was commonplace among the ʿulamaʾ and Sufis of Deoband. Mufti Wasi Ahmad
was prepared to acknowledge that in some elements the Barelvis followed Hanafi
fiqh, but not in everything. He says that ‘They could be following the Hanafi
tradition but certain things they do are against the shariʿa’.63 The most common
concerns with regard to deviation from sunna relate to the role of the Shaykh,
veneration at shrines, and the festivals of ʿurs and milad-i nabi. There was also
concern that the Barelvis expressed the belief that the Prophet remained alive in
a spiritual form to continue to guide the umma. Yet many of the ʿulamaʾ were
not in total opposition to the practices, but had concerns with the intention or
the way in which local South Asian customs appeared to override the prescribed
Islamic way of observing such customs. With regard to visiting the graves of the
awliya, Maulana Qasimi affirmed the practice:
Yes it is alright. It is not supposed to be an object in itself but if you want to pass
on a message and also to get lessons from them then it is ok. And one should go
but not very often. Some awliyas are said to be benefiting even after their death.
For example Shah Waliullah used to sit at his fatherʼs grave and benefit even
after his father’s death.64
Mufti Wasi Ahmad also acknowledged that the practice in itself was not haram,
depending upon intention:
One would go and read something at the grave so that Allah would reward them
as well as you for reciting at the grave. But you do not have to go to the grave
to do that. You can also do this from a distance and pray to Allah that whatever
reward you give me for reciting this also give the same to the person in the grave.
Whatever love one has for ones shaykh it can be connected with this kind of
spiritual gift by reading and recitation.65
Mufti Azizur Rahman is also concerned with intention: ‘First of all one should
learn a lesson from the grave as according to the hadith – it says one should be
reminded of death by visiting a grave. Secondly one should pray for the person
laying in the grave for Allah to forgive that person and also for self and others.’66
Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi also agrees that visiting graves is permissible as
long as the practices are acceptable according to sunna:
We do not say no to visits as the Prophet (S) has allowed it but they have
taken it further and started prostrating down at graves. Tasawwuf came from
the same source but some of their practices we do not approve of and cannot
accept.67
The Deobandi ʿulamaʾ were also equally ambivalent with regard to ʿurs and milad-i
nabi. Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi states that it is the practices developed at ʿurs
rather than the custom itself. He claims that they have become un-Islamic:
Historically ʿurs meant something else and now it means something else. Earlier
it was like reading Qurʾan and reading dua and now it is much different. It has
become contaminated.68
Mufti Palanpuri also expresses a similar view with regard to ʿurs, and applies the
same logic towards milad-i nabi:
The very term ʿurs is not wrong it is the practices that are followed there that
are subject to question. There is no harm in having milad-i nabi as long as there
is a lecture on sirah (life of the Prophet) and people are learning from that. It
is the wrong practices that have penetrated in such gatherings is a matter of
concern.69
With regard to the Prophet’s visitations, the Deobandi ʿulamaʾ did not accept that
Muhammad could appear as a live person in spiritual gatherings, but they were
prepared to acknowledge dream visitations. They were careful to not apply the
rules of normal human behaviour to prophets and saintly personages. Maulana
Islamul Haqq Asadi typifies this viewpoint held by the ʿulamaʾ with reference to
Deoband’s founders:
Haji Imdadullah used to do qayam that is true, but his belief was very different from
the beliefs they have today. Today they believe that after the dhikr is completed
the Prophet (S) actually visits these gatherings and that is why they stand up. This
belief is wrong and is a sin. How is it possible that a gathering will do dhikr as
and when they wish and when they finish that the Prophet will descend down?
Maulana Gangohi has written that if one says ‘Ya Rasullah’ with the belief that
the Prophet is omnipresent then that is wrong but if they say it with love then it
is acceptable. One is to imagine him and the other is to believe that he is actually
present. We do not deny some special phenomenon that can occur with some
special people. This could be in the form of dreams or actual incidents.70
The main concern for the Deobandis is that the practices associated with
veneration could spill over into shirk; in other words, great care has to be taken
not to associate partners with Allah. This particularly applies to the respect
normatively applied to the Shaykh–murid relationship. For example, Mufti Wasi
Ahmad explains that:
The Barelvis have a practice of showing love towards their shaykh and that is
the reason why they put a decorated sheet (chadar) over graves or their shaykhs
whereas according to the Deobandi tradition one would be a follower of a
shaykh in actions according to shariʿa. They do it out of love but itʼs against the
shariʿa.71
He reiterates that ‘In the Deobandi thought everything is asked directly from
Allah whereas the Barelvis think that there are some things that the pirs can do
for them’.72 Maulana Niamatullah Azmi expresses a similar viewpoint: ‘They go
around the graves, kiss the graves, bow down at graves and what they need to ask
from Allah they ask the people in the graves.’ However, he admits that there are
many similarities: ‘There is a fine dividing line and there are a lot of overlapping
practices.’73 He also refers to the issue of intercession:
The difference between us and them is that we ask from Allah directly. We pray
for the shaykhs and ask Allah for blessings due to their sacrifices. But what they
do is that they bow down at the shaykh’s grave and ask the shaykhs (who are
dead) for granting their duas and call them the ‘remover of difficulties’.74
Mufti Azizur Rahman also objects to this practice: ‘They are asking directly from
the saints lying in the grave. These are the practices that make it different from
Islami tasawwuf ’.75 However, he does not deny that there are benefits in drawing
upon human closeness to Allah to assist in the granting of prayer:
‘So for instance if a saint was known to be very close to Allah the one can ask
Allah to accept the dua due to that saint’s closeness with Him. The same applies
to the Prophet of Allah. One cannot ask the Prophet but ask Allah in lieu of the
Prophet’s holiness.’76 Ruqnur Deen also affirms the role of prophets in prayer:
‘We also believe in intercession by the Prophet(s).’77
However, none of the ʿulamaʾ deny that Deoband is a Sufi tradition. Maulana
Islamul Haqq Asadi states that:
The elders such as Abul Hassan ʿAli Nadvi spoke about a time in Ahmadpur
when they could hear the sound of dhikr even from the branches of trees. This
is because people would sit around trees and do dhikr. In Gangohi also when
people washed clothes instead of talking about other things they would recite
‘Allahu Allahu’.78
He affirms that Deoband is a Sufi tradition in which both learning and tasawwuf
play equal roles:
Yes indeed. With tradition I mean it is not any different (to Sufism) but in
accordance with the hadith and sunna of the Prophet. Our elders have given
in tasawwuf, the importance of ʿilm and seeking knowledge as important as
seeking tazkiyah.79
Conclusion
The world of Deoband is one in which internal and external contestation is the
norm. Previous research carried out in India80 revealed that any investigation
of Islamic movements needs to acknowledge Talal Asad’s notion of a ‘discursive
tradition’, in which knowledge is historically and culturally constituted in the

interactive space between people, texts and practice.81 Deobandi tradition is not
an unchanging or unitary formation, but is comprised of diversity, polemic and
difference, including the relationship with Deobandi versions of Sufism. The
research revealed new authoritative spokespersons representing blocs of ʿulamaʾ
are engaged in continuously negotiating old founding texts (dars-i nizami) as new
orthodoxies appear, through the changing relations of power and subsequent
contestation. Although secure in their belief that they are the authentic version
of Islam in South Asia, Indian Deobandis dispute with their external opponents
(rival Islamic movements, especially the Barelvis) over correct ʿaqida (doctrine
and practice), but also internally, among the various offshoots of the movement.
In the present environment in India, where Islam is under constant examination,
the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband are involved in a continuous debate among themselves
with regard to what constitutes correct Islam. But all are united in their opposition
to the traditional supporters of Sufism in India: the Barelwi movement. In both
preaching and issuing of fatwa, the Deobandis would appear to be engaged in an
ongoing struggle, primarily with the supporters of Sufism, or at least the Barelwi
understanding of the same. Arguably, the creation of an external opposition
provides the Deobandi movement with an ‘other’ from which they can reinforce
their own identity as Islamic orthodoxy.
The responses from the ʿulamaʾ of Deoband revealed differences of opinion
with regard to the practice of tasawwuf. However, there was no disagreement
that Deoband is deeply rooted in South Asian Sufism. It is perhaps Deoband’s
deliberate strategy of isolation and its refusal in South Asia to incorporate Western
modes of education or secular subjects to its traditional curriculum that has led
to the criticism that both the dar al-ʿulum graduates and their staff are deeply out
of touch with the contemporary world and the challenges facing Muslims living
within it.82 Although the interviews with the ʿulamaʾ and Sufis of Deoband suggest
strongly that Deobandi scholars identify their tradition within the parameters of
Indian Sufism, a closer analysis of their responses would indicate that there is a
general concern with the historical trajectory of Deoband as a reform movement.
Although loath to admit the decline of Deobandi tradition, there is a concern that
there is a contemporary malaise, in which the quality of Deoband’s initial teachers
and students is no longer present. In this discourse of decline, the narratives of
Deobandi Sufism play a special role. These might be categorized as narratives
of malaise, decline and revival. In this scenario, Deoband’s understanding of
tasawwuf represents the ideal of the scholar/saint, sanctified by both study and
purification. Such figures are iconically representative of Deoband’s role as the
reviver of Islam in India. However, the decline of tasawwuf in the formal curriculi
of Deoband, or its absence from most students’ lives, is perceived as evidence of
a moral and ethical decline. The recovery of tasawwuf is symbolic of the revival
of Deoband as South Asia’s foremost revivalist movement.
Deobandi ʿulamaʾ still identify their tradition within the world of Sufism.
They have terminology issues with Barelwi Sufis, and contest various practices
associated with traditional Sufism as innovation or a corruption of the practices
associated with the Prophet and his companions. However, acceptance of some
practices may not be as polarized as some might believe. It may be more a matter
of intention than practice. However, there are key differences between Deobandi
Sufism and Barelwi Sufism:
1. There is no division of authority between ʿulamaʾ and Sufi, as noted by

Pnina Werbner. They are one and the same. Chains of authentication link
the ʿulamaʾ back through ijaza and sanad, chains of bayʿat to tasawwuf.
Often both ijaza and tasawwuf are received from the same person, but not
always. However, on the whole Deoband’s Sufis areʿulamaʾ. Not all ʿulamaʾ
are Sufis but Deobandi formal study tries to incorporate taqwa into its
learning. There is little differentiation between taqwa, adab and ihsan.
Deobandi Sufis and ʿulamaʾ are more likely to redefine tasawwuf as ihsan. In
the early years of Deoband, the Shaykh–murid relationship underpinned the
teacher–student relationship in the madrasa.
2. Deoband synthesized two main streams of Islamic tradition – learning and
spiritual experience – combined with, especially in Saharanpur, a degree of
asceticism.
3. Deobandi ʿulamaʾ actualized Shah Waliullah’s ideal of the unity of shariʿa
and tariqa, with tariqa re-established at the heart of Islamic orthodoxy.
4. Deobandis, however, have key differences with Barelwi Sufis. These may
not be necessarily concerned with practices but intention. The cultus of the
shrines is usually condemned but not visitation to shrines of the pious per
se; veneration of the Prophet is encouraged up to the point of not accepting
the doctrines that surround nur-i muhammad. Graves of the Deobandi Sufis
are kept simple to avoid veneration, yet students of ʿulamaʾ who are Sufis
demonstrate marked signs of commitment and highly charged emotional
loyalties. Dhikr with Deobandi Sufis shows no obvious differences with
other Sufi tariqas.
5. All ʿulamaʾ talk of an ‘idealized Deoband’, where all students studied
tasawwuf after graduating from their dars-i nizami curriculum and could
not collect their certificates of graduation until they had spent some time
with a Shaykh. However, no one could point me to evidence that confirmed
this, or indicate exactly when it stopped.
6. Deobandi Sufism is hidden but vibrant. It is more likely to be veiled behind
charismatic ʿulamaʾ renowned for taqwa. Direct questions about Sufi
identity are more likely to be met with responses that focus on ihsan as a
psychological state of mind/being that should be the goal of all Muslims.
Contemporary Deobandi graduates find their way to tasawwuf through
informal, affective channels, but Sufism remains a vibrant force.
The research carried out shows that understandings of Deoband that perceive
the tradition to be part of the Salafi or Wahhabi movements are too simplistic,
and may even be part of the polemical labelling of Deoband by its opponents.
Without an analysis that understands Deoband’s historic roots in South Asian as
part of Sufi attempts to reform their own disciplines and bring them more in line
with the sunna of the Prophet and stricter application of shariʿa as interpreted
through Hanafi fiqh, the movement is likely to be misunderstood in regard to
its positioning in the arena of Islamic contestation and diversity. These over-
simplifications also operate to displace Sufism itself to an antinomian fringe, and
miss the point that Sufis were capable of cleaning their own house and re-establish
orthodoxy independent of the critiques of Wahhabi and Salafi reformers.
Notes
Introduction
1 Lloyd Ridgeon (2014), ‘Mysticism in Medieval Sufism’, Cambridge Companion to

Sufism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 125–49.
2 For a discussion of these three terms see Sachiko Murata and William Chittick
(1994), The Vision of Islam, New York: Paragon House.
3 Richard Gauvain (2013), Salafi Ritual Purity, Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge.
4 See also Martin van Bruinessen (2009), ‘Sufism, “Popular Islam” and the
Encounter with Modernity’, in Muhammad Khalid Masud, Armando Salvatore
and Martin van Bruinessen (eds), Islam and Modernity: Key Issues and Debates,
Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 125–57.
5 Afghani (2002), ‘Answer of Jamal al-Din to Renan’, in Charles Kurzman (ed.),
Modernist Islam 1840-1940, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
6 For both Afghani and ʿAbduh see Albert Hourani (1983), Arabic Thought
in the Liberal Age, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, chs 5 and 6. For
ʿAbduhʼs Sufi sympathies see Oliver Scharbrodt (2007), ‘The Salafiyya and
Sufism: Muhammad ʿAbduh and his Risalat al-Waridat (Treatise on Mystical
Inspirations)’, Bulletin of SOAS, 70(1): 89–115.
7 For Hasan al-Banna see David Commins (1994), ‘Hasan al-Banna (1906-1949)’, in
Ali Rahnema (ed.), Pioneers of Islamic Revival, London: Zed Books, pp. 154–83.
See also the relevant pages in Alison Pargeter (2013), The Muslim Brotherhood:
From Power to Opposition, London: Saqi Books; For Mawdudi see Seyyed Vali
Reza Nasr (1996), Mawdudi and the Making of Islamic Revivalism, Oxford:
New York University Press.
8 See Sayyid Qutb (2008–9), Milestones, Delhi: Islamic Book Service. (Good surveys
include Charles Tripp (1994), ‘Sayyid Qutb: The Political Vision’, in Ali Rahnema
(ed.), Pioneers of Islamic Revival, London: Zed Books, pp. 154–83; Yvonne Y. Haddad
(1983), ‘Sayyid Qutb: Ideologue of the Islamic Revival’, in John L. Esposito (ed.),
Voices of Resurgent Islam, Oxford: New York University Press, pp. 67–98.
9 Quintan Wiktorowicz (2006), ‘Anatomy of the Salafi Movement’, Studies in Conflict
and Terrorism, 29: 210.
10 For al-Albani see Stéphane Lacroix (2009), ‘Between Revolution and Apoliticism:
Nasir al-Din al-Albani and his Impact on the Shaping of Contemporary Salafism’,
in R. Meijer (ed.), Global Salafism, pp. 58–80.
218 Notes
11 The Mirror newspaper reported on 19 May 2014, ‘Hook handed terrorist Abu
Hamza al-Misri is GUILTY and faces 100 years in jail.’http://www.mirror.co.uk/
news/uk-news/hook-handed-terrorist-abu-hamza-al-masri-3572628 , accessed
28 August 2014.
12 Thomas Hegghammer (2009), ‘Revolutionaries? On Religion and Politics in the
Study of Militant Islamist’, in Roel Meijer (ed.), Global Salafism: Islamʼs New
Religious Movement, London: Hurst.
13 Kouichi Shirayanagi, ‘Religion – Sufi Shrines’, http://libertymagblog.wordpress.
com/2013/12/27/religion-sufi-shrines/, accessed 28 August 2014.
14 ‘List of Mosul architectural monuments destroyed by ISIS’, 3rd version
(2 September 2014), compiled by Karel Nováček and Miroslav Melčák. https://www.
facebook.com/download/852611031418107/Mosul_list3.pdf, accessed 7 September
2014. I am grateful to Noorah al-Gailani for providing me with this information.
15 http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/belief/2010/may/10/islam-sufi-
salafi-egypt-religion.
16 Shirayanagi, ‘Religion – Sufi Shrines.’
17 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-19380083 , accessed 28 August 2012.
18 Magharebia, 27 August 2012. See http://www.magharebia.com/en_GB/articles/
awi/features/2012/08/27/feature-01, accessed 28 September 2014.
19 ‘North African Salafists Turn on Sufi Shrines in Mali’. http://www.refworld.org/
docid/4fbdf9702.html, accessed 28 August 2014.
20 See ‘Deadly blasts hit Sufi shrine in Lahore’, BBC News South Asia. http://www.
bbc.co.uk/news/10483453, accessed 28 August 2014.
21 See ‘Pakistan Sufi shrine suicide attack kills 41’, BBC News, South Asia. http://
www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-south-asia-12951923, accessed 28 August 2014.
22 Andrew Johnstone, ‘Saudis risk new Muslim division with proposal to move
Mohamed’s tomb’, The Independent, 1 September 2014.
23 Academic works on Salafism tend to focus upon the political dimensions of
Salafism, and less on its relations with Sufism. Typifying this trend is Roel Meijer
(ed.) (2009), Global Salafism: Islamʼs New Religious Movement, London: Hurst.
Likewise, another example is Jeevan Deol and Zaheer Kazmi (eds) (2012),
Contextualising Jihadi Thought, London: Hurst. Both are excellent contributions to
the literature on Salafism/Jihadism.
Chapter 1
1 Rashid Rida, ‘al-Mawalid’, al-Manar, 1: 82–3.

2 Seminal works in this tradition are H. A. R. Gibb (1947), Modern Trends in Islam,
Chicago; A. J. Arberry (1968), Sufism: An Account of the Mystics of Islam, London;
and J. S. Triminghm (1971), The Sufi Orders in Islam, Oxford.
Notes 219
3 F. Rahman (1979), Islam, 2nd edn, Chicago; N. Levztion and J. Voll (eds) (1987),
Eighteenth-Century Renewal and Reform Movements in Islam, Syracuse; the
revisionist works by R. Schulze (1990), ‘Das Islamische actzehnte Jarhhundert:
Versuch einer historiographischen Kritik’, Die Welt des Islam, 30: 140–59; and
R. S. O’Fahey and B. Radtke (1993), ‘Neo-Sufism Reconsidered’, Der Islam, 70:
52–87.
4 For recent studies on modern Sufism, see especially M. van Bruinessen and
J. Howell (eds) (2007), Sufism and the ‘Modern’ in Islam, London and New York;
J. Malik and J. Hinnels (eds) (2006), Sufism in the West, London and New York;
and I. Weismann (2014), ‘Sufism and Globalisation’, Cambridge.
5 For the recordings of a conference on the subject convened by the author in July
2007 at Haifa University, see http://www.islamw.haifa.ac.il.
6 This part of the investigation relies on I. Weismann (2007), The Naqshbandiyya:
Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition, London and New York.
7 B. Lewis (2003), The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror, Random House.
8 A. Gabriel, G. A. Almond, R. S. Appleby and E. Sivan (eds) (2003), Strong Religion:
The Rise of Fundamentalisms around the World, Chicago.
9 S. Schwartz (2002), The Two Faces of Islam: Saudi Fundamentalism and its Role in
Terrorism, New York.
10 R. L. Euben (1999), Enemy in the Mirror: Islamic Fundamentalism and the Limits
of Modern Rationalism, Princeton.
11 Gibb, p. 29.
12 H. Enayat (1982), Modern Islamic Political Thought, Austin, pp. 83ff; and
M. Moaddel (2005), Islamic Modernism, Nationalism, and Fundamentalism:
Episode and Discourse, Chicago, pp. 95ff.
13 Euben, pp. 17–18.
14 B. D. Metcalf (1982), Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband 1860-1900,
Princeton, pp. 268–96; C. Preckel (2000), ‘Islamische Reform in Indien des 19.
Jahrhunderts: Aufstieg und Fall von Muhammad Siddiq Hasan Khan, Nawwab
von Bhopal’, in R. Loimeier (ed.), Die Islamische Welt als Netzwek: Moglichkeiten
und Grenzen des Netzwerkansatzes im Islamische Kontext, Wurzberg, pp. 239–56;
and M. Riexinger (2004), Sana’ullah Amritsari (1868-1948) und die Ahl-i Hadis im
Punjab unter britischen Herrschaft, Wurzberg, esp. pp. 121–78.
15 H. Laoust (1932), ‘Le Reformisme othodoxe des “Salafiya” et les caracteres
generaux de son orientation actuelle’, Revue des Etudes Islamiques, 6: 175–224;
D. D. Commins (1990), Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman
Syria, New York; and I. Weismann (2009), ‘Genealogies of Fundamentalism: Salafi
Discourse in Nineteenth-Century Baghdad’, British Journal of Middle Eastern
Studies, 36: 269–82.
16 See I. Weismann (2006), ‘Islamic Modernism’, Encyclopaedia of Western
Colonialism since 1450, Farmington Hills, 2: 656–61.
220 Notes
17 A. H. Hourani (1983), Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 1798-1939, Reissued.

