Freedom of thought needs an atmosphere of tolerance where people can speak their mind and no one is forced to accept the beliefs of others. In the Middle East, though, tolerance is in short supply and ideas that don't fit the expectations of society and governments are viewed as a threat.

Where religion is concerned, the "threat" can come from almost anyone with unorthodox ideas but especially from those who reject religion entirely.

Increasingly, atheists in Arab countries are characterised as dangerous extremists – to be feared no less than violent jihadists.

Persecuting atheists is the inevitable result of governments setting themselves up as guardians of faith. Among the 22 Arab League countries, Islam is "the religion of the state" in 16 of them: Algeria, Bahrain, Comoros, Egypt, Iraq, Jordan, Kuwait, Libya, Mauritania, Morocco, Oman, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Tunisia, the UAE and Yemen. 

For most of them, this is more than just a token gesture; it also serves political purposes. Embracing religion and posing as guardians of morality is one way for regimes to acquire some legitimacy, and claiming a mandate from God can be useful if they don't have a mandate from the public.

State religions, in their most innocuous form, signal an official preference for one particular kind of faith and, by implication, a lesser status for others. But the effects become far more obtrusive when governments rely on state religion as an aid to legitimacy – in which case the state religion has to be actively supported and policed. That, in turn, de-legitimises other belief systems and legitimises intolerance and discrimination directed against them. 

The policing of religion in Arab countries takes many forms, from governments appointing clerics and setting the theme for weekly sermons to the enforcement of fasting during Ramadan. 

To shield the government-approved version of religion from criticism, a variety of mechanisms can be deployed. These include laws against "defaming" religion and proselytising by non-Muslims but general laws regarding public order, telecommunications and the media may also apply.

In Algeria, for instance, the law forbids making, storing, or distributing printed or audiovisual materials with the intention of "shaking the faith" of a Muslim. In Oman, using the internet in ways that "might prejudice public order or religious values" is an imprisonable offence.

For Muslims who publicly abandon Islam the problem is even worse. In Mauritania, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, the United Arab Emirates and Yemen anyone convicted of apostasy faces the threat – at least in theory – of execution.

Using a state religion as an aid to legitimacy turns the personal beliefs of individuals into a political issue, because disagreeing with the state's theological position also implies disloyalty to the state. Those who happen to disagree must either conform or risk becoming not only a religious dissident but a political one too.

Equating religious conformity with loyalty to the state allows Arab governments to label non-conformists not merely as dissidents but extremists. This in turn provides an excuse for suppressing them, as has been seen in Egypt with the Sisi regime's campaign against atheism and in Saudi Arabia where "promotion of atheist thought" became officially classified as terrorism.

Although Saudi Arabia's war on atheists stems from fundamentalist theology, in Egypt it's the opposite: the Sisi regime presents itself as a beacon of religious moderation. To describe the Sisi brand of Islam as moderate, though, is rather misleading. "Militantly mainstream" might be a better term. Theologically speaking it is middle-of the-road and relatively bland but also illiberal and authoritarian in character.

The result in Egypt is a kind of enforced centrism. While allowing some scope for tolerance – of other monotheistic religions, for example – the regime sets limits on discourse about religion in order to confine it to the middle ground. The main intention, obviously, was to place Islamist theology beyond the bounds of acceptability but at the other end of the spectrum it also means that atheism, scepticism and liberal interpretations of Islam have become forms of extremism.

Defining 'extremism'

Absurd as it might seem to place atheists in the same category as extremists such as terrorists and jihadists, the issue hinges on how "extremism" is defined: extreme in relation to what? Violent and intolerant extremism is a global phenomenon but confusion arises when governments try to define it by reference to national or culture-specific values.

Arab states are not the only offenders in this respect, though. They have been assisted by western governments defining "extremism" in a similar way – as rejection of a specific national culture rather than rejection of universal rights and international norms.

In its effort to prevent radicalisation of students, for example, the British government defined extremism as "vocal or active opposition to fundamental British values". Also in the context of eradicating extremism, the education minister talked about actively promoting "British values" in schools.