Cambridge, pp. 222–44; and Enayat, pp. 68–83.
18 R. Mitchell (1969), The Society of the Muslim Brothers, London, p. 14.
19 S. V. R. Nasr (1994), The Vanguard of the Islamic Revolution: The Jama’at-I Islami of
Pakistan, Berkeley, pp. 7–9.
20 G. Kepel (1985), The Prophet and Pharaoh: Muslim Extremism in Egypt, London,
pp. 36–58.
21 Kepel, The Prophet and Pharaoh, pp. 129–222.
22 S. Zubaida (1993), Islam, the People £ the State: Political Ideas & Movements in the
Middle East, London and New York, pp. 1–37.
23 F. Gerges (2005), Why Jihad went Global? Cambridge; B. Rougier (ed.) (2008),
Que’st-ce que le Salafisme? Paris; R. Meijer (ed.) (2009), Global Salafism: Islam’s
New Religious Movement, London.
24 D. Commins (2006), The Wahhabi Mission and Saudi Arabia, London and
New York, pp. 130–43. Another precursor of the fundamentalist stand is the
Yemeni jurist Muhammad al-Shawkani, who was closer than the Wahhabis to the
original teachings of Ibn Taymiyya and a major influence on the Ahl-I Hadith and
the Salafiyya. See I. Weismann (2001), Taste of Modernity: Sufism, Salafiyya, and
Arabism in Late Ottoman Damascus, Leiden, pp. 270–1.
25 M. Fandy (1999), Saudi Arabia and the Politics of Dissent, New York;
M. al-Rasheed (2007), Contesting the Saudi State: Islamic Voices from a New
Generation, Cambridge.
26 For various manifestations of the anti-Sufi sentiment throughout Muslim history,
see F. de Jong and B. Radtke (eds) (1999), Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen
Centuries of Controversies and Polemics, Leiden; for a study that focuses on the
controversial legacy of Ibn ʿArabi, see A. Knysh (1999), Ibn ‘Arabi in the later
Islamic Tradition: The Making of a Polemical Image in Medieval Islam, Albany.
27 For an overview, see E. Sirriyeh (1999), Sufis and Anti-Sufis: The Defence,
Rethinking and Rejection of Sufism in the Modern World, Richmond, Surrey.
28 Saeedullah (1973), The Life and Works of Siddiq Hasan Khan Nawab of Bhopal
(1248-1307/1832-1890), Lahore, pp. 152ff.
29 An exception is the virulent attack on Sufism and religious learning of ‘Abd
al-Hamid al-Zahrawi, al-Fiqh wa ‘l-tasawwuf, Cairo, 1319/1901. For an analysis,
see D. D. Commins (1990), Islamic Reform, pp. 55–9.
30 N. Al-Alusi (1961), Jala’ al-‘aynayn fi muhakamat al-Ahmadayn, Cairo,
pp. 99–107, 432–525; for an analysis, see I. Weismann (2004), ‘The
Naqshbandiyya-Khalidiyya and the Salafi Challenge in Iraq’, Journal of the History
of Sufism, 4: 229–40. See also B. Nafi (2009), ‘Salafism Revived: Nu’man al-Alusi
and the Trial of the Two Ahmads’, Die Welt des Islams, 49: 49–97.
31 Al-Kawakibi, ‘Abd al-Rahman (1982), Umm al-Qura, Beirut, p. 75.
Notes 221
32 I. Weismann (2007), ‘The Hidden Hand: The Khalidiyya and the Orthodox –
Fundamentalist Nexus in Aleppo’, Journal of the History of Sufism, 5: 41–59.
33 C. W. Troll (1978), Sayyid Ahmad Khan: A Reinterpretation of Muslim Theology,
New Delhi, pp. 171–93.
34 M. ‘Abduh (1994), Risalat al-tawhid, Beirut and Cairo, p. 183. See Sirriyeh,
pp. 94–8.
35 A. Hourani (1981), ‘Sufism and Modern Islam: Rashid Rida’, in A. Hourani,
The Emergence of the Modern Middle East, Berkeley and Los Angeles, pp. 90–102.
36 Mitchell, pp. 214–16. For Syria see I. Weismann (2005), ‘The Politics of Popular
Religion: Sufis, Salafis, and Muslim Brothers in Twentieth Century Hamah’,
International Journal of Middle East Studies, 37: 39–58.
37 S. V. R. Nasr (1996), Mawdudi & the Making of Islamic Revivalism, New York,
pp. 122–4.
38 J.-P. Hartung (2007), Viele Wege und ein Ziel: Leben und Wirken von Sayyid Abu
l-Hasan ‘Ali al-Hasani Nadwi (1914-1999), Wurzburg, pp. 104–7, 114–23.
39 Abu l-Hasan ‘Ali al-Hasani al-Nadwi (1986), Rabbaniyya la rahbaniyya, 4th edn.
Beirut.
40 O. Carre (2003), Mysticism and Politics: A Critical Reading of Fi Zilal al-Qur’an by
Sayyid Qutb, Leiden, pp. 95–100.
41 A. McGregor (2003), ‘Jihad and the Rifle Alone’: ‘Abdullah ‘Azzam and the Islamist
Revolution’, The Journal of Conflict Studies, 23(2): 104–5.
42 See J. Wagemakers (2009), ‘A Purist Jihadi-Salafi: The Ideology of Abu
Muhammad al-Maqdisi’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 36: 281–98.
43 www.tawhed.ws/r?1=ag3kae5j , www.tawhed.ws/r?1=4vp6qwvg, accessed
5 February 2010.
44 A. Knysh (1992), ‘Irfan Revisited: Khomeini and the Legacy of Islamic Mysticism’,
Middle East Journal, 46: 631–53.
45 Sirriyeh, pp. 164–7.
46 M. van den Boss (2002), Mystic Regimes: Sufism and the State in Iran, from the Late
Qajar Era to the Islamic Republic, Leiden, 145–70.
47 E. Peskes, ‘The Wahhabiyya and Sufism in the Eighteenth Century’, in De Jong and
Radtke, pp. 145–61.
48 J. O. Voll (1989), ‘Hadith Scholars and Tariqahs: An “Ulama” Group in the
Eighteenth-Century Haramayn and Their Impact in the Islamic World’, Journal of
African and Asian Studies, 15: 264–73.
49 Metcalf, pp. 35–45; J. M. S. Baljon (1986), Religion and Thought of Shah Wali Allah
Dihlawi, 1703-1776, Leiden, esp pp. 200–1.
50 R. S. O’Fahey (1990), Enigmatic Saint: Ahmad Ibn Idris and the Idrisi Tradition,
Evanston, IL, esp. pp. 65ff.; and B. Radtke et al. (2000), The Exoteric Ahmad Ibn
Idris, Leiden.
222 Notes
51 K. Vikor (1995), Sufi Scholar and Saint on the Desert Edge: Muhammad b. ‘Ali
al-Sanusi and his Brotherhoof, London, p. 5; J. O. Voll (1969), ‘A History of the
Khatmiya in the Sudan’, PhD Dissertation, Harvard University; and M. Sedgwick
(2005), Saints and Sons: The Making and Remaking of the Rashidi Ahmadi Sufi
Order, 1799-2000, Leiden.
52 See G. Weigert and N. Levztion (1990), ‘Renewal an Reform of the Khalwatiyya in
Egypt (18th Century)’, unpublished paper for the 24th annual meeting of MESA,
San Antonio.
53 M. Zekri (2005), ‘La tariqa Shadhiliyya-Darqawiyya: les ‘empreintes du Shaykh
al-Arabi al-Darqawi’, in Eric Geoffroy (ed.), Une voie soufie dans le monde: la
Shadhiliyya, Paris, pp. 229–36.
54 Hourani (1982), ‘Sufism and Modern islam: Mawlana Khalid and the
Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya in the Ottoman Lands in the Early 19th Century’,
Die Welt des Islams, 22: 1–36; Hourani (1990), ‘Khalwa and Rabita in the Khalidi
Suborder’, in Marc Gaborieasu et al. (eds), Naqshbandis, Istanbul and Paris,
pp. 289–302.
55 E. Kolberg, ‘Aspects of Akhbari Thought in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth
Centuries’, in Voll and Levtzion, pp. 133–60.
56 M. Bayat (1982), Mysticism and Dissrnt: Socioreligious Thought in Qajar Iran,
Syracuse, chs 1–2.
57 N. Levtzion (1997), ‘Eighteenth-Century Sufi Brotherhoods: Structural,
Organizational and Ritual Changes’, in R. P. Riddel and T. Street (eds), Essays on
Scripture, Thought and Society, Leiden, pp. 147–60.
58 A. Jalal (1998), Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia, Cambridge, MA,
pp. 58–113.
59 R. Danziger (1977), Abd al-Qadir and the Algerian Resistance to the French and
International Consolidation, New York and London.
60 M. Gammer (1994), Muslim Resistance to the Tsar: Shamil and the Conquest
of Chechnia and Daghestan, London; A. Zelkina (2000), In Quest for God and
Freedom: The Sufi Response to the Russian Advance in the North Caucasus, London.
61 E. E. Evans-Pritchard (1949), The Sanusi of Cyrenaica, London.
62 R. S. O’Fahey (1999), ‘Sufism in Suspense: The Sudanese Mahdi and the Sufis’,
in de Jong and Radtke, pp. 145–61; and G. Warburg (2009), ‘From Sufism to
Fundamentalism: The Mahdiyya and the Wahhabiya’, Middle East Studies, 45:
661–72.
63 M. van Bruinessen (1992), Agham Shaikh and State: the Social and Political
Structures of Kurdistan, London and New Jersey, pp. 265–305; R. W. Olson (1989),
The Emergence of Kurdish Nationalism and the Sheikh Said Rebellion, 1880-1926,
Austin.
64 See F. Jad’an (1979), Usus al-taqqaddum ‘inda mufakkiri l-Islan fi l-alam al ‘arabi
al-hadith, Beirut, pp. 193–229.
Notes 223
65 Weismann, ‘Genealogies’, pp. 273–4.

66 This genre ranges from ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Kawakibi’s Taba’i al-istibdad, Cairo,
n.d., through Sayyid Qutb’s Ma’alim fi l-tariq, many editions, to Osama b. Ladin’s
numerous statements against the Saudi and other Muslim states, for example, B.
Lawrence (ed.) (2005), Messages to the World: The Statementd of Osama Bin Laden,
London and New York.
67 M. R. Rida (1922), al-Khilada aw al-imama al-uzma, Cairo (1922); Abu l-ʿAlaʾ
al-Mawdudi (1974), Mafahim hawla al-din wa’l-dawla, Kuwait.
68 R. Schulze (2002), A Modern History of the Islamic World, London and New York,
pp. 93–107.
69 M. M. J. Fischer (1980), Iran from Religious Dispute to Revolution,
Cambridge, MA, pp. 213ff.
70 R. Khomeini, Hukumat-i Islami, many editions; S. A. Arjomand (1988),
The Turban for the Crown: The Islamic Revolution in Iran, New York.
71 S. Hawwa (1983), Fusul fi l-imra wa’l-amir, Hebron; O. Roy (1999), The Failure
of Political Islam, London and New York, pp. 42–5.
72 A. S. Mousalli (2001), The Islamic Quest for Democracy, Pluralism, and
Human Rights, Gainesville, FL, pp. 53–60; I. Weismann (2010), ‘Democratic
Fundamentalism? The Practice and Discourse of the Muslim Brothers in
Movements in Syria’, The Muslim World, 100: 1–16.
73 On the impact of media see F. Robinson (1993), ‘Technology and Religious
Change: Islam and the Impact of Print’, Modern Asian Studes, 27: 229–51; and
G. R. Bunt (2009), Muslims: Rewiring the House of Islam, Chapel Hill.
74 C. W. Troll (1978), Sayyid Ahmad Khan: A Reinterpretation of Muslim Theology,
New Delhi.
75 B. M. Nafi (2002), ‘Abu al-Thana’ al-Alusi: AN Alim, Ottoman Mufti, and Exegete
of the Qur’an’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 34: 472–4.
76 Weismann, Taste of Modernity.
77 Hourani, Arabic Thought, pp. 131–2; and O. Scharbrodt (2007), ‘The Salafiyya
and Sufism: Muhammad ‘Abudh and his Risalat al-Waridat (Treatise on Mystical
Inspirations)’, BSOAS, 70: 89–115.
78 Mitchell, pp. 2–3.
79 Nasr, Mawdudi, pp. 9–11.
80 Hartung, pp. 251–71.
81 A. Musallam (2005), From Secularism to Jihad: Sayyid Qutb and the Foundations of
Radical Islamism, Westport, CT.
82 Abu Mujahid (n.d.), al-Shahid ‘Abdallah ‘Azzam bayna ;-milad wa’l-istishhad,
Peshawar, p. 13.
83 Wagemakers, pp. 285–6.
84 C. Kurzman (fall/winter 2002), ‘Bin Laden and Other Thoroughly Modern
Muslims’, Contexts, 1(4): 13–20.
224 Notes
85 A. Rahnema (1994), ‘Ali Shariati: Teacher, Preacher, Rebel’, in A. Rahnema (ed.),

Pioneers of Islamic Revival, London and New Jersey, pp. 217–25.
86 Siddiq ibn Hasan al-Husayni al-Bukhari al-Qannawji (1963), al-Taj al-mukallal
min jawahir ma’athir al-tiraz al-akhir w’al-awwal, 2nd edn, Bombay, pp. 515–16.
87 Weismann, Taste of Modernity, pp. 263–71.
88 H. al-Banna (1986), Mudhakkirat al-da’wa wa’l-da’iya, Cairo, pp. 65–7.
89 ‘Al-Qaeda Surrogate Islamic Group in Southern Kurdistan Destroys Sufi Shrines’,
http://www.punk.ord/htm/news/press/prss/aiq.html, 28 July 2002, accessed 12
March 2003.
90 S. Hawwa (1981), Tarbiyatuna al-ruhiyya, Amman.
91 S. Hawwa (1984), Ihya’ al-rabbaniyya, Cairo. For an analysis, see I. Weismann (1997),
‘Sa’id Hawwa and Islamic Revivalism in Baʿthist Syria’, Studia Islamica 85: 141–2.
92 Y. al-Qaradawi (1991), Awwaliyyat al-hraka al-islamiyya fi l-marhala al-qadima,
Beirut, pp. 81–2.
93 M. al-Ghazzali (1990), al-Da’wa al-islamiyya tastaqbilu qarnaha al-khamis-ashar,
Cairo, pp. 32, 37–8, 50, 60, 106.
94 R. Rida (1906), Ta’rikh al-ustadh al-imam al-Shaykh Muhammad ‘Abduh, vol. 1,
Cairo, p. 23.
95 R. Rida (1934), al-Manar wa’l-Azhar, Cairo, pp. 146–9.
96 Banna, Mudhakkirat, pp. 10–14.
97 S. Qutb (n.d.), Tifl min al-qarya, Beirut, p. 78.
98 A. Bottcher (1998), Syrische Religionspolitik unter Asad, Freiburg, pp. 147–223.
For biographical details see also M. Habash (1996), al-Shaykh Ahmad Kuftaru
wa-minhajuhu fi l-tajdid wa l-islah, Damascus.
99 M. H. Yavuz (2003), Islamic Political Identity in Turkey, New York, esp. ch. 6;
T. Zarcone (1992), ‘Les Nakshibedi et la republique turque: de la persecution
au repositionnement theologique, politique et social (1925–1991)’, Turcica, 24:
133–51. See also the official site of the center, www.iskenderpasa.com.
100 For an overview see Weismann, Naqshbandiyya, pp. 166–70. The official view
of the brotherhood is presented in ‘Adnan Muhammad al-Qabbani, al-Futuhat
al-haqqaniya fi manaqib ajilla’ al-silsila al-dhahabiyya li’l-tariqa al-naqshbandiyya
al-‘aliyya, n.d., and in the shortened English edition, M. H. al-Kabbani (1995),
The Naqshbandi Sufi Way: History and Guidebook of the Saints of the Golden
Chain, Chicago, its eschatology is expounded in, al-Haqqani al-Naqshbandi
(1994), Mystical Secrets of the Last Days, Los Altos, CL.
Chapter 2
1 ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil’s response, in 1952, to the news that eight million Sufis
had united to demonstrate against a joint decision by the Egyptian government,
Notes 225
under ‘Ali Mahir (d. 1960), and various representatives of the Azhar University
to prohibit the ‘mahmul’ on the grounds that this practice is innovatory (bida).
‘Thamaniyyat milayyin madha?’ in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya
(eds) (2010), Majmu‘at maqallat al-‘allama ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil, vol. 1, Cairo:
Dar al-Sabil al-Mu’minin, pp. 402–7.
2 On the overlap between Egyptian Salafi and Sufi usages of language and ideas in
the field of purity law, for example, see R. Gauvain (2013), Salafi Ritual Purity:
In the Presence of God, London: Routledge, pp. 79–87. For another example of an
Egyptian Salafi employing mystical language, see below (2.a).
3 The standard academic narrative sees the two as fundamentally opposed: on the
one hand, Sufis are depicted as representing a traditional, pluralist and overtly
spiritual approach to Islam; on the other hand, Salafis are depicted as embracing a
new, anti-traditional, anti-Western and legalistic understanding of Islam. On the
problems of such clear-cut depictions, in ‘popular Russian and Western journalism
and academic studies’, see for example A. Knysh (2004), ‘A Clear and Present
Danger: “Wahhabism” as a Rhetorical Foil’, Die Welt des Islams, 44(1): 3–26.
4 On these clashes, see for example J. Brown (2011), ‘Salafis and Sufis in
Egypt’, Carnegie Paper, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, http://
carnegieendowment.org/files/salafis_sufis.pdf, p. 7; J. Hoigilt (2011), ‘The Salafis
are coming, but where are they going?’ NOREF, 4, http://www.peacebuilding.no/
var/ezflow_site/storage/original/application/e007391d10b6aad11171c452eeb2f9f6.
pdf; and I. al-Alawi (2011), ‘Egyptian extremism sees Salafis attacking Sufi
mosques’, The Guardian, http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/belief/2011/
apr/11/salafis-attack-sufi-mosques.
5 This particular observation was made by an imam at Shirbini mosque in Madinat
Nasr in October 2007. It stands out from many such quotes because, to this day, I
remember the startling volume at which it was delivered.
6 The best argument for the decline of Egyptian Sufism throughout the twentieth
century is still that of Michael Gilsenan. See for example M. Gilsenan (1973),
Saint and Sufi in Modern Egypt: An Essay in the Sociology of Religion, Oxford:
Clarendon Press. As is well known, Valerie Hoffman disagrees with Gilsenan.
Hoffman notes that the number of Egypt’s Sufi branches actually rose during the
twentieth century; and that, while not as prominent as before, the Sufis remain an
important presence in Egypt’s religio-political landscape. See V. Hoffman (1995),
Sufis, Mystics and Saints in Modern Egypt, Columbia: University of South Carolina
Press. For my purposes, however, the question of whether or not Sufism actually
declined during this period is less important than modern Salafis’ perceptions of
Sufi success or failure. As a general rule, Ansar al-Sunna scholars remain warier of
Sufism than other Salafis I spoke to. Whereas the latter tended to dismiss Sufis as
mere country bumpkins, spokesmen at the Ansar al-Sunna headquarters in ‘Abdin
unambiguously stated that, as an ideology, Sufism remains very dangerous indeed.
226 Notes
However, even the ‘Abdin men acknowledged that, in Egypt at least, the Sufis’ best
days are behind them.
7 Among Western scholars, there has been a desiccating lack of interest in Egyptian
Salafism, and in the Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya movement in particular.
One step in the right direction has recently been taken by T. Behnan Said and
Hazim Fouad (2014), editors of a large collection of essays entitled Salafismus:
Auf de Suche nach dem Wahren Islam, Herder Verlag GmbH. Providing a useful
overview of what has so far been written on Egyptian Salafism, pre- and post-
revolution, Fouad’s own chapter reassuringly pays attention to the Ansar al-Sunna
movement. Despite this welcome addition to the literature, however, there remains
little in-depth, historically informed analysis of Egyptian Salafism in any European
language. The situation is particularly vexing when we compare it to the current
state of research into Egyptian Sufism, which has been carefully and sensitively
explored by a number of Western scholars, including inter alia Michael Gilsenan,
Valerie Hoffman and Julian Johansen. A tentative explanation for this lack of
interest in Salafism is suggested in R. Gauvain (2013), ‘Egyptian Salafism as a
Problematic for Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies’, Orient, 35–47. In Arabic, the
situation is better and has been further helped by the arrival of Ahmed Zaghloul
Shalata’s lengthy analysis of the development of Egyptian Salafism, see A. Shalata
(2013), Al-Hala al-salafiyya al-mu’assira fi misr, Cairo: Madbouly Bookstore.
Though richly detailed, the author’s claim that the fundamental nature and
workings of Egyptian Salafism may be explained through a connection to Saudi
Arabia is problematic.
8 A. Knysh (1999), Ibn ‘Arabi in the Later Islamic Tradition: The making of a
Polemical Image in Medieval Islam, Albany: State University of New York Press,
p. 364, n. 62. To explain who precisely is meant by ‘Egyptian liberal intellectuals of
the 1950s’, Knysh cites Michael Gilsenan’s article, ‘Trajectories of Contemporary
Sufism’, in a compilation by E. Gellner (1985), Islamic Dilemmas: Reformers,
Nationalists and Industrialization, The Hague: Mouton, pp. 187–99. The only
critic of Sufism cited in this paper, however, is Shaykh ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud,
(at this time, Dean of the College of Usul al-Din at al-Azhar University; later, the
‘extremely stern Rector’ of the same University). And there should be no real
comparison, at least regarding the subject of Sufism, between al-Mahmud and
al-Wakil: while Mahmud does criticize certain aspects of popular Sufism (which
he apparently described as ‘delusions and distractions from the truth at best’), he
is nevertheless remembered fondly as enthusiastically promoting ‘the lives of the
great Sufis and thinkers’ (187). Al-Wakil, by contrast, vehemently criticized all Sufi
thinkers and aspects of Sufism, including, as we shall see, Ibn al-‘Arabi, Ibn Farid
and al-Ghazali.
9 Pink refers to Al-Wakil as ‘the head of the Wahhabite [sic] Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
al-Muhammadiyya [who] wrote a book about the Baha’i Faith that first appeared
Notes 227
in 1962 and saw a second edition in 1986.’ J. Pink (2005), ‘The Concept of
Freedom of Belief and Its Boundaries in Egypt: The Jehovah’s Witnesses and the
Baha’i Faith Between Established Religions and An Authoritarian State’, Culture
and Religion, 1: 135–60, 140. Other passing references to al-Wakil, which make
no reference to his status as polemicist, include citations in E. Kohlberg (1976),
‘From Imamiyya to Ithna-‘ashariyya’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African
Studies, 39(3): 521–34, at p. 529 n. 55; M. Sells (1990), ‘Banat Su‘ad: Translation
and Introduction’, Journal of Arabic Literature, 140–51, 140 n. 1; K. Abu el-Fadl
(2001), ‘Constitutionalism and the Islamic Sunni Legacy’, UCLA, Journal of
Islamic & Near E.L. 67: 67–101; and M. Lecker (2010), ‘Glimpses of Muhammad’s
Medinan Decade’, in Jonathon Brockopp (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to
Muhammad, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, p. 70 n. 10.
10 For al-Wakil’s biography according to Ansar al-Sunna, see: A. M. al-Tahir (2006),
Jama‘at ansar al-sunna al-Muhammadiyya: nasha’tuha-ahdafuha-manhajuha-
juhuduha, Cairo: Markaz al-‘Amm, pp. 188–90; and, more specifically, comments
made throughout Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya’s festschrift
(2010), ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, Cairo: Dar al-Sabil
al-Mu’minin. The basics of his biography in Ansar al-Sunna sources may be
summarized as follows. Al-Wakil was born, in 1913, in the rural village of Zawiyya
Baqli, in the governorate of Munafiyya. Despite other memories of a childhood
spent in ‘a swamp of heresy’ (see 2.a.), his biographers stick oddly to convention
by stating simply that he was raised in a pious era, ‘when the village family was
interested in the Qur’an and Sunna’, as well as to a notably religious family. Known
as ‘shaykh al-balad’, his father helped his son in his earliest studies of Qur’an.
Al-Wakil successfully memorized the Qur’an at a very young age in the village
kuttab, before continuing his religious studies at the Azhar’s religious college
(the ma‘had al-Ahmadi) in Tanta for nine years. He completed his secondary
education at the Azhar University’s College of the Foundations of Religion
(Kulliyat Usul al-Din), garnering a high diploma (ijaza) with a grade of excellence,
and then receiving a further diploma in teaching. After graduating from the
Azhar, al-Wakil worked as a school teacher for the government (in the fields of
tarbiyya and ta‘lim). Al-Wakil’s biographers mention that his first connection with
Ansar al-Sunna occurred via Ni‘mat Sidqi, the well-known writer of Al-Tabarruj
(Shamelessness) – a work still popular in Egypt today – who, in 1936, personally
recommended him for membership, and through whom he was introduced to
the books of al-Fiqqi. Originally, it seems al-Wakil may have been involved in
da‘wa work for a number of different movements, but it was al-Fiqqi’s scholarship
that apparently sealed his love for and commitment to Ansar al-Sunna. There is
little information available on al-Wakil’s formative years in the movement, but he
seems to have been a prolific writer. Indeed, he must have built up a considerable
reputation as, in 1952, slightly before his fortieth birthday, he was invited to teach
228 Notes
in Saudi Arabia at Riyadh’s Scientific College (ma‘had al-‘ilmy). How much of

the 1950s he spent in Saudi Arabia is not stated. However, it is clear that, while
there, he managed to establish links with Saudi Arabian Wahhabi and Egyptian
Ansar al-Sunna scholars that would only strengthen over time. He was not alone
in travelling to Saudi. For a list of other scholars who travelled to Saudi Arabia
during this time, see R. Gauvain, Salafi Ritual Purity, p. 284 n. 37. Back in Egypt,
al-Wakil was elected leader of the Misr al-Qadima branch of Ansar al-Sunna (no
date is given). 1959–60 was a momentous year for al-Wakil. First, he was elected
vice president of the movement under a fellow Munafiyyan, al-‘Afifi, to whom ‘he
was a great help’ (wa kan lihu khayr mu‘ayn). Simultaneously, he was promoted to
chief editor of the movement’s main periodical, al-Hadi al-nabawi, ‘contributing
tafsir to it until the day he passed away’. And on the 10th of Muharram, 1960,
following al-‘Afifi’s decision to return to Saudi Arabia, al-Wakil became President
of Ansar al-Sunna itself, with Muhammad Khalil Harras being promoted to
serve as his deputy. The following nine years of leadership are reported to have
been fruitful, particularly (and not surprisingly) in terms of Ansar al-Sunna’s
relationship with Saudi Arabia. He retained the presidency until, in 1969, Ansar
al-Sunna was compelled by Gamal ‘Abd al-Nasser’s government to merge with
another Egyptian da‘wa group, and its larger rival, al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya. At
this point, al-Wakil accepted an invitation to return to a teaching position in
Saudi Arabia, this time in Makka’s Shari‘a College. There, he served as professor
of religious doctrine (al-‘aqida) in the Department of Higher Studies until he
died, in Mecca, at the comparatively early age of fifty-eight in 1970 (Jama‘at Ansar
al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya, Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 18). In passing,
we note that al-Wakil’s biography leaves us with more questions than it answers.
The reference to a happy youth studying the Qur’an with a pious father does not
easily tally with al-Wakil’s own memories of village life, in Hadhihi hiyya al-sufiyya
and Masra‘ al-tasawwuf. Similarly, while it is clear that he was a successful student
at the Tanta branch of the Azhar, al-Wakil professes to have loathed his time there
and as having gained nothing from the shaykhs (see 3.a). Once he joined Ansar
al-Sunna, at the bequest of Ni‘mat Sidqi, it remains unclear as to how al-Wakil
managed to rise through its ranks with such alacrity, particularly when he was
probably out of Egypt for some time. It is tempting to suggest that such progress
happened as a result of the alliances he formed in Saudi Arabia in the 1950s,
particularly with al-‘Afifi, his predecessor in Ansar al-Sunna, whose reputation
may have been more impressive in Saudi Arabia than in his native country;
but there is no real evidence to support this. While not directly relevant to this
paper, the question of what happened in Ansar al-Sunna, during the late 1960s,
to prompt the government to force its merger with al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya, a
recognizably ‘less Salafi’ organization, is more intriguing still. The sources are
Notes 229
notably silent on this matter, though Khalid Muhammad Younus suggests that
it was due to the movement’s growing reputation as a place of political activism.
See K. M. Younus (2006), Al-Qarn al-‘ashriyin wa juhud al-harakat al-da‘wiyya fi
Misr, Karachi,http://eprints.hec.gov.pk/2722/ . Given that al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya
accepts and even promotes the validity of ‘sober Sufism’ – al-Ghazali’s Ihya
al-‘ulum al-din remains a favourite within its mosques – we can only speculate
regarding how painful this experience must have been for al-Wakil.
11 Before founding Ansar al-Sunna’s main publication, al-Hadi al-nabawi, in Egypt,
al-Fiqqi established a short-lived journal, entitled al-Islah, in Saudi Arabia in the
early 1920s; al-‘Afifi’s biography, meanwhile, is replete with awards and formal
recognitions from the most prestigious educational establishments in both Egypt
and Saudi Arabia. Both scholars’ biographies are available in al-Tahir.
12 Interestingly, al-Wakil’s criticism of the Baha’is makes its way onto UTube: http://
www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZEh2s2bS-M. In this regard, al-Wakil is unique
among the other pioneers of Ansar al-Sunna scholars, who have yet to arrive
on this particular forum. For al-Wakil’s ideas on the Baha’is in print, see the six
articles included in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 2, Cairo,
ch. 6.
13 In addition to his polemics against the Sufis, al-Wakil’s response to Ibn Battuta’s
notorious observation that Ibn Taymiyya ‘had a screw loose’, was, for instance,
well known by these individuals. For the original, see ‘Ibn Battuta yuftari al-kidhb
al-Wakil, ‘ala Ibn Taymiyya’ in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds),
Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 2, Cairo: Dar al-Sabil al-Mu’minin, pp. 616–30.
14 Though in terms of popularity, al-Wakil cannot of course compete with
contemporary Ansar al-Sunna proselytizers, many of whom, like Muhammad
Hassan, regularly contribute to Egypt’s fairly sophisticated Salafi media world. For
a survey of Salafi media in Egypt before the revolution, now in need of revision,
see Nathan Field and Ahmad Hamam (2009), ‘Salafi Satellite TV in Egypt’, Arab
Media & Society, 8, http://www.arabmediasociety.com/?article=712.
15 Even within Egyptian Salafi circles, there are other opinions about why Sufism
has fallen into decline, though all agree that it comes as a direct result of the
Salafis’ efforts. For instance, the author of a text that was popular in Shubra
when I carried out most of my research in this district confirms Ansar al-Sunna’s
contributions to the war against Sufism (without mentioning the names of their
scholars), but places equal importance on the role of al-Gama‘a al-Islamiyya, in
the 1970s, in defeating Egypt’s traditional Sufi strongholds, see Muhammad Gamil
Ghazi (2007), Al-Sufiyya al-wajh al-akhar, Alexandria: Dar al-Iman, pp. 6–7.
16 Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa
qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, Cairo. The text is available here, http://www.ansaralsonna.
com/web/play-4097.html.
230 Notes
17 The website directs the reader to the following versions of these texts printed in
Lebanon: ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1984), Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, Beirut: Dar
al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya; and ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil (1980), Masra‘ al-tasawwuf,
Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya.
18 For the most part, we can find the content of al-Wakil’s criticisms in the classical
polemics of Ibn Taymiyya, Ibn Qayyim, al-Biqa‘i et al., as well as in the works of
modern, particularly Egyptian Azhari scholars, such as Zaki Mubarak (d. 1952).
19 This description of al-Wakil as a ‘salafi mutlaq’ was noted by my research
assistant, Sara Gabralla, who spoke to a number of Ansar al-Sunna scholars
following their recent conference on al-Wakil, https://www1.youm7.com/News.
asp?NewsID=1409972&. N.B: the Ansar al-Sunna scholars also appreciate
al-Wakil’s linguistic skills: once a reader begins one of his articles or book, al-Tahir
argues that he will automatically ‘wish to finish the entire work in a single sitting’,
al-Tahir, p. 190.
20 Al-Tahir, p. 188. Al-Tahir also references an important series of publications
entitled Dallalat al-sufiyya, which I could not obtain in time to write this chapter.
21 Al-Tahir, p. 190.
22 A comment by my teacher, Osama, during a discussion in his mosque in Shubra in
December, 2008, on the most ‘effective responses to Sufi thinking’ (aktar radd fa‘al
li-tafkir al-Sufiyya).
23 Al-Wakil’s thoroughness is also clear in his attack on the Baha’is. As Johanna
Pink notes, there have been two main criticisms of Egypt’s Baha’is: either, they are
judged as similar to the Shi‘i ‘Batiniyya’ trend, which seeks to smuggle heresies
into Sunni Islam, and refuted accordingly; or they are friends of Zionism because
their headquarters is in Haifa, Israel. Al-Wakil contains both brands of ‘conspiracy
theory’, Pink, p. 142. Al-Wakil’s attack on al-Ghazali is discussed in 3.b. below.
24 The same point is made by al-Tahir: ‘the reasons for this [al-Wakil’s success in
fighting Sufism] was that he was raised in a village where most people were Sufis;
then he went to Tanta, and this had [the cult of] al-Badawi, and the people who
worshipped graves. See al-Tahir, p. 188.
25 Masra‘ al-tasawwuf, pp. 4–7; the same material – free of the typos preserved in the
original manuscript – is quoted here, http://www.alagidah.com/vb/showthread.
php?t=8456.
26 For the connection to Judaism and Christianity, see note 39 below.
27 The terms ‘Abdal’, ‘anjab’, ‘awtad’ all have specific Sufi meanings.
28 This paragraphic structure follows the original format. However, in the original,
al-Wakil’s biographical reminiscences begin two paragraphs before, when he was
even younger – a ‘misled, wretched, pathetic boy’ (al-sabi al-gharir al-ta‘is) – in
the village. At this stage, he learns of al-Badawi (‘the Pole of Poles’) from angry
shaykhs; but these earliest recollections add little substance to the overall narrative.
Notes 231
29 In al-Tahir’s biographical notes, the degree to which the young al-Wakil swallowed
the Sufi line is entertained, so as only to be rejected: ‘he was raised, practiced
going around the idraha, he shared with them their dhikr, their awrad … but he
was always questioning, and within himself he denied [the validity of what he
was doing]. But he could not object, or he would have been expelled’, al-Tahir,
pp. 188 ff. In his earlier work, Hadhihi hiyya al-sufiyya (pp. 14–15), al-Wakil seems
to have been more persuaded by his early Sufi instructors than al-Tahir admits:
I still remember how, when I was a student [in Tanta], the old shaykh would
swear to us – with his eyes full of tears, and with his voice full of grief, nostalgia
and powerful longing – that the grave of ‘Abd al-‘Al that is next to al-Badawi’s
grave contains a strand of the Prophet’s hair! And that it [this strand of hair]
was full of blessings and hope!! And I remember that when I heard him [the
shaykh] talking and declaring [about this strand of hair] I felt in my heart … I
felt as if the angels had carried to me to immortality!! ... And I remember that
I believed this legend as if were God-given proof!! And I remember that the
shaykh made another claim … he also claimed that they put the strand of hair
under the sun and that it had no shadow!! And that was the polytheist illusion!!
And I remember … that the shaykh’s superstitions filled me with a joy that felt
like Heaven, as if I were one of the Prophet’s disciples! And I used to humbly,
with a heart filled with loyalty and prayers, pass by that grave where the strand
of hair lies. I yearned to touch the gravestone and imagined that I could smell
its unworldly scent.
30 As noted already, there is plenty of room left in Egyptian Salafism, for quasi-mystical
feelings. The fact that even al-Wakil indulges in them – given his reputation as the
most unequivocally anti-Sufi Salafi of recent times – proves the point nicely.
31 By which ideas are grasped through oppositions, see for example Omaima Abu
Bakr (1992), ‘The Symbolic Function of Metaphor in Medieval Sufi Poetry: The
Case of Shushtari’, Alif, 12: 40–57.
32 As its main source of information, the chapter cites al-Wakil’s article in al-Hady
al-nabawi entitled ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi-shaykhuh’, in which al-Wakil ‘explains the
relationship between the murid and the shaykh as it exists in their books and on
the tongues of their shaykhs’. ‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 24.
33 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 26. The full title of al-Qushayri’s work is
al-Risala al-Qushayriyya fi ‘ilm al-tassawuf; it remains very popular throughout
Egyptian mosque circles, many of which would not describe themselves as
particularly Sufi.
34 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 25
35 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 25.
36 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, pp. 25–6.
37 The Sufi shaykhs’ own denial of this practice is dismissed accordingly: ‘and while
the shaykhs claim that the rights of the teacher do not include the power to grant
repentance (tawba), what storm of deep despair will attack the murid’s soul if he
does anything against the Shaykh orders?!’ ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 25.
232 Notes
38 ‘‘Alaqat al-murid bi’l-shaykh’, p. 28.

39 Here, we recall al-Wakil’s description of his teachers in Tanta as ‘ancient rabbis/
priests’ (harimun min al-ahbar). More specifically, he traces the Sufi ritual of dhikr
to an ancient Israelite practice described in detail in the Old Testament, ‘Dhikr
al-sufiyya bida‘ yuhudiyya’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds),
‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, pp. 95–6.
40 Asl al-zuhd, p. 82.
41 On page 82, the text states ‘Mani Ibn Malik.’ The mistake is rectified later on, ‘Asl
al-zuhd’, p. 89.
42 For an extensive discussion on the Sufi doctrine of ‘ishq, from the perspective of
al-Wakil, see ‘al-‘Ishq ‘inda al-Sufiyya’ in Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds),
‘Abd al-Rahman al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, pp. 207–20.
43 ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 85.
45 ‘The forbidding of marriage is not from God’s law; rather it is from the law
of Mani Ibn Fatik, the Persian magician who pretended to be a Prophet. He
pretended that the light – the god he worshipped – was mixed with darkness, the
god of evil, and that light would not be able to defeat darkness unless this world
was destroyed. So, Mani forbade marriage to his followers and made obligatory
the fatal practices of zuhd and [excessive] fasting, so that the world would end
rapidly.’ ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 89.
47 Al-Wakil refers to Goldziher’s theories in al-Hadi al-nabawi, 36(1), and Hadhihi
hiyya al-sufiyya, pp. 140–1. Goldziher is quoted in ‘Asl al-zuhd’, pp. 82–3. This
author’s original theory – that, with the Qur’an (e.g. Q. 27:67), the earliest and
most reliable Prophetic traditions rejected zuhd, only for later forgeries to endorse
it – is to be found in I. Goldziher (1898), ‘De L’ascétisme aux premiers temps
d’Islam’, RHR, xxxvii: 314–24.
48 We note, for instance, that R. A. Nicholson (d. 1945) – another Western scholar
whose ideas regularly appear in al-Wakil’s writings – comments on the connection
between Manichaeism and Sufism. See R. A. Nicholson (1914), The Mystics of
Islam, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, p. 14.
49 Information on these terms and figures is primarily gleaned from al-Tabaqat
al-kubri, the work of the sixteenth century Egyptian Sufi al-Sha‘rani (d. 1565), ‘Asl
al-zuhd’, pp. 83 ff.
50 ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 88. Similarly, al-Wakil notes that: ‘God did not give an order to a
messenger, or to a prophet, or to a wali to uphold zuhd. Rather, God gave them all
an order to uphold taqwa.’ Ibid.
51 The chapter is quick to point out that the Prophet only retreated to the cave
of Hira because, by that stage, Meccan society had become so saturated with
idolatry and corruption that it could no longer be tolerated. As soon as he was
Notes 233
made Messenger, however, Muhammad sought to rejoin his people. As Goldziher

realizes, there are numerous hadiths intended to dissuade Muslims of the need for
extreme acts of renunciation. One such hadith, attributed to Anas ibn Malik (and
located in al-Bukhari), regularly features in modern Salafi polemics against the
excesses of zuhd. It is cited in ‘Asl al-zuhd’, p. 89:
Some people came to the houses of the wives of the Prophet so as to enquire
about the worshipping practices of the Prophet. … The first [of the visitors] says,
‘I pray all night, as long as I have lived.’ The second says: ‘I fast all the time, and I
never break my fast.’ Another one says: ‘I avoid women, I will never marry.’ The
Prophet came and asked ‘are you are the people who say such and such? I swear
I am the most fearful of God, and pious in regard for God, but I fast and break
the fast, I pray and sleep, and I marry women. Whoever fails to follow my sunna
does not belong to me.
52 These six articles are all dated to 1947. They constitute the fifth chapter of vol. 1 of
Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, pp. 481 ff.
53 While al-Wakil bases his objections to al-Ghazali on the opinions of Ibn Taymiyya
(see below in the present subsection), even this scholar was known to express
some positive views regarding al-Ghazali. For Ibn Taymiyya’s statement of
appreciation that al-Ghazali (and al-Qushayri) have legitimized Sufism for the
Hanbalis, see G. Makdisi (1963), Ibn Aqil et la resurgence de l’Islam traditionaliste
au XI siècle, Damascus, pp. 377–8. In this regard, it is also worth noting that
Muhammad ‘Abduh and, the teacher of al-Fiqqi, Rashid Rida, both spoke
positively of al-Ghazali. See for example M. Sirry (2011), ‘Jamal al-Din al-Qasimi
and the Salafi Approach to Sufism’, Die Welt des Islams, 51: 75–108, 85, where Sirry
notes that Muhammad ‘Abduh encouraged al-Qasimi to write in cautious defence
of al-Ghazali’s work; and E. Sirriyeh (1999), Sufis and Anti-Sufis: The Defense,
Rethinking and Rejection of Sufism in the Modern World, Richmond, Surrey:
Curzon Press, where Rida’s initial appreciation for al-Ghazali’s masterpiece the
Ihya’ is described as having ‘helped his mold his conviction that the Muslim should
consciously interiorise the faith and go beyond the mere externals of observance’,
p. 99.
54 See R. Gauvain, Salafi Ritual Purity, p. 81. Indeed, the Ihya provides much of the
logic and language utilized within several of the Salafi classes on ritual performance
(specifically associated with purification and prayer) I attended in Cairo.
55 Interestingly, al-Wakil indicates that there are individuals within Ansar al-Sunna
itself who adopt the second view (of al-Ghazali as beyond reproach simply
because he is usually treated as an Imam), on the grounds that such criticism
will only ‘increase people’s feelings of aversion (nufur) regarding us [in] Ansar
al-Sunna’. Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at Maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 486.
56 Matters are clearly serious. Addressing colleagues within the first two groups,
al-Wakil observes that perhaps they are not aware that the Sufi shaykhs have
234 Notes
threatened him, and Ansar al-Sunna itself, with legal action if he does not change
his approach (presumably given the location of this note) towards al-Ghazali.
Apparently, the previous prime-minister – given the date, almost certainly Ali
Mahir (who served in the post four times, and towards whom al-Wakil was
friendly) – was informed that the Sufis would take matters into their own hands
if he did not censure al-Wakil from continue to speak against them. Thankfully,
al-Wakil observes, the former prime-minister did not find any merit in the Sufis’
complaints.’ Al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1), in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 483.
57 Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
58 Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
59 Also: ‘I do not criticize al-Ghazali because he is Abu Hamid al-Ghazali, but
because he is, for the people, ‘hujjat al-Islam.’’ Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala
al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at
maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 488.
60 Al-Wakil ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
61 Al-Wakil ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (1)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
62 For these points, see Al-Wakil, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar
al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 493.
63 Among the books of Sufis to which al-Ghazali acknowledges his debt are included,
for instance, the works of al-Harith al-Muhasibi and, more specifically, Abu
Talib Al-Makki’s Quwat al-qulub. See al-Wakil ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’,
in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1,
Cairo, pp. 492–3. For an interesting discussion of the nature of al-Ghazali’s debt to
al-Makki, see Wan Mohd Azzam (1998), ‘The Influence of al-Makki on al-Ghazali’,
Intellectual Discourse, 6(2): 159–75.
64 Al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, pp. 491–2.
65 Al-Wakil’s polemic against al-Ghazali’s character – and more reasons not to
trust him – continues further on in the text. From a long list, the following
accusations stand out. ‘His lies and phony claims simply outweigh his honesty’
‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (3)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya
(eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 498. ‘He changes his mind over night; so,
what he claims in the Ihya is different from what he claims in other books’ ‘Hal
tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (4)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds),
Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 500. He only wrote books because the Sultan
Notes 235
instructed him to do so, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (4)’, in Jama‘at Ansar
al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 501. And
he upheld heretical practices and superstitions, such as worshipping graves; and
he even tells Muslims that leaving the mushaf, as well as the shoes of prophets and
imams on graves is beneficial for the dead, ‘Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (4)’, in
Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo,
p. 501.
66 He mentions Malik ibn Anas, Ibn Jawzi’s Talbis iblis and, tellingly, Ignaz Goldziher,
p. 490.
69 Al-Wakil notes that his kind and forgiving colleague in Ansar al-Sunna completely
misunderstands the situation by suggesting that Ibn Taymiyya is willing to forgive
al-Ghazali. Al-Wakil responds that nothing could be further from the truth, Hal
Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 494.
70 Al-Wakil does not tell us what Ibn Taymiyya’s chapter concerns. The passage
is taken from Ibn Taymiyya, Tafsir surat al-ikhlas (Damascus), p. 102, and is
found in al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna
71 Ibn Taymiyya, Kitab al-nubuwwat (Damascus), p. 79, cited in Al-Wakil, Hal
Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, p. 489.
72 Ibn Taymiyya, Kitab al-nubuwwat (Damascus), p. 79, cited in al-Wakil, Hal
Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo, pp. 494–5.
73 Here, al-Wakil points to what he perceives as Ibn Taymiyya’s mistaken belief that
the jinn can manifest as humans. See al-Wakil, Hal tajanayt ‘ala al-Ghazali? (2)’, in
Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 1, Cairo,
p. 491.
74 In Qur’an 20:19, God instructs Moses to throw down his rod. Moses is understood,
therefore, to have heard the Voice of God. Al-Wakil is doubtless angered by the
idea that the inviolability of the boundary lines separating God from ordinary
believers is threatened by this idea. See immediately below on al-Wakil’s response
to wahdat al-wujud.
76 Al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, p. 48.
236 Notes