Approaching the problem in this way invites other countries to do likewise – even if their own national and cultural values would be considered extreme in relation to universal rights and international norms. Thus, Saudis can justifiably claim that atheism is contrary to fundamental Saudi values. Furthermore, the British minister's idea of instilling British values into British schoolchildren is not very different in principle from "instilling the Islamic faith" in young Saudis – which the kingdom's Basic Law stipulates as one of the main goals of education.

This article was first published on al-Bab.
 

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To get anyone’s attention in this world of information overload and 24-hour news cycles, sometimes you need to get a little dramatic. Indeed, human rights organizations are finding that highly visual (and often shocking) campaigns are more likely to get the public’s attention than more conventional efforts. And this is exactly what Human Rights Watch recently did to shine a spotlight on the issue of violence against women—and specifically domestic violence—in Morocco.

In this HRW video, Moroccan comedian and feminist activist Mounia Magueri plays the role of a domestic violence survivor, an abusive husband, a police officer, and a prosecutor and highlights the problem of domestic violence from different angles.

In 2009-10 a national survey found that 62.8% of women aged 18 to 65 had experienced some form of physical, psychological, sexual or economic violence. Because Morocco is a highly devout country, the debate amongst human rights elites on women’s rights has often been highly polarized, pitting religious against secular, even though polls suggest that among ordinary people the issue is far more nuanced. This is a promising sign, because as many rights activists know, getting public buy-in on a controversial issue is often all about the framing.

While Morocco has a massive civil society sector with lots of women’s rights organizations, the laws in Morocco do not provide enough guidance for justice and law enforcement officials to adequately protect women. As a result, women have become increasingly frustrated with attempts to seek protection and support, much less justice.

Women have become increasingly frustrated with attempts to seek protection and support, much less justice. To give credit, the Moroccan government has taken some steps on the issue, like setting up committees to raise awareness and reestablishing a national observatory on violence against women. On the other hand, the government has been debating several new bills on violence against women for three years now, with frustratingly little progress. While Morocco has a massive civil society sector with lots of women’s rights organizations, the laws in Morocco do not provide enough guidance for justice and law enforcement officials to adequately protect women. As a result, women have become increasingly frustrated with attempts to seek protection and support, much less justice. In addition, many women and girls can’t even access their own identification papers in order to seek divorce or custody of their children.

Compounding the problem is the fact that the Moroccan government has become increasingly hostile to CSOs and especially to major human rights organizations, both domestic and international. In fact, according to Rothna Begum, the author of Human Rights Watch’s most recent report on violence against women in Morocco, the government has recently stated that they do not want her organization to conduct research in the country at all. She states that the government’s recent responses indicate an overall strategy of cutting off anyone who is critical of their actions or policies, citing the government’s recent suspension of contact with the European Union over the disputed territory of Western Sahara as just one recent example.

Begum notes that the new draft law—accepted on March 17 and now going to parliament—is still highly problematic as, among other issues, it lacks a definition of domestic violence and has made it very difficult for women to get emergency protection orders (e.g., restraining orders) unless they pursue a criminal prosecution, or their abuser is convicted. Women often choose to drop criminal cases for a whole host of reasons, including pressure from families, and a conviction on domestic violence is rare. International standards state that emergency protection orders should not be linked to pursuing a criminal prosecution or a divorce.  
 
Indeed, domestic violence in particular is full of cultural complexities and debates around the public and private realms. This has necessitated creative approaches to spark dialogue and encourage change. One such approach is a recent collaboration with activist and comedienne, Mounia Magueri, who created a video on violence against women in Morocco after HRW approached her on the issue.

Flickr/UN women: A 2009-10 national survey found that 62.8% of Moroccan women aged 18 to 65 had experienced some form of physical, psychological, sexual or economic violence.