78 Though al-Wakil seems to accuse al-Ghazali of hiding behind the language of
wahdat al-shuhud, the development of this concept is normally attributed to the
much later Indian scholar Ahmad al-Sirhindi al-Faruqi (d. 1624).
80 Al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, p. 50. Nicholson’s observations, in particular,
seem to strike a chord with al-Wakil. He is even more satisfied with this scholar’s
claim that ‘Islam loses all its meaning, [indeed] its name is entirely emptied of
meaning, if the doctrine of tawhid, which is expressed in the first half of the
shahada – ‘There is no God, but God’ (‘la ilah illa lah’) – is instead rendered
as ‘Nothing real exists other than God’ (la mawjud ‘ala haqiqat illa allah).’ On
repeating this, al-Wakil declares: ‘this is a shining truth by a Christian who [despite
the handicap of his religion] accuses a very well-known shaykh who pretends to be
the greatest Imam of the faith!!’ Al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, pp. 51–2.
81 Among which we may include his promise ‘to anger the great shaykhs of the Sufis’,
then ‘to scream the truth in the faces of these angry men’; and his description of
al-Ghazali’s Ihya ‘ulum al-din as the ‘first Qur’an’ of the Sufis, and of al-Ghazali’s
other books as their ‘idols’ (asnam).
82 This is not to deny that there are scholars in Saudi Arabia who are aware of
Western scholarship on Islam. The Bengali scholar and author of Sirat al-Nabi
and the Orientalists, Mohamad Mohsen Ali (d. 2007), for instance, taught in Saudi
Arabia, won the King Faisal prize, and lent his services to the Wahhabi cause.
However, Ali trained as a barrister in London and preferred to write in English.
He was not a product of Wahhabism in the sense in which Pink assumes to be true
of al-Wakil.
83 Despite spending time in Saudi Arabia, al-Wakil does not seem to have written
anything substantial regarding his experiences there. On the problems of
dismissing Ansar al-Sunna as merely an offshoot of Wahhabism, see R. Gauvain
(2010), ‘Salafism in Modern Egypt: Panacea or Pest? Political Theology, 11(6):
802–25. (In passing, and apropos of nothing in particular, we note that at least one
contemporary Egyptian Salafi scholar claims that al-Wakil also proselytized in
Russia, http://www.salafievents.com/biographies/shaykh-hasan-abdul-wahhaab-
marzooq-al-banna-1212. No mention of this trip is made in the usual Ansar
al-Sunna biographical sources, however.)
84 ‘Al-Sayyid al-Badawi (d. 675/1276), the famous saint of Ṭanta who had adopted
voluntary celibacy, possessed nothing of his own and burned out his eyes by
staring at the sun from his terrace, spent forty days without drinking, eating or
sleeping. He never took off his clothes or his turban, waiting for them to fall to
pieces by themselves’, Genevieve Gobillot (2012), ‘Zuhd’, in Encylopedia of Islam, II
Brill Online.
Notes 237
85 See 3.b. above. Note, in Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, al-Wakil also cites from Theodore
Noldeke (d. 1930).
86 Al-Wakil begins by noting that an unnamed English Orientalist has befriended
some Egypt’s Sufis, so as to document their shameful behaviour. This Orientalist
has recorded everything he has seen in an (unnamed) book. After warning his
reader against the treachery of all Orientalists, however, al-Wakil proceeds to
counter this particular Orientalist’s accusations, regarding the excesses of the
mawalid, through the arguments of Ignaz Goldziher! Al-Wakil concludes his piece
by comparing the crimes of the Orientalist with the far greater crimes of the Sufis:
‘it does not hurt us that these shameful deeds were documented by Orientalists,
and that this [the Sufis’ crimes] are being held against all Muslims. However, what
we should feel ashamed of is that we have enabled Sufis to … spread their poisons,
which reflects badly on Islam and Muslims, who now come across as foolish, the
worshippers of myths. … The Orientalists are not our primary enemy; it is our
enemy, which is nothing but Sufism, which has enabled them to attack us’, ‘Khizy
Sufi’ in al-Wakil, Hadhihi hiyya al-Sufiyya, pp. 114–15.
87 It is worth here noting that, while much has been said about the damage caused
to Egyptian Sufism by colonialism, on the one hand, and the Islamic Revival
movement (within which Salafism fits), on the other, much less has been said
about later Salafi applications of Orientalist scholarship.
88 There are marginal exceptions to this rule. The current head of Ansar al-Sunna’s
Department of Literary Heritage, Shaykh Sha‘ban, for instance, is clearly familiar
with some Western scholarship. While he warned my research assistant to
steer clear of the same scholarship, he also admitted that the Orientalists of
Goldziher’s generation had contributed much of merit to the study of Islam. To
my knowledge, however, there is nothing to suggest that Shaykh Sha‘ban, or any
other Ansar al-Sunna scholars (or, indeed, those belonging to any other Egyptian
Salafi group), are up to date with Islamic Studies, as this field is understood from a
Western academic perspective.
89 ‘Among the matters that make the soul restive with sadness and pain the heart
is the fact that the orientalists – although they are enemies of Islam – are aware
of the truth [regarding the Sufiyya].’ ‘Ara’ al-mustashriqin’, in ‘Abd al-Rahman
al-Wakil wa qadiyyat al-tasawwuf, p. 148. The most recently published of the
Western scholars to be referenced is, I believe, Philip Hitti (d. 1978).
90 On these disagreements, see R. Gauvain, Salafi Ritual Purity, pp. 37–47.
91 Jama‘at Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya (eds), Majmu‘at maqallat, vol. 2, Cairo,
pp. 715–16.
92 See above 3.a. and n. 56. In this regard, there is an undeniable poignancy to the
fact that Nasser eventually forces al-Wakil’s beloved Ansar al-Sunna to merge with
al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya.
238 Notes
93 Prior to his overthrow, the clearest (and most controversial) statements of loyalty
to Mubarak were to be found in the preaching of Mahmud Lutfi ‘Amir, see
R. Gauvain, ‘Salafi Ritual Purity’, pp. 44–5.
94 Recent events, following the military’s removal of Morsi from power, are unlikely
to have reassured them.
Chapter 3
1 C. V. Findley (2010); Th. Zarcone (2004); K. Karpat (2001); İ. Kara (1997);

P. Dumont (1983); and N. Berkes (1964).
2 R. Olson (1989); and B. Kurbanoğlu (2012).
3 A. F. Ambrosio (2014a), pp. 126–8; A. F. Ambrosio (2014b); and H. Küçük (2002).
4 F. M. Köprülü, Türk Edebiyatında İlk Mutasavvıflar (2006); and F. Köprülü (2003).
5 H. Z. Ülken (1964); H. Z. Ülken (2001); and H. Z. Ülken (1930).
6 A. Gölpınarlı (1983).
7 H. Z. Ülken (1972).
8 S. Karasipahi (2009); B. Eligür (2010); U. Azak (2010); Ş. Mardin (2003); and
H. M. Yavuz (2003).
9 A. Bein (2011); and M. Gormez (2008).
10 H. M. Yavuz (2013).
11 R. Çakır (1990).
12 R. Çakır (1990), pp. 199–204.
13 E. Özkan (1996); E. Özkan (1999a); and E. Özkan (1999b).
14 A. Gross (2012); S. Hamid (2007); and S. Taji-Farouki (1996).
15 E. Özkan (1995).
16 E. Özkan (1995), p. 3.
17 E. Özkan (1995), p. 3.
18 E. Özkan (1995), pp. 4–6.
19 E. Özkan (1995), p. 8.
20 E. Özkan (1995), pp. 9–10.
21 In Turkey, there are some different approaches to this question as shown by an
interesting article by the Dean of Sufi Studies, S. Uludağ (2010).
Chapter 4
1 This chapter presents some observations and findings gathered while carrying
out field research in Iraq between 2009 and 2013 in the process of preparing my
Notes 239
PhD thesis in the subject of Islamic Sufi material culture as exemplified by these
two shrines. What is beyond this paper’s remit – due to restrictions in time and
access while conducting field research – is an historical review of the relationship
between Salafism and Sufism in Iraq, and their recent history in the country.
What is meant by Salafists in this chapter are those practising Muslims (including
fundamentalists, literalists and puritanical) who are ideologically opposed to
Sufism as a method of worship, as a way of religious self-expression, and as a
socio-religious institution that individuals belong and give allegiance to. The term
also includes those who tolerate Sufism’s beliefs as long as they fall within strict
Islamic orthodoxy and exclude what they perceive as non-orthodox practices such
as saint’s tomb visitations, and the use of musical instruments in worship.
2 In Iraq, Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir’s family name ‘Jilani’ is usually spelt and
pronounced ‘‫يناليگ‬, derived from the Persian style of pronunciation rendering
the name’s spelling and pronunciation in English ‘Gailani’ or ‘Gaylani’. In this
paper Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qādir’s family name will be spelt ‘al-Jilani’ in following with
Western academic custom, but it will be spelt ‘Al-Gailani’ when referring to his
descendants and the street named after him.
3 The transliteration system used in this paper is that of the International Journal of
Middle East Studies. Where Arabic words have a common spelling in English such
as Sufi, Baghdad, al-Qa’ida, etc., these have been used.
4 Several Arabic and English language media websites have covered the event.
These include Kirk Semple, ‘In Rare Talks, U.S. and Iran Discuss Iraq’, The
New York Times, 28 May 2007, accessed 10 February 2013. http://www.nytimes.
com/2007/05/28/world/worldspecial/28cnd-iraqiran.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0;
and Al Jazeera TV website’s coverage on 29 May 2007, titled ‘Dozens killed in
Baghdad blasts’, accessed 9 February 2013. http://www.aljazeera.com/news/
middleeast/2007/05/2008525115811971147.html. For images of the damage
caused by the explosion see http://www.nytimes.com/imagepages/2007/05/28/
world/28cnd-iraq-bomb.html; and http://www.reuters.com/news/pictures/
searchpopup?picId=867886.
5 Interviews with attendants responsible for the burial chamber of Shaykh ‘Abd
al-Qadir and for the women’s section of the prayer halls in the Shrine, February
2013.
6 Kirk Semple ‘In Rare Talks, U.S. and Iran Discuss Iraq’, The New York Times,
28 May 2007. http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/28/world/worldspecial/28cnd-
iraqiran.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0, accessed 10 February 2013.
7 Juan Cole (29 May 2007), reporting on Informed Comment blog, ‘24 Killed,
90 Wounded; Qadiriya Shrine Damaged in Blast’, Informed Comment, Thoughts
on the Middle East, History and Religion, 29 May 2007, http://www.juancole.
com/2007/05/24-killed90-wounded-Qādirīya-shrine.html.
240 Notes
8 An example of the news coverage in Iraqi daily newspapers is in Al-Ittihad which

published President Jalal Talibani’s letter of condemnation and reported his
deputies and the Prime Minister’s comments and instructions on 30 May 2007,
http://www.alitthad.com/paper.php?name=News&News&file=article&sid=25719.
9 Kasnazan.com ‘The speech of Al-Sheikh D. Nahro Muhammad Al-Kasnazan
Al-Hassani about the condemnation of the sinful aggression on the Shrine
of Al-Shekh ‘Abdul Qadir Al-Ghailani (may Allah sanctify his spirit) with
Al-Sharqiya Satellite Channel’, accessed 10 February 2013; in English: http://www.
kasnazan.com/article.php?id=1030; and in Arabic: http://www.kasnazan.com/
article.php?id=1020. Also published in Arabic in Al-Kasnazan. Al-Tariqa al-‘Aliyya
al-Qadiriyya al-Kasnazaniyya, issue 2, summer 2007, pp. 6–9.
10 D. S. Margoliouth (1907), ‘Contributions to the Biography of ‘Abd al-Kadir of Jilan’,
Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, pp. 267–310.
11 ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Mahadh Al-Gailani (1994), ‘Tarikh Jam’i al-Shaykh ‘Abd
al-Qadir al-Gailani’, Baghdad: Dar al-Shu‘un al-Thaqafiyya al-‘Amma, pp. 4–13.
12 The field research revealed the glaring absence of Qadiris from other parts of
the Middle East, North and Sub-Saharan Africa, and from the Caucasus. It is
interesting to note that this was not the case in previous eras. The reference in
note 11 above describes the allocation of specific lodging rooms in the Shrine
to the Moroccan Qadirīs as well as to the Afghans and the Indians during the
nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century.
13 This particular Qadiri endowment trust is exclusively concerned with the two
shrines being explored in this paper. Other Qadiri Sufi groups and shrines in Iraq
have their own separate endowment trusts that have no association with this trust.
14 Information supplied by the Shrine’s head of administration, including copies of
staff lists, during field research carried out between 2009 and 2012 by the author.
15 Ibrahim bin ‘Ib al-Ghani Al-Durubi (1956, and reprinted with additions in
Karachi in the early 1980s), Al-Mukhtasar fi tarikh Shaykh al-Islam sayyidna ‘Abd
al-Qadir al-Gailani wa awladuh, Baghdad, pp. 98–101.
16 Yunus al-Shaykh Ibrahim Al-Samara’i (1988, a revised edition), Al-Shaykh ‘Abd
al-Qadir al-Gailani Qadasa Allahu Sirrahu, Hayyatuh wa Atharuh, Baghdad:
Diwan al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya, pp. 46–7.
17 Gailani family lore that has been retold by a number of them over the years.
An annotated copy of the above book in note 16, in which the historian ‘Abd
al-Rahman Al-Gailani refers to ‘Abd al-Karim Qasim not appointing a successor.
18 See the chapter entitled ‘Sadah’ regarding the social change faced by the Ashraf
class in Iraq during the twentieth century, in Batatu Hanna (1978), The Old Social
Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq, a Study of Iraq’s Old Landed and
Commercial Classes and of its Communists, Ba‘thists and Free Officers, New Jersey:
Princeton University Press, pp. 155–210.
Notes 241
19 Interview with the Iraqi archaeologist Lamia Al-Gailani Werr on 11 August

2013, who over a seven year period lobbied the Iraqi government, including the
President and Vice-President, to reverse the decision to demolish historical parts
of the Shrine associated with the expansion project.
20 Several references to these visitations were described by staff during my field
research period between 2009 and 2013. Saddam Hussein’s personal religiosity,
and how his regime dealt with and used religion, has been explored in several
publications. One relevant to the period of the early 1990s is Jerry M. Long (2004),
Saddam’s War of Words, Politics, Religion, and the Iraqi Invasion of Kuwait, Austin:
University of Texas Press.
21 Amatzia Baram (2011), From Militant Secularism to Islamism: The Iraqi Baʻth
Regime 1968-2003, Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson International Centre for
Scholars, History and Public Policy Program occasional paper, p. 10. http://www.
wilsoncenter.org/sites/default/files/From%20Militant%20Secularism%20to%20
Islamism.pdf.
22 Conversation with the solicitor of the Shrine on 25 November 2010, and a
conversation with the custodian on 28 December 2011.
23 For a summary coverage on the Ba‘th Party’s position in relation to the rise of
Salafism in Iraq see Ahmed S. Hashim (2009), Iraq’s Sunni Insurgency, London:
Routledge for The International Institute for Strategic Studies, Adelphi Paper 402,
pp. 29–32. Also see the references referred to in notes 18 and 19.
24 Interview with Lamia Al-Gailani Werr. See note 17.
25 Interviews with the Shrine’s solicitor on 25 November 2010; and with the
custodian on 14 March 2011.
26 Interviews with the Shrine’s solicitor on 25 November 2010; and with the
custodian on 14 March 2011. Two of the Shrine’s three imams and their Salafist
leanings, and their effects on the Shrine’s daily life, will be addressed further along
in this paper.
27 Yunus al-Shaykh Ibrahim Al-Samara’i (1988), Al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani
Qadasa Allahu Sirrahu, Hayyatuh wa Atharuh, Baghdad: Dīwān al-Awqāf
al-Qādiriyya, pp. 68–70.
28 This ministry was abolished after the 2003 invasion, and was succeeded by
three separate endowments’ entities, one for each of the two Islamic sects:
Sunni and Shi‘i, and one for Christianity and other faiths. All three entities are
administratively linked to the ministerial council and the prime minister’s office.
29 Interview with the solicitor of the Qadiriyya Endowments on 25 November 2010.
30 Interview with the solicitor of the Qadiriyya Endowments on 25 November 2010.
31 Two such examples are: al-Shaykh Hashim Al-‘Adhami (1971), Tarikh Jam‘i
al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani wa madrasatuh al-‘ilmiyya, Baghdad: Matba’at
al-Azhar, pp. 62–3; and Yunus al-Shaykh Ibrahim Al-Samara’i (1988), Al-Shaykh
242 Notes
‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani Qadasa Allahu Sirrahu, Hayyatuh wa Atharuh, Baghdad:

Diwan al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya, pp. 30–4.
32 Interview with Shaykh al-Halaqa al-Qadiriyya conducted on 21 March 2011.
33 All the Qur’anic verses quoted in this paper are from The Holy Qur’an, English
Translation of the Meanings and Commentary. Edited by The Presidency of Islamic
Researches, Ifta‘, Call and Guidance. Al-Madīna al-Munawara, Saudi Arabia: The
King Fahad Holy Qur’an Printing Complex, 1989. This particular translation
was chosen as it represents an official state supported Salafist understanding of
the meanings of the Qur’an in translation. For ease of identification, the phrases
highlighted by Shaykh al-Halaqa in support of his argument have been rendered
in italic.
34 (8:2): ‘For the believers are those who when Allah is mentioned, felt a tremor
in their hearts, and when they hear His revelations rehearsed, find their faith
strengthened, and put all their trust in their Lord.’
35 (13:28): ‘Those who believe, and whose hearts find satisfaction in the remembrance
of Allah; for without doubt in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find satisfaction.’
36 (3:135): ‘And those who having done an act of indecency or wronged their own
sols, remember Allah and ask for forgiveness for their sins; and who can forgive
sins except Allah? And are never obstinate in persisting knowingly in the wrong
they have done.’
37 (62:10): ‘And when the prayer is finished, then may ye disperse through the land,
and seek of the bounty of Allah; and remember Allah frequently that ye may
prosper.’
38 (22:35): ‘Those whose hearts, when Allah is mentioned, are filled with fear, who
show patient perseverance over the afflictions, keep up regular prayer, and spend
in charity out of what We have bestowed upon them.’
39 (2:200): ‘So when ye have accomplished your rites, celebrate the praises of Allah as
ye used to celebrate the praises of your fathers, yea, with far more heart and soul.
For there are men who say: Our Lord, give us thy bounties in this world; but they
will have no portion in the hereafter.’
40 (4:103): ‘When ye have performed the prayers, remember Allah, standing, sitting
down or lying down on your sides; but when ye are free from danger, set up
regular prayers; for such prayers are enjoined on believers at stated times.’
41 (24:35-38): ‘Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The parable of His
Light is as if there were a niche and within it a lamp; the lamp enclosed in glass;
the glass as it were a brilliant star, lit from a blessed tree, an olive, neither of the
east nor of the west, whose oil is well-nigh luminous though fire scarce touched it.
Light upon light, Allah doth guide whom He will to His Light; Allah doth set forth
parables for men, and Allah doth know all things. (lit is such a light) In houses
which Allah hath permitted to be raised to honour, for the celebration in them of
Notes 243
His name; in them is He glorified in the mornings and in the evenings, (again and
again), by men whom neither trade nor sale can divert from the remembrance
of Allah, nor from regular prayer, nor from paying zakat. Their (only)fear is for
the day when hearts and eyes will be turned about, that Allah may reward them
according to the best of their deeds, and add even more for them out of His Grace:
for Allah doth provide for those whom He will, without measure.’
42 (33:35): ‘For Muslim men and women, for believing men and women, for devout
men and women, for true men and women, for men and women who are patient
and constant, for men and women who humble themselves, for men and women
who give in charity, for men and women who fast, for men and women who guard
their chastity, and for men and women who engage much in Allah’s remembrance,
for them has Allah prepared forgiveness and great reward.’
43 (2.114): ‘And who is more unjust than he who forbids that in places for the worship
of Allah His name should be celebrated? Whose zeal is (in fact) to ruin them? It
was not fitting that such should themselves enter them except in fear. For them
there is nothing but disgrace in this world, and in the word to come, an exceeding
torment.’
44 (18:28): ‘And keep yourself content with those who call on their Lord morning and
evening, seeking His face; and let not thine eyes pass beyond them, seeking the
pomp and glitter of this life; nor obey any whose heart We have permitted to neglect
the remembrance of Us, one who follows his own desires, and his affair has become
all excess.’
45 I have translated these prophetic sayings as they were quoted to me by Shaykh
al-Halaqa.
46 (7:205): ‘And do thou bring thy soul with humility, and remember without loudness
in words, in the mornings and evenings, and be not thou of those who are
unheedful.’
47 (3:191): ‘Men who remember Allah standing, sitting and lying down on their sides,
and contemplate the wonders of creation in the heavens and the earth, (and say)
our Lord not for naught hast thou created all this. Glory to Thee. Give us salvation
from the chastisement of the fire.’
48 Interview conducted with Shaykh ‘Abd al-Wahhab al-Janabi on 22 November
2010.
49 Mulali is the plural of mula in Iraqi vernacular Arabic; and usually denotes a
traditional instructor in the recitation of the Qur’an. Mulas also taught reading
and writing Arabic. Shaykh ‘Abd al-Wahhab is also popularly known as Mula ‘Abd
al-Wahhab al-Janabi.
50 In its heydays during the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century, the
original Qadiriyya School employed leading religious tutors and theologians of the
day to teach Qur’an recitation and interpretation, Prophet Muhammad’s traditions
244 Notes
and sayings, jurisprudence, and Sufism. Lists of the names of the various tutors
appear in several of the Shrine’s publications. These include such illustrious
figures as ‘Abd Allah al-Suwaidi (d. 1756 AD) who played a role in the negotiations
between the Ottomans and Nadir Shah of Iran in 1737; several Muftis of Baghdad,
including Abu al-Thana’ Shihab al-Din Mahmud al-Alusi (d. 1855); and in
more recent times the leading Mufti of Baghdad Shaykh Yusif al-‘Atta (d. 1951)
to name a few. See: Ibrahim bin ‘Abd al-Ghani Al-Durubi (1956 and reprinted
with additions in Karachi in the early 1980s), Al-Mukhtasar fi tarikh Shaykh
al-Islam sayyidna ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani wa awladuh, Baghedad, pp. 92–4; and
see al-Shaykh Hashim Al-‘Adhami (1971), Tarikh Jam‘i al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir
al-Gailani wa madrasatuh al-‘ilmiyya, Baghdad, pp. 118–33.
51 ‘Abd al-Wahhab Al-Janabi, Risalat al-Janabi ‘Abd al-Wahhab fi Mawlid al-Nabi
al-’Awab. No publishing details or date. Copies were being sold at street book-
seller-stalls lined up against the outer wall of the Qadiri Shrine along Shar‘i
al-Kiffah for the equivalent of £1.
52 Thirteen references are briefly listed on the last page of al-Janabi’s Risala. These
are as they appear in the Risala: Ibn Abi Shama’s al-Ba‘ith ‘ala inkar al-buda‘wa
al-hawadith; Isma‘il Basha al-Baghdadi’s Idhah al-maknun fi al-dhail ‘ala kashf
al-dinun; Ibn Kathir’s al-Bidayya wa al-nihayya; al-Dhahabi’s Siyyar a‘alam
al-nubala’; Sibt Ibn al-Jawzi’s Mir’at al-Zaman; Ibn Taghri Bardi’s al-Nujum
al-Zahira fi muluk Misr wa al-Qahira; Bukhari’s Sahih; Muslim’s Sahih; Ahmad
Ibn Hanbal’s Musnad; Tirmidhi’s Sunnan; Ibn Hisham’s Sira; al-Baihaqī’s Dala’il
al-Nubwa; and al-Sayuti’s al-Khasā’is al-Kubra.
53 Salafists and those with fundamentalist understandings of Islam see all innovation
as deviation and threatening to distort the true faith and its practices; and
therefore must be prohibited. John Esposito (2003), The Oxford Dictionary of
Islam, Oxford: Oxford University Press, p. 138.
54 The Caliph ‘Umar bin al-Khatab ruled between 634 and 644 AD.
55 Marion Holmes Katz (2007), The Birth of the Prophet Muḥammad, Devotional
piety in Sunni Islam, London: Routledge, p. 1.
56 Interviewed on 23 February 2013. He is the third of the three imams in the
Shrine, and the only Qadiri Sufi among them. He was appointed to the Shrine in
2010.
57 Shaykh ‘Abd al-Karim Biāra al-Mudaris (1901–2005), tutored at the Shrine of
Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir from 1960 and until his retirement in 1973. After that
he continued to lodge at the Shrine until his death. He is buried in the Shrine’s
graveyard. See Hassani Sharqi ‘Abd Allah (2013), Dalil al-Hadhra al-Qadiriyya fi
Baghdad, M’ujam tawthiqi li-tarikh wa hadhir al-Hadhra al-Qadiriyya wa al-’Usra
al-Gailaniyya al-Shariffa, Baghdad: Diwan al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya, pp. 166–7.
58 In this term, dharb – an Arabic word – denotes the act of striking or stabbing;
and Dirbasha – believed to be an Indian Hindi word – denotes a skewer or such
Notes 245
like-metal object for piercing. Dharb al-Dirbasha is the Iraqi term for the Sufi
practice of ritual self piercing in the stomach, cheeks and other parts of the
body by some Sufis at dhikr sessions and Sufi festivities. Other Sufi groups in the
country also practice forms of it.
59 Conversations and interviews with staff at the Shrine on 22 and 24 February, and
with the muezzin on 25 February 2013.
60 The maw‘idha on Thursday 21 February 2013, was repeated word for word the
next day as the first half of the Friday sermon.
61 Conversations and interviews with various staff on 22, 24 and 25 February 2013.
62 Both the senior imam and his son hold doctorates of philosophy in religious
studies, and hold posts at Kuliat Usul al-Din in al-Jami‘a al-‘Iraqiyya (the faculty
of theology at the Iraqi University). This university is still popularly known
by a shortened version of its original name: al-Jami‘a al-Islamiyya (the Islamic
University); with its former full name having been Jami‘at Saddam lil-‘Ulum
al-Islaiyya (Saddam University for Religious Sciences) prior to the 2003 invasion.
The current university operates under the umbrella of the Ministry of Higher
Education and Scientific Research. The imams’ appointments to the Shrine of
Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir are on a secondment bases. From internet research on
works published by the senior imam, two books have been found. The first is his
doctorate thesis on Fiqh al-Ghazawat (the jurisprudence of military expeditions
or campaigns), and the second is a book on Fiqh al-Saraya (the jurisprudence of
military brigades or squadrons). Editions of both books have been published by
Dar ‘Amar lil-nashr, Amman, in 2000.
63 Between them, the two custodians and the solicitor hold seven degrees in law from
Baghdad, Cairo and the United States.
64 A large number of comments expressed during interviews and conversations with
the staff and occupants of the Shrine between 2009 and 2013.
65 It is generally believed among his opponents that the senior imam was brought
to the Shrine by influential Salafists in the sectarian government as part of their
religious reform agenda.
66 Interviews with Qadiri Kurds in November 2010.
67 These observations were recorded between 2009 and 2013.
68 Interview with the attendant responsible for the females’ prayer hall at the Shrine
conducted on 16 December 2011.
69 Sharaf al-Din Abi al-Barakat bin Ahmad al-Lakhmi al-’Irbili known as Ibn
al-Mustawfi (1980), Tarikh ’Irbil, al-musamma Nabahat al-balad al-khamil bi-man
waradahu min al-’amāthil, Baghdad: Dar al-Rashd lil-Nashr, p. 95.
70 Ibrahim bin ‘Abd al-Ghani Al-Durubi (1956), Al-Mukhtasar fi Tarikh Shaykh
al-Islam sayyidna ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Gailani wa ’awladuh, Baghdad: Qadiriyya
Library, p. 108 (re-printed with additions by Tahir ‘Ala’ al-Dīn al-Qadiri al-Gailani
in Karachi, Pakistan). The same author also wrote Al-Baz al-Ashhab in which
246 Notes
he describes the brief biography of Shaykh ‘Abd al-‘Aziz in a similar fashion on

pages 18–19 and referred to in Yunis al-Shaykh Ibrahim al-Samara’i (1982),
Al-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gailani qaddasa Allah sirrahu, hayatahu wa atharuh,
Baghdad: al-Awqaf al-Qadiriyya, pp. 34–5. The slight problem with al-Durubi
from a Western academic perspective is that he did not always clearly specify the
historical references he had used for each historical fact he stated, and in a number
of cases, he quoted unpublished manuscripts without stating where they were
deposited. But nevertheless, his biographical works are widely read and accepted
as being authoritative.
71 Three field research visits were conducted to the Shrine of Shaykh ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, in
November 2009 and November 2010, and in December 2011.
72 Field visit to the Shrine of Isma‘il al-Wuliyani in Rovia and interviews with its
caretakers on 22 December 2011.
73 Interview with the caretakers in ‘Aqra on 23 December 2011.
74 Interview with the caretakers in ‘Aqra on 14 November 2010.
75 Interview with the caretakers in ‘Aqra on 14 November 2010. Unlike the Shrine
in Baghdad, the caretakers in ‘Aqra spoke in general terms without giving many
specific or anecdotal examples to illustrate their points. This is partly to do with
the shortness of the field research days spent there and the main focus being
the recording of the daily activities within the Shrine; and partly to do with the
language barrier between me as a non-Kurdish speaker and most of the attendants
and visitors as non-Arabic speakers. Those who spoke Arabic did not speak it
fluently enough to express in-depth views on such sensitive subjects as facing and
dealing with Salafism.
76 A discussion between the leader of the Wuliyaniyya and the custodians of the
Shrine of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qādir in Baghdad that took place on 16 March 2011.
77 Several interviews and conversations that took place in March 2011, during the
Mawlid festival of Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir in Baghdad.
78 Sermons by the senior imam on 18 March and 16 December 2011; and sermons
by the deputy imam on 30 December 2011 and 22 February 2013.
79 Conversation with the custodian and a number of his followers on 14th March
2011.
80 The revised law (number 56 for 2012) that defines the role and governorship of
Diwan al-Waqf al-Sunni is published on several Iraqi websites including: http://
www.iraq-lg-law.org/ar/webfm_send/1333.
81 Field research in Baghdad during 2010 and some of that carried out during 2011
took place over the annual Hajj season and festivities, when the senior imam was
away on the Ḥajj. References to his participation in public events held in Mecca
during the 2013 – as well as for 2011 – season is present on the website of al-Haī’a
al-‘Uliyya lil-Hajj wa al-‘Umra – the Iraqi Hajj and ‘Umra Commission; (www.hajj.
gov.iq/ArticleShow.aspx?ID=260).
Notes 247
Chapter 5
1 For more details look at: Guide de l’imam, du sermonnaire (al-khatîb) et du

prédicateur (al-wâ‘îz).http://www.habous.net/fr/guide-de-l-imam.html , accessed
31 January 2014.
2 Malika Zeghal (2008), Islamism in Morocco: Religion, Authoritarianism, and
Electoral Politics, Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener, p. 253.
3 Ricardo Rene Laremont (2011), ‘Moroccan Youth Go Sufi’, Journal of the Middle
East and Africa, p. 33.
4 Guide de l’imam, du sermonnaire (al-khatîb) et du prédicateur (al-wâ‘îz). http://
www.habous.net/fr/guide-de-l-imam.html .
5 Guide de l’imam, du sermonnaire (al-khatîb) et du prédicateur (al-wâ‘îz). http://
www.habous.net/fr/guide-de-l-imam.html.
6 For more hagiographical details on the Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya see Karim Ben
Driss (2002), Sidi Hamza al-Qâdiri Bouddich: Le renouveau du soufisme au Maroc,
Paris: Albouraq-Archè.
7 Mohammed Tozy (1990), ‘Le Prince, le Clerc et l’Etat: La restructuration du
champ religieux au Maroc’, in Gilles Kepel and Yann Richard (eds), Intellectuels et
militants de l’islam Contemporain, Paris: Seuil, p. 85.
8 Taha Abderrahman, whose research centres on logic, philosophy of language and
philosophy of morality, is a Moroccan philosopher who is considered one of the
leading philosophers and thinkers in Islamic world.
9 Ahmed Toufiq is a well-known Moroccan writer and scholar. He was appointed as
minister for Islamic Affairs by the Moroccan government in November 2002.
10 Dr Faouzi Skali, an anthropologist and an ethnologist, is a professor from the
Ecole Normale Supérieure in Fes and author of many publications including ‘La
Voie Soufi’ (The Soufi Path), ‘Traces de Lumiere’ (Traces of Light) and ‘Le Face à
Face des Cœurs: Le soufisme aujourd’hui’ (A Dialogue of Hearts: Sufism Today).
He is the Director of the Fes Festival of World Sacred Music.
11 Abdellah Hammoudi (2007), Master and Disciple: The Cultural Foundations of
Moroccan Authoritarianism, Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press, p. 137.
12 As-Sabah, 20 March 2009.
13 Sidi Mounir Qadiri Boutchichi, ‘The Importance of Sufism in an Era of
Globalization’, www.sufiway.net, accessed 20 December 2013.
Globalization’, www.sufiway.net.
Globalization’, www.sufiway.net.
16 Mark Sedgwick (2004), ‘In Search of a Counter-Reformation: Anti-Sufi Stereotypes
and the Boutchichiyya’s Response’, in Michaelle Browers and Charles Kurzman
(eds), An Islamic Reformation? Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, p. 135.
248 Notes
17 Mokhtar Ghambou (2009), ‘Sufism as Youth Culture in Morocco’, Common

Ground News Service (CGNews), 3 March.
18 Ricardo Rene Laremont (2011), ‘Moroccan Youth Go Sufi’, Journal of the Middle
East and Africa, p. 35.
19 Video circulated through the Tariqa’s Groups on Facebook and Youtube.
20 Video circulated through the Tariqa’s Groups on Facebook and Youtube.
21 Julie E. Pruzan-Jørgensen (2010), The Islamist Movement in Morocco: Main Actors
and Regime Responses, Danish Institute for International Studies, DIIS Report: 05,
pp. 15–19
22 For more details see Abdessamad Ait Dada and Richard van Schaik (2012),
Political Islam and the Moroccan Arab Spring, Nederlands Institut Marokko (Minor
Social Studies of Morocco), Final research report, 23 January 2012, p. 9.
23 M. M. Laskier (September 2003), ‘A Difficult Inheritance: Moroccan Society under
King Muhammad VI’, MERIA, 7: 3, p. 4.
24 Dada and van Schaik, Political Islam and the Moroccan Arab Spring, p. 10.
25 Emad Eldin Shahin (1996), ‘Islamism and Secularism in North Africa’, in John
Ruedy (ed.), Islamism and Secularism in North Africa, New York: St. Martin’s Press,
p. 169.
26 Abdessalam Yassine (2000), Winning the Modern World for Islam, trans. Martin
Jenni, Iowa City: Justice and Spirituality Publishing, p. 112.
27 Both Jilani and Shadhili are founders of the well-known Sufi Orders (Al-Qadiriyya
and As-Shadhiliyya).
28 H. Lauziere (2005), ‘Post-Islamism and the Religious Discourse of “Abd al-Salam
Yasin”’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 37(2): 247.
29 The main political demands causing the 20 February Movement to be established
are: a new popular and democratic constitution, the dissolution of parliament
and dismissal of the government, an independent judiciary, and the release of all
political prisoners.
30 Ash-Sharq Awsat Newspaper, vol. 11826/, 15 April 2011.
31 http://www.alwatan.com.sa/dialogue/News_Detail.aspx?ArticleID134671&Cate
goryID4.
32 http://www.assabah.press.ma/index.php?option=com_
content&view=article&id=41806:qq------&catid=109:2010-10-13-15-46-
13&Itemid=793.
33 http://www.almokhtsar.com/node/110746. Last accessed 2 February 2014.
34 http://www.press-maroc.com/t2603-topic.
35 The letter published through some websites of Moroccan Press on: 5 September
2011, look at: http://www.press-maroc.com/t2603-topic. Last accessed 2 February
2014.
36 Dada and van Schaik, Political Islam and the Moroccan Arab Spring, 11.
37 Dada and van Schaik, Political Islam and the Moroccan Arab Spring, 11.
Notes 249
38 A. Hamzawy (20 December 2005), Interview with Saad Eddin Al Othmani,leader

of Morocco’s Party of Justice and Development. Retrieved December 2011 from
Carnegie Endowment for International Peace: http://www.carnegieendowment.
org/2008/08/20/interview%2Dwith%2Dsaad%2Deddin%2Dal%2Dothmani%2Dl
eader%2Dof%2Dmorocco%2Ds%2Dparty%2Dof%2Djustice%2Dand%2Ddevelop
ment/6cee, accessed 20 December 2013.
39 E. Wegner and M. Pellicer (2010), ‘Hitting the Glass Ceiling: The Trajectory of the
Moroccan Party of Justice and Development’, in Islamist Mass Movements,External
Actors and Political Change in the Arab World, 31: 23–51. Centro Studi di Politica
Internazionale.
Chapter 6
1 B. Abu-Manneh (1979), ‘Sultan Abdulhamid II and Shaikh Abulhuda Al-Sayyadi’,

Middle Eastern Studies, 15(2) (May): 131–53.
2 Gabriel Warburg (2005), ‘The Wingate Literature Revisited: The Sudan as Seen by
Members of the Sudan Political Service during the Condominium: 1899-1956’,
Middle Eastern Studies, 41: 382–83; R. S. O’Fahey (1996), ‘Islam and Ethnicity in
the Sudan’, Journal of Religion in Africa, 26(3) (August): 260.
3 Mark Sedgwick (2015), ‘The Making of a Sufi Saint of the Twentieth
Century: Shaykh Ahmad al-Alawi (1869-1934)’, Journal of the History of Sufism 7.
4 Ernest Gellner (1968), ‘A Pendulum Swing Theory of Islam’, Annales de Sociologie
Marocaines, pp. 5–14, reprinted in Roland Robertson (ed.) (1969), Sociology of
Religion: Selected Readings, Harmondsworth: Penguin, pp. 127–40.
5 Abdessamad Dialmy (2000), ‘L’Islamisme marocain: entre révolution et
intégration’, Archives de sciences sociales des religions, 110 (April): 14.
6 Abdelilah Bouasria (2010), ‘The Secret Politics of the Sufi: The Sultan and the
Saint in Modern Morocco’, Unpublished PhD thesis, American University,
pp. 210–11.
7 Bouasria, ‘Secret politics’, p. 167.
8 Toufiq does not now describe himself as an active Boutchichi, possibly because as
a minister his loyalty should be to his king rather than to any shaykh, but he is still
widely regarded as a Boutchichi.
9 Abdelilah Bouasria (2012), ‘La Tarîqa Qadiria Boutchichi au Maroc: la genèse
d’un soufisme de marché?’ Demain, 25 February. http://www.demainonline.
com/2012/02/25/la-tariqa-qadiria-boutchichi-au-maroc-la-genese-dun-soufisme-
de-marche/.
10 Bouasria (2013), ‘La Tarîqa Qadiria Boutchichi’; Isabelle Werenfels (2014), ‘Beyond
Authoritarian Upgrading: The Re-emergence of Sufi Orders in Maghrebi Politics’,
The Journal of North African Studies 19, p. 279.
250 Notes
11 Bouasria, ‘Secret politics’, p. 16.

12 Khalid Bekkaoui and Ricardo René Larémont (2011), ‘Moroccan Youth Go Sufi’,
The Journal of the Middle East and Africa, 2(1): 33.
13 Kasper Mathiesen (2013), ‘Anglo-American “Traditional Islam” and its Discourse
of Orthodoxy’, Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies, 13: 191–219.
14 Mohammed El-Katiri (2013), ‘The Institutionalisation of Religious Affairs:
Religious Reform in Morocco’, The Journal of North African Studies, 18: 57–9.
15 Hisham Kabbani, ‘Islamic Extremism: A Viable Threat to U.S. National
Security’. Transcript at the Islamic Supreme Council of America. http://www.
islamicsupremecouncil.org/media-center/domestic-extremism/63-islamic-
extremism-a-viable-threat-to-us-national-security.html.
16 Daniel Pipes (2001), ‘The Danger Within: Militant Islam in America’, Middle East
Forum. http://www.danielpipes.org/77/the-danger-within-militant-islam-in-
america.
17 Bernard is a scholar, but not a scholar of Islam, and at the time of writing the Rand
report she had been outside academia for some time. In 1978 she was an assistant
professor in political science at the University of Vienna, and between 1978 and
1992 she published on gender issues and on migration, with only two publications
on the Muslim world, a 1979 article and a 1984 book, both co-authored with
Zalmay Khalilzad. Between 1992 and 2002 she published no academic work, but
rather two novels, one set in Peshawar and the other in a future feminist utopia.
Then in 2002 she published a book on gender oppression in Afghanistan, based on
her time there in the early 1980s, and in 2003 the Rand report.
18 Cheryl Benard (2003), Civil democratic Islam, partners, resources, and strategies,
Santa Monica: Rand, pp. x–xi. She conceded that Sufis were ‘not a ready match’ for
any of her categories. Benard, Civil democratic Islam, p. 46.
19 Benard, Civil democratic Islam, p. 46.
20 Ishaan Tharoor (2009), ‘Can Sufism Defuse Terrorism?’ Time, 22 July. http://www.
time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1912091,00.html#ixzz2MNflwnDP.
21 Sharon Otterman (2013), ‘Donor, Citing Fraud, Sues Imam Tied to Mosque Near
Ground Zero’, New York Times, 5 February. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/06/
nyregion/donor-sues-imam-tied-to-mosque-near-ground-zero.html. The
allegations of fraud referred to in the article were later dropped, and seem to have
derived from a business dispute.
22 Feisal Abdul Rauf (2012), Moving the Mountain: Beyond Ground Zero to a
New Vision of Islam in America, New York: Simon & Schuster,
pp. 10–11.
23 Mark Sedgwick (2013), ‘The Western Neo-Sufi Milieu in and after the 1960s’,
Unpublished paper given at the meeting of the Nordic Association for Middle East
Studies, Lund, Sweden, 19–21 September.
Notes 251
24 ASMA website. http://www.asmasociety.org/reflections.html, captured by internet