“We saw her videos … and she had kind of a feminist monologue. She had over a million views, and she spoke very true of what was happening in Morocco… so we approached her to do a sketch on domestic violence,” Begum says. The result? Over 30,000 views (combining the Arabic, French and English versions) and 12 separate articles in the Moroccan press. In the three weeks leading up to International Women’s Day, the Arabic hashtag الحقاوي_عطيني_حقي# (“Hakkaoui: Give me my rights”) was directed at the Moroccan Minister of Women and Family, Bassima Hakkaoui, and attached to different cases released by Human Rights Watch. “It’s not [just] an issue of why domestic violence is bad,” Begum noted. “But actually how the authorities are failing to address the problem.”

Keeping pressure on the government with letters, tweets, videos and witness stories, the Moroccan media began to consistently cover their efforts. Because HRW was writing about (and to) the ministers, the media was going directly to those ministers to get their reactions. This helped reveal comments and attitudes of the ministers responsible for drafting the violence against women law. One of the revelations was that the justice minister, Mustafa Ramid, said he sees domestic violence—and marital rape in particular—as too private to be adjudicated in a public setting. However, at least in part due to the heightened social media pressure, the government announced that they would discuss the draft law on March 17, where it was then adopted.

“We don’t think it’s as good as it could be,” says Begum. “There are major gaps: it doesn’t set out the responsibilities [for police, prosecutors and judges] such as requiring the police to take reports of domestic violence, conduct follow-up investigation, and even enter homes.  Often the police send women away when they report to them and they do not feel like they have authority to go into homes. That’s a serious issue.”

Nonetheless, the creative use of social media does seems to have had an impact, and Begum points to work being done in Lebanon as further evidence of film, photography and social media to get government attention on rights. In particular, a recent video featuring a 12-year-old bride with a man old enough to be her grandfather went viral, inspiring international outrage and garnering much needed attention on this particular issue. You can see in the video that passersby get quite upset at what they are seeing, and it is these types of campaigns that bring issues to life and make people literally “see” the problem. The trick, of course, is keeping this attention sustained in order to put enough pressure on governments to enact real change.

“There is still lots to be done in terms of creative usage,” Begum says hopefully. “The revised law as it currently stands won’t do a huge amount for women…. What we want is real change, and that means a strong domestic violence law.”

This article was first published on Open Democracy.
 
 

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This article appeared http://blog.oup.com/2015/12/shakespeare-and-islam/ on December 27, 2015
 
Without Islam there would be no Shakespeare. This may seem surprising or even controversial to those who imagine a ‘national bard’ insulated from the wider world. Such an approach is typified in the words of the celebrated historian A.L. Rowse, who wrote that when it came to creatively connecting with that world, Shakespeare, the ‘quiet countryman’, was ‘the least engaged writer there ever was’.

Yet without Tudor and Jacobean England’s rich and complex engagement with Islamic cultures the plays written by William Shakespeare would be very different, if they existed at all. This is evidently true in terms of content. Take away around 150 references to Islamic motifs in 21 plays – to Turks and Saracens, to ‘Mahomet’, Morocco and Barbary – and the corpus looks very different. Take away The Merchant of Venice and Othello, both of which foreground encounters with Islam, and two of the best known and most frequently performed of the plays are lost.

To argue that most of these references are insubstantial or irrelevant is to misunderstand the ways in which they are used. Throughout the history plays, for instance, Shakespeare embeds a rhetoric of crusade, of fighting for ‘Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field’ against ‘black pagans, Turks, and Saracens’, in order to define martial Christian valour and to demonise enemies. Alternatively, the apparently casual references to silks, taffetas, ‘bags of spices’, ‘Turkish tapestry’, and ‘Turkey cushions bossed with pearl’ that litter his drama are intended to signal a particular kind of opulence, but they simultaneously reveal England’s expanding commercial horizons as the material products of Islamic cultures were increasingly brought into English homes.