Archive, 9 June 2002. ‘Mission’. http://www.asmasociety.org/about/index.html,
accessed 2 March 2013. Cordoba Imitative website. http://www.cordobainitiative.
org/, accessed 3 March 2013.
25 Wajahat Ali et al. (2011), Fear, Inc: The Roots of the Islamophobia Network in
America, Washington, DC: Center for American Progress, pp. 30–1.
26 ‘Memorandum from the Islamic Human Rights Commission to the Communities
and Local Government Committee, September 2009’. Printed in United Kingdom,
House of Commons, Communities and Local Government Committee,
‘Preventing Violent Extremism: Sixth Report of Session 2009–10’. London
Stationery Office, 2010, p. 174, n. 11. The source of this information is unclear, but
it was not queried. Currency conversions at 2006 rates, save for 2006–9, which uses
an average.
27 H. A. Hellyer (2008), ‘Engaging British Muslim Communities in Counter-
Terrorism Strategies’, The RUSI Journal, 153(2): 12.
28 Philip Lewis (2006), ‘Imams, Ulema and Sufis: Providers of Bridging Social Capital
for British Pakistanis?’ Contemporary South Asia, 15: 284.
29 ‘UK Muslims issue bombings fatwa’, BBC, 19 July 2005. http://www.news.bbc.
co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/politics/4694441.stm.
30 Dominic Casciani (2006), ‘Minister backs new Muslim group’, BBC, 19 July. http://
www.news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/5193402.stm.
31 Lewis, ‘Imams, Ulema and Sufis’, p. 284.
32 ‘Founder Members’. http://www.britishmuslimforum.com/founder-members/,
accessed 3 March 2013.
33 Waqar I. U. Ahmad and Venetia Evergeti (2010), ‘The Making and Representation
of Muslim Identity in Britain: Conversations with British Muslim “Elites”’, Ethnic
and Racial Studies, 33: 1709.
34 Simon Stjernholm (2010), ‘Sufi Politics in Britain: The Sufi Muslim Council and
the “Silent Majority” of Muslims’, Journal of Islamic Law and Culture, 12: 221.
35 Stjernholm, ‘Sufi politics’, p. 222.
36 Stjernholm, ‘Sufi politics’, p. 223. Stjernholm does not say this, but he lists three
groups as being represented. Three groups is not many.
37 Shehla Khan (2006), ‘From another shore - New Sufis for New Labour’, Muslim
News, 25 August. http://www.muslimnews.co.uk/paper/index.php?article=2563
and ‘Finally Exposed! - The Sufi Muslim Council’, MPAC, 8 October 2006. http://
www.mpacuk.org/content/view/2816/35/.
38 Its website vanished in mid-2009.
39 Haras Rafiq (2011), ‘At long last we have a Prime Minister who rightly makes the
distinction between Islam and Islamism’. Conservative Home website 6 February.
http://www.conservativehome.blogs.com/platform/2011/02/haras-rafiq-at-long-
252 Notes
last-we-have-a-prime-minister-who-rightly-makes-the-distinction-between-
islam-an.html.
40 BMF website. http://www.britishmuslimforum.com/archive-blogs/.
41 Spirit website. http://www.spiritthemag.com/, 30 June 2007, internet Archive.
The site closed at the end of 2007.
42 Sufi Muslim Council website. http://www.sufimuslimcouncil.org/ 24 August 2006,
captured by the internet Archive.
43 The Bishop of Bolton, active in the Christian Muslim Forum.
44 Sufi Muslim Council website. http://www.sufimuslimcouncil.org/, 24 August 2006,
captured by the internet Archive.
45 United Kingdom, Secretary of State for the Home Department (2011), Prevent
Strategy, London: Stationery Office, p. 6.
46 United Kingdom, House of Commons, Communities and Local Government
Committee, ‘Preventing Violent Extremism’, pp. 34–5.
47 ‘Ahmad al-Tayyib shaykh al-Azhar al-jadid’, Al-Jazeera, 19 March 2010. http://
www.aljazeera.net/news/pages/170d7c3f-94cf-486e-91e2-614f411b2aa3.
48 ‘Contested Sufi Electoral Parties: The Voice of Freedom Party and The Liberation of
Egypt Party’, Islamopedia. http://www.islamopediaonline.org/country-profile/egypt/
islam-and-electoral-parties/contested-sufi-electoral-parties-voice-freedom-par.
49 ‘Al-Sufiyun yundamun li-hizb al-tahrir’, Al-Badil, 13 January 2011, elbadil.com.
50 Kristin Deasy (2012), ‘The Sufis’ Choice: Egypt’s Political Wild Card’, World
Affairs September. http://www.worldaffairsjournal.org/article/sufis%E2%80%99-
choice-egypt%E2%80%99s-political-wild-card.
51 Ammar Ali Hassan (2011), ‘Political Role of Sufi Orders in Egypt after the January
25 Revolution’, Al-Jazeera Studies, 13 August, p. 4. http://www.studies.aljazeera.
net/ResourceGallery/media/Documents/2011/8/23/201182385744117734Politica
l%20role%20of%20sufi%20orders%20in%20egypt.pdf.
52 Matt Bradley (2011), ‘Parties in Egypt Seek New Weapon’, Wall Street Journal,
27 October. http://www.online.wsj.com/article/SB100014240531119033740045765
82850351152880.html.
53 Deasy, ‘The Sufis’ Choice’.
54 ‘Egyptian elections: Egyptian Liberation Party’, Carnegie, 7 November 2011. http://
www.aucegypt.edu/gapp/cairoreview/pages/articleDetails.aspx?aid=115.
55 Bradley, ‘Parties in Egypt Seek New Weapon’.
56 ‘Egypt Sufis plan mass rally to counter Salafist and Wahhabi muscle flexing’. Ahram
online, 7 August 2011. http://www.english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/1/64/18261/
Egypt/Politics-/Egypt-Sufis-plan-mass-rally-to-counter-Salafist-an.aspx.
57 Bradley, ‘Parties in Egypt Seek New Weapon’.
58 The emirate existed between 1906 and 1934 in the area of what is now south-west
Saudi Arabia. It was annexed by Saudi Arabia in the Treaty of Taif.
Notes 253
59 Werenfels, ‘Beyond Authoritarian Upgrading’, p. 283.

60 Werenfels, ‘Beyond Authoritarian Upgrading’, p. 287.
61 Mark Woodward et al. (2013), ‘Salafi Violence and Sufi Tolerance? Rethinking
Conventional Wisdom’, Perspectives on Terrorism, 7(6): 75.
Chapter 7
1 The author is thankful to Rajarshi Ghose, Hardik Brata Biswas and Naba Gopal
Ray for valuable suggestions and resources. Questions and comments by fellow
participants in the conference have enriched this paper greatly.
2 Actions in accordance with shariʿa or religious law of Islam are considered
shariʿati. While those which do not conform to the shariʿa are labelled as
be-shariʿa (anti-shariʿa).
3 A. Karim (1985), Social History of the Muslims in Bengal, Chittagong: Baitush
Sharif Islamic Research Institute, p. 50.
4 Karim, Social History of the Muslims in Bengal, pp. 115–16.
5 Karim, Social History of the Muslims in Bengal, pp. 115–16.
6 M. E. Haque (1975), A History of Sufism in Bengal, Dacca: Asiatic Society of
Bangladesh, p. 265.
7 A. Talib (1968), Lalan Shah o Lalan Gitika, vol. I, Dacca: Bangla Academy,
pp. 88–9; and Karim, Social History, pp. 94–6.
8 Haque, Sufism in Bengal, pp. 155–6.
9 Haque, Sufism in Bengal, pp. 154–6, 265.
10 A. Karim (1971), Baul Sahitya o Baul Gaan, Kushtia, Bangladesh, p. 65.
11 Talib, Lalan Shah, pp. 153–4.
13 S. Jha (2002), Baul Fakir Dhangsher Itibritta, Kolkata: Subarnarekha, p. 8.
14 S. Sen (2009), Fakirnama, Kolkata: Gangchil, p. 135.
15 Karim, Baul Sahitya, p. 14.
16 R. Ahmad (1925), Baul Dhangsha Fatwa, Calcutta: Muhammadi Press, p. 5; and
Talib, Lalan Shah, pp. 96–7.
17 Jha, Baul Fakir, p. 8.
18 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 26–7.
20 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 327–8; and Karim, Baul Sahitya, p. 20.
21 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 327–8; and Karim, Baul Sahitya, p. 102.
22 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 327–8; and Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, p. 4.
24 Sen, Fakirnama, p. 27.
254 Notes
25 Sen, Fakirnama, Introduction.

26 Haque, Sufism in Bengal, pp. 308–9.
27 Haque, Sufism in Bengal, pp. 411–12; and Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 328–9.
31 Testament of faith in Islam. La Ilaha Ila Allah, Muhammad al-Rasul Allah (There
is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the Prophet of Allah).
35 Talib, Lalan Shah, pp. 106–7; and Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, pp. 1–2.
40 Sheet of cloth, used to cover the tomb, offered as a mark of respect to the Sufi master.
46 A. Rafiuddin (1988), The Bengal Muslims: A Quest for Identity, Delhi: Oxford
University Press, p. 58.
47 S. Z. H. Jafri (2006), ‘Sufism and the Present: Issues and Paradigms’, in S. Z. H.
Jafri and H. Reifeld (eds), The Islamic Path: Sufism, Society and Politics in India,
New Delhi: Konrad Adenauer Foundation, p. 5.
48 D. K. Chattopadhyay (1977), ‘The Ferazee and Wahabi Movements of Bengal’,
Social Scientist, 6(2): 42–3.
49 Chattopadhyay, ‘The Ferazee and Wahabi Movements of Bengal’, pp. 46–7.
50 Ahmed, Bengal Muslims, p. 59.
51 Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, pp. 1–5.
52 Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, Introduction.
53 Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, 2nd Volume, p. 59.
54 Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, Foreword.
55 Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, p. 161.
58 Jafri, ‘Sufism and the Present’, p. 11.
59 Jafri, ‘Sufism and the Present’, p. 10.
Notes 255
60 Jafri, ‘Sufism and the Present’, pp. 11–12.

61 M. Salafi (2009), Marufiat Kya Hain: Haqiqat ki Aine Mein, Kolkata: Idarah
Daawat i- Ahl i-Hadis, pp. 20–2.
62 Salafi, Marufiat Kya Hain: Haqiqat ki Aine Mein, pp. 20–2.
63 B. D. Metcalf (1982), Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 1860-1900,
New Jersey: Princeton University Press, pp. 264–5; and I. S. Lemah (2012), Jamiati
Tatparatar Samkhiptasar (Short Account of Jamiati Activities), Calcutta, p. 5.
64 Lemah, Jamiati, pp. 6–8.
65 Jafri, ‘Sufism and the Present’, pp. 12–13.
66 B. ʿAli (1926a), Ahl i-Hadis Madhhab, Calcutta: Anjuman Office, p. 2.
67 Ali, Ahl i-Hadis, pp. 9–10.
68 B. ʿAli (1926b), Ikhraj ul Mubtadeyin, Calcutta: Anjuman Office, pp. 43–4.
69 Celebration of a saint’s final union with God on his death anniversary.
70 Music performed in Sufi assemblies for the purpose of arousing mystical emotion.
71 Replica of Imam Hussain’s tomb taken out during the mourning of Muharram.
Imam Husayn, the grandson of Prophet Muhammad was a martyr at the Battle of
Karbala in 680 A.D.
72 Metcalf, Islamic Revival, pp. 273–4.
74 Metcalf, Islamic Revival, p. 274.
77 Anonymous (1916), ‘Marfati o Pir er Sijda’, Ahl i-Hadis, 2: 67.
78 Phurphura is a village in the district of Hooghly in the Indian state of West Bengal.
The tomb complex of Shaykh Abu Bakr Siddique is venerated by a large number of
Muslims within and outside Bengal who visit the shrine regularly, especially at the
time of ʿurs. More information at http://www.furfuradarbarsharif.com/home.php,
visited on 30 August 2013.
79 Anonymous (1916), ‘Marfati’, Ahl i-Hadis, 2: 69.
80 Anonymous (1916), ‘Marfati’, Ahl i-Hadis, 2: 70. Sajjada nashin is the official
successor to a Sufi dargah, and by implication, the master of that particular shrine.
81 Anonymous (1917), Ahl i-Hadis, 11: 483–4.
82 Bhawal was a large zamindari estate in modern-day Bangladesh. Currently it falls
in the Ghazipur district in the vicinity of Dhaka.
83 A. A. Nazir (1920), Kalir Fakir er Khela o Alimgan er Nasihat, Dacca: Islamia Press,
pp. 1–3.
86 Mandira is a musical instrument consisting of a pair of metal bawls used for
rhythm effect.
256 Notes
87 Khartal is an ancient percussion instrument used mainly in devotional songs.

88 Nazir, Kalir Fakir, pp. 3–5.
89 Nazir, Kalir Fakir, p. 6.
90 Shaykh Abdul Qadir Jilani, the founder of the Qadiriyya tariqa of Sufis. He is
venerated as the ‘great pir’ throughout South Asia.
91 Believed to be a bridge (pul) which sinners have to cross in order to enter heaven.
98 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 307–8. ‘Fatwa Manen Ni, Tai Baul Fakirera Gharchhara’,
Anandabazar Patrika, 23 February 2003.
103 M. Nizami (1926), Fakir Sambal, Chittagong: Islamabad Press, Introduction.
104 Nizami, Fakir Sambal, p. 1.
105 Sen, Fakirnama, pp. 51, 186, 220.
107 Nizami, Fakir Sambal, pp. 4, 7.
108 Nizami, Fakir Sambal, pp. 25, 41.
112 Ahmad, Baul Dhangsha, pp. 105–6.
Chapter 8
1 This chapter was partly written during my postdoctoral fellowship at the Oriental
Institute of the Academy of Sciences of Czech Republic in Prague (academic year
2013/2014).
2 De Jong and Radtke (1999); Sirriyeh (1999).
3 Sanyal (1996).
4 Sanyal (1996), p. 3.
5 On the modern Indian Islamic reformist movements, see for example, Metcalf (1982);
Gaborieau (1999, 2003, 2010); Sikand (2002); Zaman (2007); and Ahmad (2011).
Notes 257
6 Sanyal (1996); Liebeskind (1998); and Philippon (2011a).

7 Buehler (1999); Lizzio (2006); Green (2008); Harder (2008); Hartung (2008); and
Philippon (2011b).
8 Sanyal’s monograph includes two chapters, namely Chapter 7 (Sanyal 1996,
pp. 201–30) and Chapter 8 (Sanyal 1996, pp. 231–67), devoted to a discussion as
to how the celebrated Ahmad Rida Khan Barelwi (1856–1921), perhaps the most
famous champion of traditionalist Sufism in British India, viewed the leaders
of the new Islamic reformist movements. Philippon’s book contains a chapter,
namely Chapter 4 (Philippon 2011a, pp. 115–44), which discusses the defence of
Sufi identity by prominent branches of the Barelwi movement in contemporary
Pakistan, as well as a representation of their rivals.
9 Fieldwork was conducted in Hyderabad between 2008 and 2010.
10 Speziale (2010), p. 87.
11 Green (2008), p. 331; Speziale (2010), p. 95.
12 Malkapuri I, II; Taliʿ III, IV.
13 Green (2008), p. 331.
14 Green (2008), p. 331.
15 Green (2008).
16 On the Jami‘a Nizamiyya, see Farooqui (1972) and Kozlowski (1995).
17 Before becoming Hajji Imdadullah’s disciple, Muhammad Anwar Allah Faruqi had
already received the bay‘at and khilafat from his own father, Qadi Muhammad
Shujaʿ al-Din. On Muhammad Anwar Allah, see Taliʿ (IV, 72–5) and Kozlowski
(1995, pp. 902–13). On Hajji Imdadullah, see Kugle (2007, pp. 222–9). On the
founding fathers of the Dar al-ʿUlum of Deoband, Rashid Ahmad Gango’i
(1829–1905) and Muhammad Qasim Nanutwi (1833–80), and of the Nadwat
al-ʿulamaʾ, Muhammad ʿAli Mongiri, see Metcalf (1982) and Zaman (2007).
18 As Gregory Kozlowski states, numerous contemporary scholars of the Jami‘a
Nizamiyya disagree with Deobandi views (1995, pp. 911–12). If we look at the
biographical dictionaries on the Sufis of Hyderabad, we notice that many of
them studied Islamic religious sciences at the Jami‘a Nizamiyya (Taliʿ III, IV) and
at present many Sufi families still send their sons there. That would have been
unlikely if the madrasa had embraced Deobandi views. ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi
was appointed Honorary Rector (shaykh al-jami‘a) of the madrasa and probably
he would not have accepted this title from a Deobandi institution (Siddiqi 2004,
p. 104). Moreover, the madrasa complex includes the dargah of Muhammad
Anwar Allah Faruqi, where devotees daily come for the ziyarat and every year the
anniversary of the death of the founder of the madrasa is celebrated. At present,
leading scholars of the madrasa are often invited to attend celebrations of the
anniversaries of the deaths of the saints and deliver lectures in various dargahs in
Hyderabad.
258 Notes
19 Kozlowski (1995), pp. 911–12.

20 Both rulers conferred robes of honour and titles such as Khan Bahadur and
Fadilat Jang on him. ‘Uthman ‘Ali Khan, the last Nizam, appointed him as Sadr
al-sudur and later on he made him Minister of Religious Affairs.
21 On the role of educational institutions funded by Gulf countries and migration in
shaping local religious practice in Bangladesh, see Harder (2008).
22 Philippon (2011), p. 94; Harder (2008), p. 190.
23 Gardner (1995), pp. 229–68.
24 On the various offshoots of the Barelwi movement in Pakistan, see Philippon
(2011a).
25 See Taliʿ IV, pp. 142–5; Ahmed (2007), pp. 19–23; Reshma (2008), pp. 29–41.
26 Siddiqi (2004), pp. 12–13.
27 Siddiqi (2004), pp. 13–28.
28 Siddiqi (2004), p. 80. ʿAbd al-Qadir Siddiqi also studied other subjects with
private teachers (Siddiqi 2004, pp. 80–1, 505–24).
29 Siddiqi (2004), pp. 101–3, pp. 256–356.
30 Siddiqi (2004), p. 104. He was also appointed Honorary Rector (shaykh al-jami‘a)
of the Jami‘a Nizamiyya (Siddiqi 2004, p. 104).
31 Siddiqi (2004), p. 86. Though his main affiliation was with the Qadiriyya, at the
same time, Muhammad Siddiq Husayni initiated him into a number of other Sufi
orders including the Chishtiyya, the Naqshbandiyya, the Rifa‘iyya, the Shadhiliyya,
the Suhrawardiyya, the Madariyya, and the Shattariyya (Siddiqi 2004, pp. 619–40).
After the demise of his pir, ‘Abd al-Qadīr received the khilāfat also from his
own father, Shāh ‘Abd al-Qādir (d. 1911); from the father of his second wife,
Shah Ahsan al-Haqq; and from the Naqib al-Ashraf of Baghdad Husam al-din
Mahmud, the sajjada nashin of the shrine of ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani (Siddiqi 2004,
p. 179).
32 Siddiqi (2004), pp. 641–4.
33 During the last decades of his life, his residence was in Malakpet.
34 Taliʿ reports twenty-six titles (IV, 144), while Reshma mentions thirty-eight works
(2008, pp. 31–2); for a comprehensive list, see Siddiqi (2004), pp. 357–84.
35 The last two articles were republished in 1994 in a collection of his articles entitled
Irshadat-i Siddiqi (The Directives of Siddiqi). Occasional statements in defence
of Sufism are also to be found in some of his treatises which are not specifically
devoted to this topic, such as Hikmat-i islamiyya (Islamic Wisdom) and Tahfimat-i
Siddiqi (Siddiqi’s Elucidations).
36 Siddiqi (2004), p. 343. These chapters were republished in a single volume with
the same title by ʿAbd al-Qadir’s second sajjada nashin, Abu Turab ʿAli Siddiqi
(1905–88).
37 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53.
Notes 259
38 Researchers in the field of Critical Discourse Analysis claim that the telling of
stories ‘whose outcomes reward legitimate actions and punish non-legitimate
actions’, is often used as a strategy of legitimation or delegitimation (van Leeuwen
2007, p. 92).
39 Siddiqi (1969), p. 3.
40 For example: ‘A merit of this commentary is that the commandments of the
Qur’an have been applied to modern times and explained in the light of science
and civilization so that Muslims, especially the new generation, may understand
how they have gone and are going astray from the Qurʾanic injunctions’ (Siddiqi
1969, p. 57).
41 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53.
42 Siddiqi (1969), p. 5.
43 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 52–3.
44 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53.
45 Siddiqi (1969), p. 56.
46 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53.
47 Fairclough and Wodak (1997); Wodak (1996).
48 Van Leeuwen and Wodak (1999), p. 92.
49 These sociological ‘macro-functions’ of discourses are related to corresponding
‘macro-strategies of discourse’, namely constructive, perpetuating,
transformational and destructive (van Leeuwen and Wodak 1999, p. 92).
50 Phillipon (2011), p. 117.
51 Teun van Dijk (1993), p. 263.
52 Van Leeuwen and Wodak (1999), p. 92.
53 Van Leeuwen (2007), p. 92.
54 Wodak (2001), p. 72.
55 Siddiqi (1969), p. 42.
56 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 52, 70, 92.
57 Siddiqi (1969), p. 66.
58 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 52, 70, 92.
59 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 66, 69, 71, 73.
60 Siddiqi (1969), p. 79.
61 Siddiqi (1969), p. 49.
62 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 53, 56.
63 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 5, 42–3, 52–3, 56.
64 Siddiqi (1969), p. 53.
65 Siddiqi (1969), p. 68.
66 Siddiqi (1969), p. 69.
67 Siddiqi (1969), p. 72.
68 Siddiqi (1969), p. 74.
260 Notes
69 Siddiqi (1969, p. 92). The Hadith in question is also quoted by Sanyal (1996,
p. 233) and Lizzio (2006, p. 50): ‘If a Muslim charges a fellow Muslim with kufr, he
is himself a kafir [sic], if the accusation should prove untrue.’ This concept is also
expressed in ʿAbd al-Qadir’s article Samaʿ (Siddiqi n.d., p. 13).
70 Siddiqi (1996), p. 40.
71 Siddiqi (1969), p. 72.
72 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 71–3.
73 ‘Oh you who claim to be monotheists! You charge us with shirk and kufr because
we address the Prophet by Ya rasul Allāh and believe that he can hear our
supplications’’ (Siddiqi 1969, pp. 71–2).
74 Siddiqi (1969), p. 78.
75 Siddiqi (1969), p. 79. ‘Not to differentiate between worship and adoration on the
one hand and honour and respect on the other hand is diabolic.’ (Siddiqi 1969,
p. 79) This concept is also stated in Hikmat-i islamiyya (Islamic Wisdom) (Siddiqi
1998, p. 128). This argument is also found in ʿAbd al-Qadir’s article Bid‘at (Siddiqi
1994, p. 90).
76 Siddiqi (1969), p. 49.
77 Siddiqi (1969), p. 49.
78 Siddiqi (1969), pp. 49–50.
79 Siddiqi (1969), p. 50.
80 Siddiqi (1969), p. 81.
81 Siddiqi (1969), p. 66.
82 Siddiqi (1969), p. 68.
83 Siddiqi (1969), p. 69.
84 Siddiqi (1969), p. 78. This argument is also found in ʿAbd al-Qadir’s article Bid‘at
(Siddiqi 1994, p. 90).
85 Siddiqi (1969), p. 77. This concept is also stressed in the article Bid‘at (Siddiqi 1994,
pp. 88–9).
86 Siddiqi (1969), p. 74.
87 In Hikmat-i islamiyya (Islamic Wisdom), he remarks: ‘All these self-complacent
people are caught in a misunderstanding. They claim that a thing which they do
not know does not exist. These people consider non-existence of their knowledge
as non-existence of facts.’ (Siddiqi 1998, p. 109).
88 Siddiqi (1969), p. 78.
89 Siddiqi (1969), p. 79.
90 Siddiqi (1969), p. 66.
91 Siddiqi (2010), p. 20.
92 Siddiqi (1998), p. 108.
93 Siddiqi (1998), p. 109.
94 Siddiqi (1969), p. 49.
95 Siddiqi (1969), p. 66.
Notes 261
96 Siddiqi (1969), p. 77.

97 Siddiqi (1969), p. 77.
98 Siddiqi (1969), p. 77.
99 Siddiqi (1969), p. 77. Given that in Islam, in the absence of an ecclesiastical
hierarchy, the Qur’an and the ahadith are the ultimate authorities in religious
matters, intellectuals and religious scholars refer to them in order to legitimate
or delegitimate religious practices. However, since scholars disagree over the
methods of interpretation of the scriptural sources, the statements put forward by
a scholar may not be considered valid by others.
1 00 Siddiqi (2010), cover.
101 Siddiqi (2010), pp. 2, 6, 20.
102 Siddiqi (2010), p. 3.
103 Siddiqi (2010), pp. 2, 3, 17–20.
104 Siddiqi (2010), p. 3.
105 Siddiqi (2010), pp. 6, 16.
106 Siddiqi (2010), p. 2.
107 Siddiqi (2010), p. 2.
108 Siddiqi (2010), p. 2.
109 Siddiqi (2010), p. 2.
110 Siddiqi (2010), p. 3.
111 The Hadith in question is the following: Kul bid‘at zalalahu wa kul zalala fī’l-nar’
(Bukhārī) (All illegitimate innovations are reprehensible and all the reprehensible
things are worthy of hell) (Siddiqi 2010, p. 1).
1 12 Siddiqi (2010), p. 3.
113 Siddiqi (2010), pp. 6, 19.
114 Siddiqi (2010), p. 16.
115 Siddiqi (2010), p. 3.
116 Siddiqi (2010), p. 7.
117 Siddiqi (2010), pp. 7–9. Anwar al-Din compares the fatiha with other favours
granted to men by Allah such as the Night of Power (laylat al-qadr) and the
facilitations arranged for travellers. According to the Hanafī school of law,
travellers are exempted from several obligatory religious acts such as for instance
fasting, performing the Friday noon prayer in a mosque and can perform the
canonical prayers in the shortened form.
1 18 Siddiqi (2010), p. 19.
119 Siddiqi (2010), p. 15.
120 Siddiqi (2010), p. 20.
121 Siddiqi (2010), p. 20.
122 Siddiqi (2010), p. 20.
123 Siddiqi (2010), p. 20.
124 Siddiqi (2010), p. 7.
262 Notes
1 25 Siddiqi (2010), p. 8.
126 Siddiqi (2010), p. 9.
127 Siddiqi (2010), p. 12.
128 Siddiqi (2010), p. 20.
129
Siddiqi (2010), p. 20.
At present, the Siddiqi family provides courses of tafsir, hadith, and Arabic
130
grammar and literature.
131 As a pir tells, ‘Certain groups such as the Deobandis, the Ahl-i Hadith, the
Tablighi Jama‘at, and the Jama‘at-i Islami have created so much confusion among
Muslims that the common believers do not know anymore which practices are
correct and which are wrong. Those who know the Qur’an and the Ahadith are
not affected by their views, they know that there is nothing wrong with the fatiha
and the ziyarat. It is those who live in villages and the uneducated who, lacking
religious knowledge, are confused and misled by their ideas.’ (7 December 2009).
1 32 As the following example illustrates, ‘These Wahhabis claim that we worship our
pirs and awliya’. How is this possible? There is not any single doubt on the issue
of worship (‘ibādat): worship is only for Allāh. Every day we repeat many times
Ashadu la ilaha ill’Allah wa ashaduannah Muhammad abdhu wa rasulhu. Is it not
clear who we worship? We respect our pirs, we love our pirs, but we don’t think
even for a second, of worshipping them. When Allah ordered to the angels to
prostrate themselves in front of Adam, what kind of sajda (prostration) do you
think it was? The sajda of respect. One thing is the sajda of worship, and another
thing is the sajda of respect. Do you think Allah would have given this order if
it was against the principles of Islam? The prophet Yūsuf had a dream in which
eleven stars, and the sun and the moon were bowing down in front of him. Why
did Allāh put this in the Qur’an? Islamic monotheism is believing in one God
while respecting the prophets and the saints. That of the Wahhabis and Ahl-i
Hadith is monotheism without respect for the prophets and saints. That is not
Islamic monotheism, it is Iblisi monotheism (satanic monotheism).’ (6 October
2010).
133 ‘Among the Ahl-i Hadith, there is much illiteracy and ignorance. As a rule, they
take fragments of ahadith according to their own convenience and apply them to
situations that are different from their original context. Everyone is responsible
for his own actions. Teachers are available, so why don’t they go to them and
learn?’ (4 April 2010). ‘I spoke to those people several times. [When I state my
arguments] they don’t know how to reply. But there is a great deal of difference
between remaining speechless and understanding. In this age sound can travel
very fast. If a sound originates in Japan or in Australia, after going through many
hurdles it can reach India in one second. It is much easier to cover that long
distance than the distance between the ears and the heart.’ (6 October 2010).
Notes 263
134 On the notion of ‘essentials of religion’ (daruriyat-i din), see Sanyal (1996,
pp. 201–7). The term is applied to a wide range of beliefs, practically everything
that falls under the term ‘aqaʾid (articles of faith).
135 Philippon (2011), pp. 116–20.
136 Lizzio (2006), pp. 49–53.
137 Lizzio (2006), p. 51.
138 Philippon (2011), pp. 119–20.
139 Sanyal (1996), pp. 255–66.
140 Philippon (2011), p. 116.
Chapter 9
1
Cf. for example Sanyal (1996[a]), pp. 82–8.
2
Metcalf (2005).
3
Pl. Makatib-i Fikr, for an analysis see Malik (1996), p. 303 and Malik (1989), p. 405.
4
Cf. Sanyal (2005), p. xii: ‘While Ahmad Riza’s interpretation of Islam is deeply
rooted in South Asian culture, he based his arguments on the classical Islamic
sources and looked to the religious leaders of Mecca and Medina for validation
and approval. And while he was a reformist in the sense of demanding that his
followers be personally responsible for their own salvation, the kind of model
Muslim person he visualized was one who embraces rather than shunned ritual
intermediaries and a ritualistic style of worshiping God. One might say that he
wanted his followers to use reformist religious methods so as to be better, and
more individually driven, traditionalists.’
The most useful introductions into the Barelwi movement are Sanyal (2011);
Sanyal (1996a); Sanyal (2005); Metcalf (2002), pp. 296–314 and Malik (2008),
pp. 291–308.
5 Cf. Sanyal (1996a), p. 5.
6 Sanyal (2005), pp. 23–4 and Metcalf (2002), p. 38. Baljon (1986) published a highly
useful study on Shah Wali Allah Dihlawi. On his impact see also Rizvi (1980).
7 See Voll (1975) and Pearson (2008), p. 10: ‘Shah Wali Allah studied unter Abu
ʾl-Tahir Muhammad ibn Ibrahim al-Kurani, who also taught Muhammad Hayya
al-Sindi, the teacher of Muhammad ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab.’
8 Rizvi (1982) authored a standard work on Shah ʿAbd al-ʿAziz. Barelwis do not
consider Shah Wali Allah (1703–62) the mujaddid of the twelfth Islamic century
(cf. Sanyal 1996a, pp. 40–1). The reason is that his lifetime (1115–176 a. H.) is
completely within one century and hence does not fulfill the condition that he
was famous at the end of the century of his birth as well as the beginning of the
century of his death (Sanyal 1996a, pp. 228–9).
264 Notes
9 Cf. Farooqi (2006); Pearson (2008).

10 This text is considered the most important reformist publication of its time in
South Asia and its editors claim that the text has been circulated in millions:
http://www.islambasics.com/view.php?bkID=162&chapter=1, 2 September 2012.
11 Cf. Metcalf (2009).
12 Pearson (2008), pp. 235–6.
13 Sanyal (1996a), pp. 248–55.
14 Followers of the Daʿwat-i Islami refer to him by the title Imam-i Ahl-i Sunnat (in
contrast to Amir-i Ahl-i Sunnat for their founder Muhammad Ilyas Qadiri ʿAttar).
15 http://www.dawateislami.net/book/detail/496/volume/964/writer/32/
ur#section:writer_0.0, 2 September 2012. Within the Daʿwat-i Islami ʿAttar (2007)
is specifically important.
16 On his father see Hassan (n.d.).
17 Rida Khan (2005b) (1906).
18 Sanyal (1996a), pp. 62, 226–9.
19 On the Barkatiya Sayyids see Sanyal (2009) and (1996a), pp. 97–127.
20 Baraka (2005), pp. 55, 71.
21 On the development of the silsila Qadiriya in India see Bilgrami (2006).
22 Baraka (2005), pp. 117–18.
23 Rida Khan (1988). Online available on: http://www.truequran.com/, 2 September
2012. English translation on: http://www.ahlesunnat.biz/, 2 September 2012.
Audio-file available on: http://www.barkati.net/qurannew12/quran.htm,
2 September 2012.
24 Rida Khan (n.d.). Only in 1950th, comparably late, the compilation work began
at the Dar al-ʿulum Ashrafiya in Mubarakpur. This edition contains 6847 Fatwa.
Daʿwat-i Islami published a searchable software of the most important fatwa, cf.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ZhoNsYICo4, 2 September 2012.
25 On the Daʿwat-i Islami see Gugler (2011).
26 Metcalf (2005), p. 306.
27 Sanyal (1996a), pp. 57–8, 139.
28 Metcalf (2005), p. 306. Cf. Hadi al-Qadri (2001), p. 52.
29 Cf. Ahmed (1991). Rida Khan made negative remarks on Christianity, considered
the British educational reform ‘useless’, prohibited the British way to dress for
Muslims and remained unsympathetic – for example he is been said to have
commented while seeing British soldiers: ‘The wretch, they are complete monkeys.’
(cited in Ahmed 1991, p. 31). However, he never called to fight the British.
30 Baraka (2005), p. 194.
31 Cf. Hermansen (2001).
32 For example Amjadi (2003), pp. 6–7.
33 Okarvi (1996), pp. 4, 30.
Notes 265
34 Suhail (2002).
35 Werbner (2003), p. 257.
36 A refutation was authored by Bastawi (2001).
37 Cf. Okarvi (1996), p. 7.
38 See, Sanyal (1996a), pp. 231–67. Refutations were written by Haq (n.d.) and
Badayuni (n.d.).
39 Cf. Rida Khan (1996a).
40 Modood (1990), p. 156 and Werbner (2008), pp. 10–11.
41 Cf. Werbner (1996), p. 110.
42 Rida Khan (1996a), p. 13. Cf. Rida Khan (2003b), pp. 6 and 16: ‘This verse warns
Muslims that mere recitation of the ‘kalima’ is not enough for their salvation.’
43 Rida Khan (2003a), Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 24–49, and Rida Khan (2005a),
pp. 27–86: ‘Inclusion in Islam of the Prophet´s Dignified Ancestry’. Naturally
Barelwis support this position as the Prophet could only be born into the best of
families and several Hadith suggest that non-Muslims are unclean (Rida Khan
2003a, pp. 7, 9).
44 Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 163–270; Rida Khan (2005a), pp. 87–126: ‘The Full Moon
in Refutation of a Shadow of the Master of Mankind’.
45 Rida Khan (1996a), p. 15. Cf. Haddad (2005), p. 70.
46 Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 15, 77; Rida Khan (2003b), p. 8.
47 Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 16–17.
48 Cf. Barker/Warburg (2001).
49 Rida Khan (1996a), p. 18.
50 Rida Khan (1996a), p. 19.
51 Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 38–9.
52 Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 18–19. Cf. Rida Khan (1996a), p. 77.
53 Rida Khan (1996a), p. 20, ‘O believers! Take not for friends My and your enemies,
you deliver the news to them in friendship, while they are deniars of the truth
that has come to you, and drive out the Messenger and yourselves from homes
because you believe in Allah, your Lord. … If they get hold of you, they will be
your enemies and will stretch forth their hands and their tongues towards you
with evil, and they desire that you should anyhow become disbelievers. Never will
profit you, neither your kindred nor your children on the Day of Judgement. He
shall separate you from them. And Allah is seeing your doings.’ (Rida Khan 1988,
p. 823).
54 Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 49–50. Cf. Rida Khan (2005b), p. 24.
55 Rida Khan (2005b), p. 24.
56 Rida Khan (2005b), pp. 32–50.
57 Rida Khan (2005b), p. 71.
58 Rida Khan (2005b), p. 80.
266 Notes
59 Rida Khan (2005c), p. 20.

60 Rida Khan (2005c), pp. 27–9.
61 On that term see Philippon (2011) and http://www.univie.ac.at/jihadism/blog/
wp-content/uploads/2011/05/Thomas-K-Gugler-Pakistans-Barelwiyat-between-
Sufislamism-and-Love-for-the-Prophet.pdf, 2 September 2012.
62 Rida Khan (2002), p. 20.
63 Rida Khan (2002), p. 23.
64 Rida Khan (2002), p. 26.
65 Rida Khan (2002), p. 42.
66 Hadith cited by Ammar (2001a), p. 87.
67 Interview in November 2006 in Multan.
68 Cf. Kaazmi (2001).
69 See for example Kugle (2009); Qasmi (2006) and Ernst/Lawrence (2002),
pp. 119–20. A resource-oriented example is the split of the seminary in Deoband
in 1982 and the foundation of the Dār al-ʿUlūm Waqf following the family dispute
between Asad Madani, son of Ḥusayn Aḥmad Madanī (1879–1957), and the
Qasimi-group led by the former director Muhammad Tayyib Qasimi (1897–1983).
For the Deobandīs, cf. Zaman (2007), p. 24. For the Barelwis this point is stressed
by Werbner (1996), p. 114.
70 Cf. Daʿwat-i Islami author Anjum (1999) and Hassan (n.d.).
71 Furthermore worth mentioning are the shorter writings by Gayawi (2004);
Qasimi (1998) and Qasimi (n.d.) etc. For a more concise Barelwi-critique of
Deobandi belief systems see Naʿimi (n.d.); Nizami (2002); Okarvi (2002) and
Rumi (n.d.).
72 Ammar (2001a), pp. 1–19. Rida Khan (2007a).
73 Ammar (2001a), p. 17: ‘A living person cannot understand what the birds are
saying, but the deceased can hear and understand exactly what they are saying.
Also, a living person cannot travel millions of miles faster than the blink of an eye,
but the deceased can travel many millions of miles faster than the blink of the eye.
An example of this is that when one sleeps, one can travel many miles and break
the physical laws of this world.’
74 Rida Khan (2007a), p. 6.
75 Rida Khan interprets this as a proof for the blasphemy the Deobandis are guilty
of: ‘In a Hadith the Holy Prophet has said that: ‘Before I used to stop you from
visiting the graves, but now I command to visit them.’ (Rida Khan 2005c, p. 52).
Cf. Rida Khan (2007a), pp. 51–6.
76 Ammar (2001a), pp. 20–8.
77 Rida Khan (2007c), pp. 17–18.
78 Ammar (2001a), pp. 29–34.
79 Rida Khan (1988), p. 107.
Notes 267
80 Ammar (2001a), pp. 35–42. Rida Khan [a] and Rida Khan (2005a), pp. 1–25.
81 Sanyal (1996a), p. 132.
82 Rida Khan cited by Sanyal (1996a), p. 153.
83 Hadith cited by Ammar (2001a), p. 38 and Rida Khan (2007c), pp. 11–13.
84 Interview in November 2006, Multan.
85 Rida Khan (1996b), p. 34.
86 Rida Khan (1996b), p. 34.
87 Rida Khan (1996b), p. 36.
88 Rida Khan (1996b), p. 37.
89 Ammar (2001a), pp. 43–50. Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 52–113. Cf. Rida Khan
(2007d).
90 Qur’an 5: 15 (Rida Khan 1988, p. 163). Cf. verse of light 24: 35: And Q. 33: 45–6.
91 Cf. Ernst (2010), pp. 124–9.
92 Rida Khan (2005d), p. 55.
93 On the history of this concept in the Arabic literature see Nagel (2008), pp. 153–8
and Schimmel (1995), pp. 305–6, 317.
94 Rida Khan (2005d), p. 79. Cf. Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 86–7.
95 Rida Khan (2005d), p. 69.
96 Rida Khan (2000).
97 Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 163–270 and Rida Khan (2005a), pp. 87–126.
98 Ammar (2001a), pp. 51–8. Rida Khan (1996a), pp. 25–33. Al-Qadiri (n.d.[a]).
99 Fatawa-yi Rashidiya Vol. II, p. 14, cited by al-Qadiri 1972 (1992), p. 55. Translated
from the Urdu text.
100 Ahmed (n.d.), pp. 5–6, 16. To support this position Barelwis refer to Qurʾan 2: 31,
2: 251, 27: 16, 21: 74, 12: 22, 12: 96 and 18: 65. ‘More or less 124,000 Apostles were
raised at different periods of time with some specific knowledge of the hidden
realm, i.e. ʿilm-i ghayb. But the knowledge of the unseen bestowed upon the Holy
Prophet was limitless in scope and magnitude.’ (Ahmed n.d., p. 7).
1 01 Ahmed (n.d.), pp. 9–16.
102 Ahmed (n.d.), p. 15.
103 Rida Khan (1988), p. 109. Cf. 6: 59, 10: 20 and 11: 31.
104 Rida Khan (1988), p. 862.
105 Al-Qadiri (1993), pp. 13–14, translated from the Urdu text.
106 Al-Qadiri (1993), p. 16, translated from the Urdu text.
107 Safdar (2007).
108 Ammar (2001a), pp. 59–62. Haddad (2003), pp. 36–51.
109 Cf. Khan 4: 41.
110 Rida Khan (1988), p. 31.
111 Cited in Haddad (2003), p. 45.
112 Translated by Metcalf (2009), p. 207.
268 Notes
1 13 Ammar (2001a), pp. 63–71. Yaar Khan (2004).

114 Qasmi (2008), p. 7.
115 Cf. hadith cited by Qasmi (2008), p. 92: ‘I have not ordered to make the mosques
high. … You will certainly decorate the mosques just like the Christians and Jews.’
116 Qasmi (2008), p. 21.
117 Qasmi (2008), pp. 33–4, 66, 84–8.
118 ʿAttar (2007), p. 1.
119 Ammar (2001a), pp. 72–9. Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 115–62. ʿAttar a. Haddad
(2003). Qasmi (2008), pp. 89–90.
120 However, ‘the Deobandis’ are neither a monolithic group nor a united family.
Several actors of this tradition argued for a differing point of view: ‘Imdad Allah
saw nothing wrong with ceremonies intended to bless the souls of the dead, or
those commemorating the birthday of the Prophet Muhammad – at which the
Prophet himself was believed to make an appearance, with people standing in his
honor – or the death anniversaries of Muslim saints, especially at their shrines. …
As he explained to Gangohi, his own view was that ceremonies honouring the
Prophet or commemorating the dead were not necessarily objectionable in
themselves, as long as they were not turned into religious obligations.’ (Zaman
2007, p. 24). Not all Deobandis found friendly words to express their doubts on
this position (Zaman 2007, p. 82).
121 Ashraf ʿAli Thanwi in Fatawa-yi Imdadiya, Vol. II, p. 58, cited by al-Qadiri 1972
(1992), p. 158. Translated from the Urdu text. Similarly Fatawa-yi Imdadiya,
Vol. IV, p. 58, cited by al-Qadiri 1972 (1992), pp. 169–70.
122 http://www.albalagh.net/general/rabi-ul-awwal.shtml, 30 August 2012.
123 Rida Khan (2005d), pp. 148–9.
124 ʿAttar[a], p. 4.
125 ʿAttar[a], pp. 14–15.
126 ʿAttar[a], p. 6.
127 Ammar (2001a), pp. 89–98, cf. Halevi (2007).
128 Cf. http://www.madani.16.forumer.com/viewtopic.php?t=1713, 30 August 2012.
129 Cf. Sanyal (1996a), p. 119.
130 Rida Khan (2007b), p. 19; (Rida Khan [2007b], p. 17).
131 Rida Khan (2007b), pp. 17–22.
132 Rida Khan (2007e), p. 9.
133 Rida Khan (2007e), p. 13.
134 Rida Khan (2007e), p. 20.
135 Ammar (2001b), p. 18.
136 Qasmi (2008), pp. 98–9.
137 Ammar (2001a), pp. 107–10.
138 Ammar (2001a), pp. 80–4.
Notes 269
1 39 Rida Khan (2005c), p. 53.

140 Qasmi (2008), p. 61.
141 For further details see: Sanyal (2008), pp. 26–41 and Sanyal (1996a), pp. 72–7.
142 Cf. Qadiri (2007).
143 Sanyal (2008), p. 31.
144 A popular biography is Noori (2007).
145 Noori (2007), p. 3. Cf. Hadi al-Qadri (2001), pp. 11–12: Rida Khan’s first fatwa
argued that a man shall not marry the woman, who was breastfeeding him while
he was a baby.
1 46 Noori (2007), p. 7.
147 Noori (2007), p. 13.
148 Noori (2007), pp. 13–14.
149 Sanyal (1998), p. 654. Sanyal (1996a), p. 135.
150 Noori (2007), pp. 23–5.
151 Noori (2007), p. 27.
152 On the Sunni Daʿwat-i Islami see Gugler (2010).
153 Nuri (n.d.), p. 6.
154 Sanyal (1998), p. 645.
155 Amjad ʿAli (2007).
156 Sanyal (2008), p. 25.
157 http://www.dawateislami.net/book/detail/318/volume/779/writer/32/
ur#section:writer_0.0, 4 September 2012.
1 58 Alam (2008), p. 46 and Sanyal (2008), p. 31.
159 Misbahi (2000), p. 20, cit. in Sanyal (2008), p. 33: ‘[Amjad Ali] told him, ‘I am
sending you to Mubarakpur to perform a religious service ….’ He protested: ‘Sir, I
don’t want a job …’ [Amjad Ali] said: ‘Who said anything about a job? I’m talking
about service. I’m sending you to Mubarakpur. Don’t think of what you will get.
All you have to do there is religious service.’
1 60 For further details see Sanyal (2008), pp. 31–40, 42–4.
161 Sanyal (1996a), pp. 92–3, 307.
162 Sanyal (1996a), pp. 307–14.
163 Qadiri (1978) edited speeches from all three Sunni conferences.
164 http://www.alahazrat.net, 30 August 2012.
165 Rida Khan (2000), pp. 29–31.
166 Cf. Baraka (2005), pp. 9–23. The Raza Academy in Stockport published more than
fifty translations of the works of Rida Khan in English, additional to about fifteen
titles about him.
167 Baraka (2005), p. 7. In 1984 they published an English version of the Kanz
al-Īmān. All in all the Raza Academy published more than a hundred books.
168 Cf. Zarquani (2006) and (2005).
270 Notes
1 69 For examples see al-Qadiri (1972), p. 277.