Such developments were the result of Elizabeth I’s alliances with Morocco and the Ottoman Empire, and Shakespeare need only have looked around the places he lived and worked to encounter Islamic worlds. English moralists were routinely aghast at how the English luxuriated in Muslim fashions (in ‘the Turkish manner’, in ‘Morisco gowns’ and ‘Barbarian sleeves’), and lambasted the apparently insatiable appetite of English women for ‘Turkish trifles’ – jewellery, fabrics, trinkets and spices – and the predilection of English men for the infernal Turkish ‘moustachio’. It is hardly surprising that Shakespeare became fascinated by the challenge of conjuring such worlds onto the stage.

Although England’s Islamic alliances had brought Muslims and their goods into England, it was the interconnected popularity of what is known as the ‘Turk play’ on the Elizabethan stage that pushed Islam and Islamic cultures to the fore of the English imagination. The caricatures, pomp, and bombast of such plays dominated London’s stages as Shakespeare began to forge a career, and had begun with Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine (1587). Within a few years every playing company in the capital had its ‘Turk play’. Not everyone was a fan: Ben Jonson lamented that ‘Turk plays’ were nothing more than ‘scenical strutting and furious vociferation’ appealing only to ‘ignorant gapers’. For a young playwright looking to make a name in the early 1590s this presented an opportunity. After some early experimentation – probably in collaboration – in which elements of the bloody and grandiloquent ‘Turk play’ were translated into English historical (with the Henry VI plays) or Roman (with Titus Andronicus) contexts, an increasingly experienced and newly emboldened Shakespeare chose instead to ridicule and reject such plays.

Abd el-Ouahed ben Messaoud ben Mohammed Anoun, Moorish Ambassador to Elizabeth I (circa 1600).
University of Birmingham. Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Shakespeare’s satirising of the ‘Turk play’ appears first with the pompous braggart Pistol in 2 Henry IV. Pistol is a transparent parody of the raging ‘Grand Turk’ protagonist, entirely excessive, martially obsessed, lacking any capacity for self-awareness or self-doubt. Shakespeare even has him misquote famous lines from three of the most prominent examples of the genre to punctuate a tavern-brawl with a prostitute. Around the same time Shakespeare wrote The Merchant of Venice, which features the Prince of Morocco taking Portia’s casket test. With his proud brandishing of a scimitar ‘That slew the Sophy, and a Persian prince, / That won three fields of Sultan Solyman’, he too is a comic parody. By the end of the 1590s the first wave of ‘Turk plays’ was abandoned as audiences tired of its absurd clichés. In its place new dynamics and a more nuanced version of heroism and of encounter emerged, with Shakespeare at the forefront.

Why then did he return to the matter of the ‘Turk play’ in Othello (1603)? Partly he did so to capitalise on the continuing currency of Islam and Islamic themes in England – a Moroccan embassy had been resident in London in 1600-01 – and partly to innovate. Indeed, Othello rips up the rulebook. An audience is presented with a protagonist from beyond Christendom, a Moorish warrior-convert, and given expansive Mediterranean geographies across which they expect to see him battle the Turkish foe. At the very least they would have anticipated an enactment of the great siege of Cyprus (conquered by the Ottomans in 1570). Instead those geographies rapidly contract into suffocating domesticity, the Turks never appear and Othello only draws his sword on Desdemona and himself. The play’s tragic conclusion, when Othello smites the ‘circumcised and turbanned Turk’ that he has become, completes this process of turning the ‘Turk play’ inside out.

Othello reveals a dramatist continuing to challenge theatrical precedent, in particular hackneyed caricatures of Muslims and ‘Mahometanism’, and producing something more elusive, more reflective of the complex ways in which his culture engaged with Islam. Moreover, it was out of this long and fruitful contention that something distinctively Shakespearean emerged.

Matthew Dimmock is Professor of Early Modern Studies at the University of Sussex. He is the author of a number of books on English encounters with Islam – most recently Mythologies of the Prophet Muhammad in Early Modern English Culture (Cambridge University Press, 2013) – and an editor of Shakespeare.

Featured image credit: Battle of Lepanto in 1571 by Yogesh Brahmbhatt. National Maritime Museum. Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

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