170 Al-Qadiri (1993), p. 22, translated from the Urdu text.
Chapter 10
1 The so-called Barewli tradition was articulated as a reaction to reform movement

criticism, especially emanating from Deoband, by the erudite scholarship and
charismatic personality of Ahmed Riza Khan of Rae Bareilly (1856–1921).
Ahmed Riza Khan was able to mobilize the tariqas and traditional Muslims who
maintained loyalty to them, by drawing upon the resources of the ʿulamaʾ to use
their status and scholarship to consciously advocate a mediatory, custom-laden
Islam closely linked to the intercession of the Prophet and shrine-based pirs both
living and dead.
2 Muhammad Raza (1993), Islam in Britain: Past, Present and Future, Leicester:
Volcano Press, p. 10.
3 William Maley (2001), Fundamentalism Reborn? Afghanistan and the Taliban,
London: C Hurst & Co., p. 14.
4 http://www.satp.org/satporgtp/countries/pakistan/terroristoutfits/ssp.htm.
5 Sareen Sushant (2005), The Jihad Factory: Pakistanʼs Islamic Revolution in the
Making, Har Anand Publications, p. 282.
6 Olivetti Vincenzo (2002), Terror’s Source: The Ideology of Wahhabi-Salafism and its
Consequences, Birmingham: Amadeus Books, pp. 69–70.
7 Olivetti includes Sunnis and Shiʿas belonging to the four Sunni madhhabs
(Hanbali, Hanafi, Maliki and Shafiʿi) and the two major Shiʿa madhhabs (Ja’faris
and Zeidis), and inclusive of the ‘mystical brotherhoods’ (Sufis/sunni and students
of ʿirfan/Shiʿa) as constituting orthodoxy in the Islamic world historically until
1900 (pp. 10–12).
8 p. 35.
9 ‘Blueline’, http://www.shiachat.com/forum/topic/234914174-whats-the-difference-
between-deoband-wahhabisalafi/ posted 8 October 2006 and accessed 10
December 2013.
10 Anon, Imam Ahmed Raza Academy, ‘Who are these Deobandi/Wahabi people
and what is the Tablighi Jamaat?’ http://www.raza.org.za/articles_wahabi_people.
html, accessed 10 December 2013.
11 Ahmetbaba http://www.sunniforum.com/forum/showthread.php?81932-Who-
are-Deobandi-Barlevi-Wahabi-Salafi, posed October 2011 and accessed 10
December 2013.
12 Bennett Clinton (2012), ‘Conclusion: South Asian Sufis, Devotion, Deviation and
Destiny’, in Clinton Bennett and Charles Ramsey (eds), South Asian Sufis, London:
Continuum, pp. 288–9.
Notes 271
13 p. 289.
14 Werbner Pnina (2012), ‘Du’a: Popular Culture and Powerful Blessings at the
‘Urs’’, in Clinton Bennett and Charles Ramsey (eds), South Asian Sufis, London:
Continuum, pp. 83–94.
15 Bennett Clinton (2012), ‘Introduction: South Asian Sufis – continuity, complexity
and change’ in Powerful Blessings at the ‘Urs’, in Clinton Bennett and Charles
Ramsey (eds), South Asian Sufis, London: Continuum, p. 7.
16 Werbner, p. 85.
17 Quoted in Fatawa Rahimiyyah (Eng. Trans.), vol. 1, pp. 9–10 from ʿulamaʾ
-e-Deoband ka Maslak.
18 Fatawa Rahimiyyah (Eng. Trans.), vol. 1, p. 58.
19 http://www.deoband.org/about-2/, accessed 10 December 2013.
20 Interview with Mufti Azizur Rahman, Deoband, 4 January.
21 Interview with Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali, Darul Uloom Deoband, 5 January
2010.
22 Interview with Mufti Wasi Ahmad at Mahad Al Anwar Deoband, 5 January 2010.
23 Interview with Mufti Saeed Palanpuri at Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom, Deoband,
5 January 2010.
24 Interview with Maulana Qasimi, Rector of Darul Uloom Deoband Waqf,
3 January 2010.
25 Asad Talal (1986), The Idea of the Anthropology of Islam, Washington, DC:
Georgetown University Press; republished in Qui Parle (2009).
26 Interview with Maulana Qasimi.
27 Geaves Ron (2000), The Sufis of Britain, Cardiff: Cardiff Academic Press.
29 Interview with Ghulam Nabi at Thana Bhavan, the Khanqah of Maulana Ashraf
Ali Thanvi on 13 January 2010.
30 Interviews with Maulana Abdul Haq and Maulana Ruknuddin, murids of Hazrat
Ml Mufti Mehmood Asad Gangohi, 3 January.
32 Interview with Ghulam Nabi.
33 Interview with Maulana Ruqnur Deen, teacher of Hadith and Tafsir in Deoband
and a khalifa of Maulana Abrarul Haqq, a khalifa of Maulana Thanvi, 5 January.
35 Interview with Maulana Niamatullah Azmi, Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom Deoband
6 January.
36 Interviews with Maulana Abdul Haq and Maulana Ruknuddin.
37 Interview with Ghulam Nabi.
38 Interview with Azizur Rahman.
39 Interview with Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali.
40 Interview with Azizur Rahman.
272 Notes
41 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi, teacher in the khanqahh in Raipur of
Hazrat Shah Abdul Rahim Raipuri Saheb, 6 January.
42 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi, teacher in the khanqahh in Raipur
of Hazrat Shah Abdul Rahim Raipuri Saheb, 6 January.
43 Interview with Maulana Ruqnur Deen.
44 Interview with Mufti Saeed Palanpuri – Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom Deoband
6 January.
45 Interview with Maulana Niamatullah Azmi.
46 Interview with Maulana Dr Nomen, an early graduate of Dar al-Ulum Deoband in
Deoband 3 January.
48 Interview with Hassan ul Hashmi, Dar ul-Uloom Deoband 7 January.
49 Interview with Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi.
51 Interview with Maulana Niamatullah Azmi.
52 Green Nile (2012), Making Space: Sufis and Settlers in Early Modern India, Oxford:
Oxford University Press, p. 1.
53 R. A. Geaves (2005), ‘The Heart of Islam in the Indian subcontinent’, in A. King
and R. Stockton (eds), The Intimate Other, New Delhi: Orient Longman.
54 M. Titus (1979), Indian Islam – A Religious History of Islam in India, New Delhi:
Munshiram Mandiharial, p. 160.
55 M. Ikram (1964), Muslim Civilisation in India, New York: Columbia University
Press, p. 172.
56 M. Mujeeb (1966), The Indian Muslims, London: George Allen & Unwin, p. 246.
57 M. Haq, Anwural (1972), The Faith Movement of Maulana Muhammad Ilyas,
London: G.Allen & Unwin, p. 130.
58 M. Karandikar (1968), Islam in India’s Transition to Modernity, Bombay: Orient
Longmans, p. 127.
59 Interview with Maulana Mufti Wasi Ahmad.
63 Interview with Mufti Wasi Ahmad.
65 Interview with Mufti Wasim Ahmad.
66 Interview with Mufti Azizur Rahman.
69 Interview with Mufti Palanpuri.
Notes 273
71 Interview with Mufti Wasi Ahmed.

72 Interview with Mufti Wasi Ahmed.
73 Interview with Niamatullah Azmi.
74 Interview with Niamatullah Azmi.
77 Interview with Ruqnur Deen.
80 Geaves Ron (2012), ‘The Symbolic Walls of Deoband’, International Journal of
Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 23(3) (July): 315–28.
81 Talal Asad (1986), p. 10.
82 Geaves Ron (1996), Sectarian Influences within Islam in Britain, Community
Religions Monograph Series, Leeds: University of Leeds, p. 151.
274
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Interviews
Maulana Abdul Haq, murid of Hazrat Ml Mufti Mehmood Asad Gangohi.

Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali, Saharanpur.
Maulana Abdul Haq Sambhali – Darul Uloom Deoband.
Maulana Islamul Haqq Asadi, teacher in the khanaqah in Raipur of Hazrat Shah Abdul
Rahim Raipuri Saheb.
Maulanal Iftikharul Hasan Khandelvi, Senior Khalifa of Maulana Raipuri and first
cousin of Muhammad Ilyas.
Maulana Najmul Hasan Thanvi, Thana Bhavan, – khanaqah of Maulana Ashraf Ali
Thanvi.
Maulana Niamatullah Azmi - Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom Deoband.
Maulana Qasimi, Rector of Darul Uloom Deoband Waqf.
Maulana Ruknuddin, murid of Hazrat Ml Mufti Mehmood Asad Gangohi.
Maulana Ruqnur Deen, teacher of hadith and tafsir in Deoband and a khalifa of
Maulana Abrarul Haqq, a khalifa of Maulana Thanvi.
Mufti Azizur Rahman, Deoband.
Mufti Saeed Palanpurii – Ustad Hadith Darul Uloom Deoband.
Mufti Wasi Ahmad (Mahad Al Anwar Deoband).
Ghulam Nabi, Thana Bhavan, khanaqah of Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanvi.
Saheb Maulana Ahmad, son in law of Mufti Abdul Qayyum Raipuri.
298
Index
ʿAbd al-ʿAziz ibn ʿabd al-Qadir al-Jilani Bektashiyya 60

71, 86 Benedict XVI (pope) 175
ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani 71–90, 98, bidʿa 82, 84, 128, 133, 137, 154, 160, 161,
152, 173 163, 164, 178, 182
Abduh, Muhammad 11, 15, 23, 27, 45 Bihari, Zafar al-Din 173
Afghani, Jalal al-Din Asadabadi 11, 23 bin Laden, Osama 11, 13, 17, 24, 36
al-Afifi, ʿAbd al-Razzaq 35 Blair, Tony 111
Ahbashiyya 17 Boutchichiyya 91, 93–6, 98, 106,
Ahl-i Hadith 11, 12, 15, 23, 24, 25, 119, 107, 108, 116
133–45, 149, 159, 162, 164, 193 British Muslim Forum 112
Ahl-i Hadith-i Bangala 133 Bulle Shah 206
Ahsaʾi, Ahmad 19, 27 Bush, President George W. 108, 109, 111
Akbaris 19, 27
ʿAlam Baba 129, 130 Chishtiyya 16, 23, 112, 119, 120, 122, 124,
al-Albani 35 129, 142–3, 145, 152, 195
ʿAli, Mir Nasir 131 Cordoba House 110
Aligarh 150
al-Alusi, Nuʾman 15, 24 al-Darqawi, Ahmad al-Arabi 19, 27
Amir al-muminin 93, 97 Darqawiyya 23
Amjad ʿAli, Muhammad 187 Data Mahbub Shah Wali 129, 130
Ansar al-Islam 26 Dayem Shah 129
Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya 34, Deobandis 134, 149, 191–216
35, 36, 40, 43, 44 dharb al-dirbasha 83
al-Astarabadi, Muhammad 19 dhikr 16, 28, 73, 77, 78, 79, 84, 89, 95,
Atatürk 59 133, 191, 198, 200, 204, 215
see also Kemal, Mustafa Dhuʾl-Nun Misri 47
Aul 120, 121 al-Duri, Izzat Ibrahim 74, 75
Azhar University 39, 51
Azzam, Abdallah 17, 24 Emre, Yunus 61
Erbakan, Necmettin 29
Babar ʿAli, Muhammad 135, 136 Erdogan, Recep Tayyip 29
al-Badawi, Sayyid 39, 41, 56
Bakhtiyar Kaki 143 Fakirs 119–45, 205
al-Bakri, Mustafa 19, 27 fana 124
al-Banna, Hassan 16, 25, 28, 65, 98 Faraizi movement 131
Barelvi, Ahmad 20, 23 Fatimids 82
Barelvis 152, 153, 171–89, 204–9 al-Fawzan, Salih bin Fawzan 35
Baʿth Party 75, 76 al-Fiqqi, Muhammad Hamid 35, 40, 42
Baul 120, 121, 131
bayʾa 96, 126, 137, 199–200, 215 Gangohi, Rashid Ahmad 171, 177, 185,
Becker, Carl Heinrich 53, 56 198, 209
Bektash, Hacci 60, 61 Gellner, Ernst 105, 115
300 Index
Ghazali, Abu Hamid 48–55, 77, 98 Kaʿba of the heart 122

Ghazipour, Hafiz Abdullah 134 al-Kabbani, Shaykh Hisham 29, 109, 112
Goldziher, Ignaz 47, 53, 55, 57 Kashani, Muhsin Fayd 19
Gölpinarlı, Abdülbaki 61 Kasnazaniyya 72, 74
Guru Nanak 206 al-Kawakibi, ʿAbd al-Rahman 15
Kelly, Ruth 112
hadir o nazir 182 Kemal, Mustafa 60
al-Hallaj, Mansur 35, 44, 52, 53, 54 see also Atatürk
al-Hamla al-Imaniyya 74 Khalid, Shaykh 19, 20
al-Haqqani, Shaykh Nazim ʿAdil 29, 109 Khalidiyya 20
Hasafuyya 23 khalwa/khilwa 19, 47
Hassan II of Morocco 97, 106, 107 Khalwatiyya 19, 20
Hizbʾüt Tahrir (Liberation Party) 65 Khan, Ahmad Rida of Bareilly 148, 153,
Hussein, Saddam 26, 74, 75, 175 158, 164, 167–9, 171–3, 176–80,
183–8, 208, 210
Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab 13, 18, 54, 105, 130, Khan, Sir Sayyid Ahmad 15, 23, 131, 149,
172, 193 150, 152, 161, 162
Ibn ʿArabī 14, 16, 17, 19, 23, 30, 35, 40, 52, Khatmiyya 105
54, 69, 154, 205–6 khirqa 44, 73
Ibn al-ʿAtaʾillah al-Sakandari 40 Khomeini, Ruhollah 11, 13, 17, 24
Ibn Baz 35 Kirmani, Shah ʿAbdullah 142
Ibn Hanbal 52 Köprülü, Mehmet Fuad 61
Ibn Idris, Ahmad 18, 19, 27 Kotku, Shaykh Zahid 29
Ibn al-Jawzi 72 Kuftaro, Shaykh Ahman 28
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya 10, 30, 35
Ibn Taymiyya 10, 15, 19, 25, 30, 35, 40, 41, Lings, Martin 105
42, 51, 54, 55, 77
idkhal al-tawab 183 Mahdi (Muhammad Ahmad) 20, 27
ihsan 196, 197, 200, 215 Mahdists 105
ijtihad 22, 159, 160 al-Maliki, Nouri 73
ʿilm al-ghayb 181 Manichaeism 45, 47
Ilyas, Muhammad 191 al-Maqdisi, Abu Muhammad 17, 24
Imdadullah, Shaykh Haji 192, 208 maʿrifa 128, 129, 132, 133, 137, 177
insan-i kamil 124 marriage 46
ʿIraqi, Fakhr al-Din Ibrahim 205 masculinity 46
al-Mawdudi, Aʿlaʾ 16, 23, 65, 133, 152
jahiliyya 13 mawlid al-nabi 80, 81, 82
Jamaʿat al-ʿadl wʾal-ahsan (Morocco) 91, 97 Mevlevis 60
Jamaʿat-i Islami 11, 12, 16, 23, 133, 145 milad al-nabi 172, 183, 209–11
Jazaʾiri, ʿAbd al-Qadir 17, 20, 23, 27 Minhaj al-Qurʾan 153
Jerrahiyya 110, 116 Mohamed VI of Morocco 93, 96, 98, 100,
al-Jili, ʿAbd al-Karim 205 107, 108, 114
Junayd 47 Mohsin al-Din Ahmad 131
Justice and Charity (Morocco) 97–9, Mubarak, Hosni 33, 57, 114
106, 116 Muin al-Din Chishti 130, 142,
Justice and Development Party 143, 152
(Morocco) 101–2 Muslim Brothers/Brotherhood 9, 10,
Justice and Development Party 12, 14, 16, 23, 25, 26, 55, 98,
(Turkey) 62 101, 194
Index 301
al-Nabhani, Taqiuddin 66 Siddiqi, Muhammad ʿAbd al-Qadir

al-Nadwi, Abuʾl-Hasan ʿAli 16, 23 148, 149, 153–69
Nanatawi, Muhammad Qasim 171, Siddiqi, Muhammad Anwar al-Din
177, 209 148, 153, 163–8
Naqshbandiyya 11, 15, 19, 20, 21, 23, 26, Siddique, Shaykh Abu Bakr 137
27, 29, 74, 113, 116, 152, 195, 206 Sidi Hamza 94–7
Nasser, Gamal ʿAbd al- 57 Sidi Mounir 95
Nayeb Shah 129 Simnani, Ala al-Dawla 206
Nazim, Shaykh 112, 116 Simnani, Sayyid Ashraf Jahangir 120
Nicholson, R. A. 53, 55, 57 al-Sindhi, Shaykh 15
Nizam al-Din Awliya 143 Sirhindi, Shaykh Ahmad 168, 206–8
nur 181, 215 subha 29
Nursi, Said 64 Sufi Muslim Council (UK) 112
Suhrawardiyya 119, 122, 195
Osmania University 150, 154, 164
Ozak, Muzaffar 110 Tablighi Jamaʿat 152, 178, 191, 192, 193
Ozal, Turgut 29 Talabani, Jalal 72
Özkan, Ercümend 59, 64–70 Taliban 193
tamjid 83–4
Pipes, Daniel 109 Tanta 42
Pool of Nectar 120 taqwa 47
tawhid 40, 51, 54
Qadiriyya 20, 71, 119, 122, 148, 154, 195 taʿwiz 184
al-Qaʾida 26, 71, 92, 107, 194 al-Tayyib, Shaykh Ahmad 114
qalandars 205 Thanwi, Ashraf ʿAli 177, 181, 191, 200
Qasim, ʿAbd al-Karim 74
qawwali 136, 137 Ülken, Hilmi Ziya 61
al-Qushayri 43, 44 ʿurs 128, 136, 137, 152, 182, 184,
Qutb, Sayyid 11, 12, 17, 24, 28, 65 187, 209–11
al-ʿUthaymin 35
rabita 19, 24 ʿuzlaʾ 47
Rauf, Feisal 109, 110, 111, 112, 115
Rida, Rashid 11, 13, 16, 23, 28 wahdat al-shuhud 52, 206
Rumi, Jalal al-Din 17, 60, 61 wahdat al-wujud 52, 69, 205–6
Wahhabis 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 17, 18, 27, 34,
Sadra, Mulla 17, 19, 30 55, 113, 175
sahwa 14 al-Wakil, ʿAbd al-Rahman 33–57
al-salaf al-salih 10 Waliullah, Shah 18, 19, 27, 172, 206–8, 215
samaʿ 154 wasila 180
Samarqandi, Qazi Rukn al-Din 120 wilayat al-faqih 13
Sanusiyya 20 Wuliyaniyya 87, 88
Shadhiliyya 19, 20, 23
Shakir, Ahmad 35 Yassine, Shaykh ʿAbdessalam 97, 98, 99,
Shamanism 62 106, 116
Shamil, Imam 20 Yogis 120, 127
Shariʿati, ʿAli 13, 17, 24
Shariʿatullah 131 zakat 85–6, 200
Shaykhis 19 Zindapir, Shaykh 193
Shiʿa 73, 76, 85 al-zuhd 45–8, 52, 54, 56
302

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Sufis and Salafis in the

Sufism in Britain, Edited by Ron Geaves and Theodore Gabriel

Edited by Lloyd Ridgeon

LON DON • N E W DE L H I • N E W YOR K • SY DN EY

50 Bedford Square 1385 Broadway

BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of

First published 2015

© Lloyd Ridgeon and Contributors, 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

ISBN: HB: 978-1-4725-2387-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

Contributor List vii

Introduction Lloyd Ridgeon 1

1 Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and

2 Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer: A Preliminary Investigation

3 Mapping Modern Turkish Sufism and

4 The Shrines of Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani in Baghdad

5 The Political Participation of Sufi and Salafi Movements in Modern

6 Sufis as ‘Good Muslims’: Sufism in the Battle against Jihadi

7 Mystical Traditions and Voices of Dissent: Experiences from

8 Representing the Detractors of Sufism in Twentieth-Century

9 Barelwis: Developments and Dynamics of Conflict with

10 The Contested Milieu of Deoband: ‘Salafis’ or ‘Sufis’? Ron Geaves 191

Alberto Fabio Ambrosio, adjunct at the Université de Lorraine (Metz) and

Noorah Al-Gailani is a final-year postgraduate research student at the University

Ron Geaves is currently visiting professor in the Department of History,

Kashshaf Ghani is an assistant professor at the School of Historical Studies,

Thomas K. Gugler graduated in South Asian studies, religious studies and

Aziz EL Kobaiti Idrissi is the current president of the International Academic

Lloyd Ridgeon is Reader in Islamic studies at the University of Glasgow. His

Mark Sedgwick is a professor of Arab and Islamic studies at Aarhus University

Mauro Valdinoci received his PhD in anthropology from the Department of

branches of the Qadiriyya Sufis in nineteenth-century Hyderabad, to discuss

Itzchak Weismann is an associate professor of Islamic studies and until recently

has been termed by modern scholars ‘pantheist’, ‘monist’ and ‘theo-monist’:

this type of non-personalized argumentation differentiates the Hyderabadi Sufis

Modernity from Within: Islamic

Islamic fundamentalism is a product of modernity. Its constitution as the

Part 1: The fundamentalist phenomenon

The concept of Islamic fundamentalism has recently come under increasing

perhaps the mass politico-religious movement of the Muslim Brothers of the

formation and evolution of the fundamentalists. The Wahhabis were rehabilitated

Against the Sufis

Islamic fundamentalism’s attitude towards Sufism reflects the existential gap it

Sayyid Qutb, the martyred prophet of Sunni radical fundamentalism, bore

Part 2: Islam and modernity

The pre-modern legacy

commitment to Sufism in general and the teachings of Ibn ʿArabi in particular,

The strengthening of the tariqa structures was designed to allow Sufi

Naqshbandiyya. This revolt involved a mixture of Orthodox Islam and Kurdish

The modern conditioning

Part 3: Dialectics of unenlightenment

Islamic fundamentalisms ‘othering’ of Sufism, and tradition religion in general,

The forgetting of tradition

The constitution of fundamentalism as the hegemonic discourse of modern Islam

Islamic fundamentalists normally overlook in their talks and writings the

The Sufi Other

Islamic fundamentalism and contemporary Sufism are both the products of

tradition. The fundamentalists purport to follow the teachings of the medieval

Egyptian Sufism Under the Hammer: