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Full Chapter Practicing Sufism Sufi Politics and Performance in Africa 1St Edition Abdelmajid Hannoum PDF
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Practicing Sufism
Islam in Africa is deeply connected with Sufism, and the history of Islam is in a
significant way a history of Sufism. Yet even within this continent, the practice
and role of Sufism varies across the regions.
This interdisciplinary volume brings together histories and experiences of
Sufism in various parts of Africa, offering case studies on several countries that
include Morocco, Algeria, Senegal, Egypt, Sudan, Mali, and Nigeria. It uses a
variety of methodologies ranging from the hermeneutical, through historio-
graphic to ethnographic, in a comprehensive examination of the politics and per-
formance of Sufism in Africa. While the politics of Sufism pertains largely to
historical and textual analysis to highlight paradigms of sanctity in different geo-
graphical areas in Africa, the aspect of performance adopts a decidedly ethno-
graphic approach, combining history, history of art, and discourse analysis.
Together, analysis of these two aspects reveals the many faces of Sufism that
have remained hitherto hidden.
Furthering understanding of the African Islamic religious scene, as well as
contributing to the study of Sufism worldwide, this volume is of key interest to
students and scholars of Middle Eastern, African, and Islamic studies.
Published by Routledge
List of figures ix
Notes on contributors x
Acknowledgments xii
Introduction 1
A bdelmajid H annoum
Index 247
Figures
Its origin is that the way [tarîqa] of these people remains [the way] of the
predecessors [Salaf] and the senior companions, their successors and their
descendants, the way of truth and guidance, its origin is to devote oneself to
worship and to God, Almighty, the avoidance of the lure and the false splen-
dor of life, and abstinence from pleasure, money, and prestige that concern
commoners, isolating oneself for worship. All of this was common amongst
the Companions [of the Prophet] and the early Muslims.19
In modern times, Sufism is defined by a European Sufi as: “the vocation and
the discipline and the science of plunging into the web of one of these waves [of
Revelation] and being drawn back with it to its Eternal and Infinite Source.” He
then continues, “Sufism is a kind of mysticism [. . .]” concerned above all with
“the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven.”20 Scholarly definition seems to
always adopt the definition of Sufis themselves and often cites foundational texts
by Abu Madyan, Ghazali, Ibn Arabi, Rumi to account for what is now also
known as Islamic mysticism. The entry of the Encyclopedia of Islam says:
They [Sufis] developed views about the love of God, and for this they could
quote the Quran v. 54, “He loves them, and they love Him.” They also have
a means to intensify this relation and to give it an artistic expression by
playing music and worldly poetry, in particular love poetry, and by listening
to this [samâ‘].21
However, Sufism, because of the wide range of systems of beliefs and practices
that it has covered through time and space, cannot be reduced to an a priori defini-
tion. It needs to be approached as a discursive tradition, like Islam itself, in the
understanding of Talal Asad.22 Aware of this, scholars such as Carl Ernst and Bruce
Lawrence argued that Sufism is a “vast cumulative tradition” and concluded that
“we need to enlarge the concept of Sufism to include wider and institutional con-
texts.”23 And these contexts should, I contend, also include practices such as sama‘
(listening) as well as ghinâ’ (singing), building as well as dancing, healing as well
as praying; in short what several contributors for this volume call performance.
But Sufism is not only a system of belief to be understood as “discursive
tradition,” it is also a system of belief incorporated within a tariqa that defines its
meanings and decides on its practices and rituals. Yet, tariqa also remains a prob-
lematic institution to define. Here, we have to make the distinction between a
tariqa and a zawiya. Tariqa itself is a way, a doctrine so to speak, a corpus of
knowledge with a system of authorities (called silsila) that is learned, taught, and
transmitted often within (and sometimes without) the formal institution of the
zawiya. Tariqa has a founder, a shaykr.24 Zawiya is a house (or sometimes a room
Introduction 5
in a house) where a Sufi master initiates his disciples to a specific tariqa.25 In
other words, zawiya is the very institution where a tariqa is taught and practiced.
But zawiya is not reduced to its tariqa, since the zawiya functions also as an eco-
nomic, cultural, and social institution—and not just as a way of being in the
world. Tariqa itself preceded the zawiya. As Jamil Abun-Nasr argues, “the expan-
sion of the tariqa since the thirteenth century took the form of the foundation of
zawiya for them in new lands, usually by local Sufis shaykhs initiated into
them.”26 Thus, while one finds only one tariqa, say Qadiriya or Tijaniya, every-
where in Africa, and in the Middle East, one finds a significant number of zawiya
(plural: zawâya) claiming affiliations with the tariqas Qadiriya and Tijaniya.
Thus, it is the zawiya themselves that operate like political, spiritual, economic,
and even cultural institutions that became important factors to spread Sufism (or
rather their tariqas, their Ways) and to resist colonial rule. A quick glance, even
today, at the maps of major zawiyas such as Qadiriya, Tijaniya, Shadiliya, demon-
strates their defiance of national and ethnic borders since they exist in North,
South, East, West, and even in the Middle East, and in Central Asia.27
Nevertheless, tariqas with their zawiyas implemented across the continent
proved themselves to be an important factor of connecting parts of the continent
to each other, and thus contributing to what historians call the Islamization of
Africa.28 Tariqas also connect the African continent itself to the Middle East and
to Asia. Furthermore, it is within these tariqas themselves that Sufism took on a
form of their own usually referred to as African Islam. It is argued that Sufism is
an African Islam insofar as Sufism implemented and developed in Africa by
local leaders in institutions of tariqa upon which they had total control.29
The connections created and cemented by Sufi orders in and beyond Africa
were a primary target for colonial regimes that practiced the famous “divide and
rule policy” in the colonies. Colonial authorities sought to oppose and under-
mine Sufi practices, control, manipulate, and sometimes utterly destroy zawiyas,
but it also generated narratives about them as part of its strategy of adversity
against them. Colonial scholarship throughout the nineteenth century focused
largely on Islam and more specifically on Sufism because of the challenge it
imposed on the colonial enterprise. Part of this scholarship was an attempt to
understand the Sufi system of beliefs, the political and social role of the tariqas,
and part of it was also to instrumentalize this knowledge for colonial rule and
conquest. Whether it was Louis Rinn in Algeria, Paul Marty in Senegal, P. J.
André in West Africa, or later Trimingham in West Africa,30 Sufism was con-
sidered to be an Islamic specificity of Africa; it was also considered to be dif-
ferent from scriptural Islam, that of the ‘ulama’, and lastly it was by and large
considered to be a threat to the then dominant colonial enterprise.31
The advent of colonialism in the name of the project of modernity was
undoubtedly the greatest challenge to Sufism.32 Not only because modernity
itself negated “religion” as unmodern and thus an expression of a premodern and
backward development, but also because colonialism as a project of conquest
threatened the very existence of Sufism itself—its system of beliefs, its institu-
tions, and its cultural heritage. Hence, quickly Sufi saints and lodges were to
6 A. Hannoum
become the main sources of anti-colonial resistance and also the main protectors
of Islamic heritage and its traditions.33
It is interesting to note that the encounter of Europe with Islam in Africa was
an encounter in crucial ways with Sufism itself—save to a certain extent for the
case of Egypt.34 And upon this encounter that was conflictual if not utterly
violent, a discursive formation on Sufism had developed. It is then that a number
of categories were invented to create divisions, undermine Sufi connections, and
racialize Islam. Hence the birth of a number of names such as Arab Islam, Black
Islam, Islam of the Center, Islam of the Periphery, and even later between “scrip-
tural Islam” and “Sufi Islam”—the first is said to be urban, the domain of the
‘ulema’, the second rural, the realm of Sufis.35
In the middle of colonial rule, Sufism faced another enemy—nationalism, a
child of colonialism, that sought to eliminate it as a political enemy both by har-
boring the idea of progress against it and by casting its adaptability and its
strategy of survival as “collaboration.”36 By the time of the independence of
African nations in the 1960s, Sufism on the continent was perceived as the rem-
nants of an earlier age that was not only doomed to vanish, but also that the
ideology of progress worked to hasten its disappearance.
However, except for phases of nationalist fervor (that were rather short) Sufism
has proved today to be an important (lodestar and) moral compass for millions of
African Muslims from Morocco to Egypt, to the east African coast, and back west
to Senegal.37 Nowadays, Sufism is called on even publicly by nationalist govern-
ments to play a role in curbing the spread of political Islam. That political Islam is
making gains in the nationalist domain is beyond doubt, even before the so-called
Arab Spring.38 In Morocco and in Egypt, Sufi orders benefited from strong govern-
ment support, as manifested by the several international festivals organized annu-
ally with great flourish and fanfare. In Algeria, after over a decade of bloodshed
fighting militant Islam, the government publicly encourages Sufism as a way of
life, and provides financial and political support of Sufi lodges.39 In Somalia, a
country that has been torn apart by civil war, in March 2010 Sufis were asked to
join government fights against the Shabâb, a political movement believed to be
linked to the famous infamous al-Qaida.40 In several African countries state-
sponsored festivals promote Sufism, often to curb the rising influence of Salafi
movements. Some Sunni institutions of ‘ulama’ themselves strategically allied
with Sufi tariqas in ways that totally blur the old divide between ‘ulama’ and Sufis.
The chapters in this volume are not a history of Sufism in the usual sense of
the use of the term “history”—a linear development, a genealogy of ideas, a
story with a beginning and end. Rather the volume offers case studies of Sufism
in Africa. It has a decidedly important historical dimensional in that it tackles
Sufism from a variety of historical moments, from the eighteenth century to the
present, in a variety of places from Sudan and Egypt to Senegal and Nigeria with
a heavy focus on the Maghreb region. The point is that by examining Sufi
experiences in these regions, a new understanding of Sufism in Africa will be
conveyed. The volume aims indeed at providing an understanding of Sufism in
Africa through a variety of examples that will in turn show that Sufi practices
Introduction 7
and doctrines in Africa are diverse and varied. This diversity of Sufi experiences
is approached in this volume by experts in different fields working on a variety
of materials in Arabic, Wolof, French, and English.
By exploring the cultural dimension of Sufism in Africa, this volume seeks to
create a deeper understanding of the religion and perhaps to inspire consideration
of Islam as something other than an opposing world view. Sufism is already the
object of tremendous Euro-American scholarship, but many of these studies focus
on the Middle East and Central Asia (so many are focused on Central Asia). The
several volumes that have appeared about Sufism in Africa since the 1970s make
important contributions to our understanding of the numerous discourses and
practices of one variety of Islam. Yet most of the scholarship on Sufism in Africa
consists of religious genealogies attempting to understand the spiritual ontology
of Sufism, or its colonial politics, but rarely do these works treat the wider cul-
tural practices of Sufism in the arts, rituals, and performance.41
It should be noted that this volume does not intend to participate in the more
recent efforts to rehabilitate Sufism or to defend its “return.” Its goal is academic
and therefore educational; it is an attempt to understand, in the context of intense
debate on Islam, a kind of Islam that is spiritual in its claims and highly artistic
and creative in its practices. The volume consists of chapters by experts on Islam
in Africa, and addresses Sufi arts and ritual performances. The contributions are
mostly anthropological in orientation. Each contributor tackles Sufism in a spe-
cific geographical area, focusing on one or more aspects. The authors share the
view that Sufism consists not only of an ensemble of core beliefs, but also of
cultural practices that revolve around the arts, rituals, and performance. The
volume does not intend to contribute solely to a religious history of Sufism, but
rather attempts to make use of this history to understand the practice and the pol-
itics of African Sufism.
The quest of Sufism is always political, as demonstrated by several chapters
in this volume. The quest of Sufism does indeed not only require a rupture
between the student of Sufism and his family and entourage, but also the begin-
ning of an institutional relation between the student and an institution of know
ledge—be it a madrassa, a zawiya, a mosque, or any other form of relation
articulated on the model, described by Hammoudi in this volume, of master and
disciple. To say it differently, if as stated at the outset of this Introduction, the
history of Islam in Africa is mostly a history of Sufism, the history of Sufism is
also in large part a history of modern politics in Africa. Several chapters in this
volume examine these various politics: politics of tariqas, politics with and
within the nation state, politics with colonialism, and, of course, politics of per-
formance which are themselves performance of politics.
Sufism reached sub-Saharan regions mostly by way of the Maghreb (that is,
the northern African region that constitutes the link between sub-Saharan Africa
and the Middle East). It is thus imperative to examine Sufism in this region of
the North to understand its paradigms and cultural foundations.42 To this end,
both the contributions of Abdelmajid Hannoum and Abdallah Hammoudi
examine the hagiographic discourse and the practices of major Sufi saints.
8 A. Hannoum
Hannoum looks at the paradigm of sanctity in Sufi practices by analyzing a hagi-
ographic text of the eighteenth century only to show how the ideal type of the
Sufi saint is constructed via displacement: that is, travel to specific places (a
travel performance, so to speak), regulated by cultural norms. Some places are
imagined as closer to the origin of the Islamic faith than others, and thus purify
the Sufi saint himself till he reaches a supreme stage that makes him capable of
performing miracles such as uttering poetry and revelation. Hannoum argues that
in this transformation, the Sufi saint follows the Prophetic model that begins
with initiation and when successful, ends with ascension (mi’râj). The spiritual
enterprise, when completed, tends to develop into a political project and often
competes with the established political order. Hence the classical theme in hagi-
ographic literature of the opposition between the Saint and the Sultan. Ham-
moudi extends his analysis to include several Sufi practices throughout the
nineteenth and twentieth century that also demonstrate how Sufi practices per-
formed according to cultural rules significantly participate in the construction of
the self and transform the ordinary person, usually a child, into a holy man
whose enterprise is surely spiritual, but is also undoubtedly political. Hammoudi
points to the centrality of the Sufi model of master and disciple as a dichotomy
foundational to North African political culture. Therefore, he concludes that
refers “Arab authoritarianism” has its cultural origin in this relation.
The politics of Sufism is also clearly articulated in the chapter by Cheick
Babou using the case of Amadu Bamba. In it, the author examines Sufism in
relation to colonial politics. Indeed, in the very midst of the colonial period in
the late nineteenth century, the Sufi saint Amadu Bamba, founder of the Murid
Muslim order in Senegal, disturbed the French with his anticolonial politics—so
much so that they exiled him to Gabon from August 1895 to November 1902.
Babou not only discusses the interaction of Sufi politics and colonial powers, but
also examines how this Sufi narrative of anticolonial resistance continues to play
an important role in national imagination even today. This narrative, Babou
argues, “turn setbacks into victories” and thus makes of the colonial past a
national narrative of the present in which the Murid Sufi order has a major part.
The chapter by Hanretta examines a similar case of a Sufi Saint, Yacouba
Sylla, and his opposition to French colonial rule in Mauritania. However, Han-
retta opts not to focus on the colonial episode itself, but on the female followers
of Yacouba Sylla in West Africa that represent the majority in this Sufi move-
ment. Hanretta discusses the social and economic conditions in which women
joined and became an important group of Yacoubists. Seeing the crisis of 1929,
Hanretta argues, Yacouba Sylla engaged in daring reforms that changed some
important Islamic practices in west Africa that appealed not only to women, but
also to poor men, such as abolishing dowries, allowing women to participate in
dikhr and haidara, and urging marriages between the community irresponsive of
social status. Hanretta shows how these Sufi quasi female movements introduce
not only an Islamic vision of equality amongst its members (male and female,
nobility and poor people, free men and women and salves), but also likened its
beliefs and practices to the story of Fatema (the Prophet’s daughter). Dreaming
Introduction 9
of the Prophet giving both recognition and instruction to the new saint is para-
digmatic in Islamic hagiographic literature, but Sylla received both interestingly
enough not from the Prophet, but from his daughter.
Jacqueline Brinton examines the politics of Sufism in contemporary Egypt by
looking first at the dichotomy that opposes Sufis to ‘ulama’ and then at the one
that opposes high Sufism to low Sufism. If Sufism was targeted as a proof of back-
wardness by Colonial rulers and as a sign of deviation from true Islam by modern-
ist reformists, it has been officially reintegrated into official Islam by the highly
authoritative institution that is Al Azhar. Brinton shows how the rise of Salafism in
Egypt and the activism of the Muslim Brotherhood (that too denigrates Sufism as
non-Islamic) made the government, especially through the institution of the Azhar,
ally itself with Sufism in order to foster a type of Islam congruent with government
politics of moderate (even apolitical) Islam. Sufism itself, Brinton argues, has been
reinvented to “supplement more conventional practices and beliefs.” She examines
the new brand of Sufism to show not only how it is different from the Sufi prac-
tices, but also how certain practices (such as tomb visitations) were reintegrated
into its practice using the language of their critiques. Brinton takes on as an
example the highly charismatic figure Mutwali Sha‘rawi, a ‘âlim, and a television
preacher who is seen as a government mouthpiece by his critics, the least of whom
are the Muslim Brotherhoods. Yet, Sha‘rawi’s disciples, followers, and admirers,
especially after his death, also considered him a saintly figure or an “eventual
saint,” as Brinton puts it. This is to say, that this ‘âlim, who was a television celeb-
rity, is now the object of a hagiography that has turned him into a holy man and
that stresses the esoteric dimension of his teaching. Brinton focuses on the celebra-
tion of the mawlid in Sha‘rawi’s hometown and his honor as an example of how
mawlid (which is originally a Shia practice) has become part of the legacy of
Sha‘rawi now celebrated both as a ‘âlim and a friend of God, a “legacy of accept-
able, intellectual Egyptian Sufism,” Brinton says.
The chapter by Rogaia Abusharaf also addresses the question of Sufi politics,
but in the Sudan, and more specifically in Darfur, a region that has been the theater
of spectacular violence that has became world news since 2003. Abusharaf exam-
ines the call for peace in Darfur by Sheikh Musa, a Sufi member of the Tijaniya
order. Her field site is the meeting that takes place in Qatar. What one sees in this
fascinating example is how the teaching of Sufism appears to ethnography as an
effective form of mediation and conflict resolution. Abusharaf argues indeed that,
given that “the divine benevolence and clemency is the central ingredient of their
systems of beliefs,” the work of Sheikh Musa was remarkable. Tensions were
reduced as a result of his call. Part of this was also the historical role Sufism played
in feud mediation, especially in the case of Darfur in which 90 percent of the
Muslim population follows Sufi Islam. However, Abusharaf shows that the call for
peace by this Sufi leader not only reached the various ethnic groups in Darfur, it
even reached the Salafi groups as well. Through this Sheikh, the Tijaniya tariqa
showed that Sufism is capable of managing the most difficult wounds in the most
diverse circumstances. In other words, as in the past, Sufism matters, and matters
even more because of its world view, and its embrace of unity.
10 A. Hannoum
Several chapters tackle the question of performance in Sufism to draw atten-
tion to the fact that it is not only a doctrine, a set of beliefs, or an attitude that
makes it less scriptural and less ritualistic (as some canonical texts in anthropol-
ogy have for a long time argued)43 and more a mood. Rather, these chapters
stress the fact that Sufism consists also of a set of rituals and practices that set it
apart from orthodox Islam. Furthermore, given the fact that what is loosely
called Sufism in Africa refers to a variety of beliefs, rituals, and practices, the
concept of performance is also intended to explain and highlight the diversity of
rituals and practices commonly referred to as African Sufism, primarily amongst
them music, architecture, and visual arts.
It is this crucially important dimension that several chapters articulate in this
volume. Most notably are the chapters by Deborah Kapchan and Amanda
Rogers. The contributions of both Amanda Rodgers and Deborah Kapchan
investigate Sufi musical practices by focusing on the Sufi Gnawa group in
Morocco. They offer a link between the Maghreb and Africa since the Gnawa
were historically black slaves brought to the region from the sixteenth century,
precisely during the golden age of Sufism in the region.
Amanda Rogers shows how the Sufi Gnawa were able to invent an entire rep-
ertoire. This was in part the result of the North African conquest of the sub-
Saharan region, especially Mali, and in part the result of forced migration—that
is, slavery. This musical repertoire is made of pre-Islamic bori practices integ-
rated with Islamic practices. It is anchored in the foundational history of Islam
itself through the narrative of one of the earliest converts, a Black slave by the
name of Bilal, who is believed by some to have been adopted as a son by the
Prophet. Rogers’ contribution illustrates the dynamics of a new Islamic Sufi tra-
dition within the diversity of Islam. This new Sufism is orthodox, despite the
incorporation of what appear to be elements of non-Islamic practices.
Deborah Kapchan examines how Sufi performance participates in the creation
of the sacred in a global audience composed of people from different faiths,
nationalities, and social milieus in the Moroccan city of Fes. She focuses on the
same Sufi group Rogers discusses, but instead of looking for origins, she looks at
sacred music festivals in Fes. More specifically, she examines the “affect
economy” of the artistic, acoustic performance. In Fes audiences are as diverse
and varied as the performances, linked together by an experience of what
Kapchan calls the “festive sacred,” an experience that makes oneness out of
multiplicity, and uniqueness out of diversity. The “sacred festive” in Fes creates a
transnational community and turns tourism into a pilgrimage. As Kapchan puts it:
[D]rawing together heterodox (multi-faith) audiences from all over the globe,
these festivals create public sentiment through the re-appropriation and fet-
ishization of the category of the “sacred,” creating in the process a new form of
pilgrimage in sacred tourism and a new kind of liturgy in world sacred music.
Sufis are also known for their architectural design; they are great builders of
mosques, shrines, and even cities. Throughout Muslim Africa, Sufi shrines
Introduction 11
express faith via various types of building and designs. As Neil McHugh argues
in his chapter on Sufi shrines in the Sudan, these shrines are the result of
exchanges between different areas of the Muslim world, and also between the
Sudan and other non-Islamic traditions, including Christian and animist. Sufi
shrines in the Sudan, Neil maintains, express their system of beliefs through their
form. This system includes an ecumenical ideology in which the self and the
other are part and parcel of the same entity. They can be separated only by an
exclusive ideology, but they can also reunite, using Sufi knowledge that intuit-
ively sees the connections where the mind may not. The same shrines are not
only monuments recounting the deeds of bygone saints and Sufis; they are places
of pilgrimage as well as sites of healing.
In their chapter, Allen Roberts and Mary Nooter Roberts examine the visual
performativity of Sufi culture in Senegal. Against the idea that Islam disapproves
of representation, they demonstrate that Sufi orders in Senegal place a great
emphasis on visual representation. They analyze three sites to show how visual
representation, especially of Sufis, constitute an important dimension for Sufi fol-
lowers and artists associated with Mourides, Layennes, and Tijaniya. Roberts
examine a wall graced with portraits where followers interact with the image of
the saint to benefit from his baraka. However, what is interesting about this first
site is the fact that pictures of a Tijani saint are adjacent to portraits of world
leaders in politics and arts, bringing thus, as Roberts argues, “the word to his
informal community.” Roberts also examines the visual performativity of what he
calls “domestic devotional environment.” This is a second site where again por-
traits of saints are “performed and perform,” they are drawn as a presence of the
saint and yet here too the interaction as well as the very space in which they are
performed bring blessing and promote well-being. But the visual performativity is
not only limited to portraits of saints, it also encompasses (in the third site of
Roberts’ fieldwork) words, especially the sacred name of Allah and His Prophet.
For indeed, calligraphy is an important art in Islam whose focuses are precisely the
names of the Creator, His messenger, as well as His words from the Quran.
Roberts argues that by focusing on writing, on performing the sacred writing that
people have “found a way to live within a text so mystical that few can hope to
read its letters and phrases, yet all can benefit from its blessing.” In any case,
through a “thick description” of Sufi arts in various sites, Roberts demonstrate that
images (and words) of Sufi saints are “optic and haptic,” in their own phrasing.
This volume is not just another volume to be added to the already rich liter-
ature about Sufism. By focusing on the practices of Sufism in Africa, this volume
aims at filling an important gap in the studies of Sufism in general and the study
of Sufism in Africa in particular. Because of the various disciplines of its con-
tributors, the volume offers an interesting interdisciplinary approach to Sufism.
Our volume is distinguished by the fact that it is informed by the most recent
debates on the anthropology of religion and performance studies. And because it
is so, we hope the volume will be of interest not only to students and scholars in
African and Islamic studies, but also students of religious studies as well as per-
formances studies.
12 A. Hannoum
Notes
1 This perspective is different from that suggested by Paul Heck who argues “it is best to
speak of the politics of Sufism in terms of engaged distance—engaged with society but
in principle distant from worldly power” (“The Politics of Sufism, Is there One?” p. 14).
Heck uses the concept of politics in a strict sense—and thus overlooks the important
fact that Sufism itself, by its very distance from a certain Islam, sometimes by its very
disengagement from the state, by its very organization in tariqas, is political.
2 Austin, How to Make Things with Words; Benveniste, Problèmes de linguistique
générale; Greimas, Sémantique Structurale. See chapter 1.
3 Singer, When a Great Tradition Modernizes.
4 Ibid.
5 Turner, Forest of Symbols.
6 Bauman, “Verbal Art as Performance,” p. 290.
7 Bauman, Verbal Arts as Performance, p. 11.
8 See article “Tasawwuf ” by Louis Massignon in Encylopaedia of Islam. Also, article
“Soufisme” by Jacqueline Chabbi in Encylopedia Universalis, Vol. 21. For more
detailed studies, see Ernst, Teaching of Sufism. Also, Lings, What is Sufism?
9 For a general history of the Maghreb, see Jamal Abun-Nasr, History of the Maghreb.
Also, Laroui, L’histoire du Maghreb. For a detailed study about Sufism in North
Africa in the Middle Ages, see Amri, Al-tasawwuf bi ifrîqiya fî al‘asr al-wasît, p. 23.
10 Nimtz, Islam and Politics in East Africa, especially pp. 3–15.
11 Laroui, L’histoire du Maghreb.
12 Seemann, “Sufism in West Africa.”
13 For this history, see Levtzion and Pouwels, The History of Islam in Africa. See also
Hunwick, West Africa, Islam, and the Arab World.
14 Nimtz, Islam and Politics in East Africa, pp. 56, 71.
15 See article “Soufisme” by Jacqueline Chabbi in Encylopedia Universalis.
16 Nimtz, Islam and Politics in East Africa, pp. 55–71.
17 Westerlund, Sufism in Europe and North America.
18 Sahroudi, Awârif, p. 59, cited by Amri, Al-tasawwuf bi ifrîqiya fî al‘asr al-wasît, p. 23.
19 Ibn Khaldun, Târîkh al’ibar, p. 514.
20 Lings, What is Sufism?
21 Massignon, “Tasawwuf.”
22 See the work of Talal Asad, especially Genealogies of Religion and Formations of the
Secular.
23 Ernst and Lawrence, Sufi Martyrs of Love, p. 13.
24 Knot, “Sufi Brotherhoods in Africa.”
25 Abun-Nasr, Muslim Communities of Grace, p. 179. The term “zawiya” was first asso-
ciated with the term ribât which were religious hostels supported by the revenue of
awqâf (pious foundations). Ibid., pp. 61–62.
26 Ibid., p. 178.
27 For an example, see Basu and Werbner, Embodying Charisma. See also for the case
of Tijaniya, the monograph of Jamil Abun-Nasr, The Tijaniyya.
28 Robinson, Muslim Societies in African History; Nimtz, Islam and Politics in East Africa.
29 Nimtz, Islam and Politics in East Africa, pp. 70–71.
30 Rinn, Marabouts et Khouan; Mary, Etude sur l’Islam au Sénegal; André, L’islam
noir; Trimingham, The Christian Approach to Islam in the Sudan, Islam in the Sudan,
Islam in Ethiopia, and Islam in West Africa.
31 See Martin, Muslim Brotherhoods in Nineteenth Century Africa. Also, Roman Loi-
meier, Muslim Societies in Africa.
32 See Martin, Muslim Brotherhoods in Nineteenth-Century Africa.
33 The scholarship on this topic is abundant. For a general view, see Abun-Nasr, Com-
munity of Grace. Also, Martin, Muslim Brotherhoods in Nineteenth-Century Africa.
Introduction 13
In this volume, Chapter 3 by Cheick Babou. For the case of Algeria, see Clancy
Smith, Rebel and Saint.
34 In the case of Egypt, Napoleon’s encounter was mainly, but not exclusively, with
orthodox Islam through its institutions. See al-Jabarti’s Napoleon in Egypt. For the
encounter with Sufism at the time of Napoleon’s expedition, see Cole, Napoleon’s Egypt.
35 The most eloquent articulation of this dichotomy can be found in Gellner, Muslim
Society.
36 For an interesting case study, see Clancy Smith, Rebel and Saint.
37 See Levtzion and Pouwels, The History of Islam in Africa; Reese, The Transmission
of Learning in Islamic Africa.
38 See Abun-Nasr, Muslim Communities of Grace, especially pp. 237–255.
39 Muedini, Sponsoring Sufism.
40 Aljazeera, March 16, 2010. www.aljazeera.com/news/africa/2010/03/2010316541691
9724.html, last accessed August 5, 2015.
41 One of the few cases is the more recent volume by Allen Roberts and Mary Nooter
Roberts, A Saint in the City.
42 For the notion of paradigm first applied by Abdallah Hammoudi on sainthood in
Morocco, see his article “Sainteté, pouvoir et société: Tamgrout aux XVIIe et XVIIIe
siècles” in Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations, Vol. 35, Nos 3–4: 615–641.
See also its application on religion and politics in his Master and Disciple, Chicago
University Press, 1997. For the reworking of the notion, see Abdelmajid Hannoum,
chapter 1 in this volume.
43 Notably Geertz, Islam Observed. More so, Gellner, Saints of the Atlas.
References
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Abun-Nasr, Jamal. History of the Maghreb in the Islamic Period. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1989.
Abun-Nasr, Jamal. Muslim Communities of Grace. New York: Columbia University
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Amri, Nelly Salameh Al-tasawwuf bi ifrîqiya fî al‘asr al-wasît. Soussa: Dar contrast, 2009.
André, P. J. L’islam noir. Paris: Guethner, 1924.
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Asad, Talal. Formations of the Secular. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003.
Austin, J. L. How to Make Things with Words. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1975.
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the Performance of Emotions in Sufi Cults. London: Routledge, 1998.
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(1975): 290–311.
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Clancy Smith, Julia. Rebel and Saint. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994.
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14 A. Hannoum
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Greimas, Algirdas-Julien. Sémantique Structurale. Paris: Larousse, 1966.
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siècles,” Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations Vol. 35, No. 3 (1980): 615–641.
Hammoudi, Abdallah. Master and Disciple, Chicago University Press, 1997.
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tion in the Global Community, Catharina Raudvere and Leif Stenberg, eds. London:
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lishers, 2006.
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grande sforzo, vi sarete capacitati del vero stato e delle condizioni di
Pompei al momento della sua distruzione.
A me, sorretto dalla memoria delle antiche storie e de’ classici
scrittori e de’ poeti di Roma antica, percorrendo fra i più concitati
sussulti del cuore le vie dissepolte di Pompei, davanti le macerie e
gli avanzi solenni di questi pubblici edificj, quest’opera di
immaginosa ricostruzione riuscì agevole e spontanea. Fu per poco,
se nel varcar la soglia della Basilica, non udissi le arringhe degli
avvocati, nel rasentar le colonne del Foro non mi togliessi per
reverenza il cappello al passar delle maestose figure di Pansa e di
Olconio e non mi commovessi alla passione di questo giovane
innamorato, che lungi dall’aver guasto il cuore dalla general
corruzione, così io credessi vedere graffire sentimentalmente sulla
muraglia:
Dedica Pag. V
Intendimenti dell’Opera VII
Introduzione 1
Pag. lin.
4 17, vi morisse e Stazio e Silio
Italico e altri
illustri vi si
ispirassero
6 ultima linea: S’intromette il S’intromette il
Tirreno. Tirreno infuriato
13 19, mi do dovea mi dovea
28 12, dice chè dice che
41 17, horrendum, horrendum,
ingens informe, ingens
44 24, dovendo dovendo
poggiare appoggiarsi
71 5, soggetta ligia persona
persona
74 6, Lucio Lucio Cornelio
Cornelio congiunto
parente
76 11, non veridiche non sempre
veridiche
79 9, la dissenzione la dissensione
81 22, patrizii e i patrizii e i plebei
plebei
203 15, distici di distici che
Ovidio erroneamente
alcuni dissero di
Ovidio
325 in fine del La pena
sommario dell’adulterio —
Avvocati e
Causidici
NOTE:
3. Già Casina Reale, avente a lato sinistro il Castel dell’Ovo che si avanza
in mare, donata da Garibaldi dittatore ad Alessandro Dumas; ma
rivendicata poscia — non da Garibaldi — venne venduta e convertita
nell’attuale Albergo di Washington, tra i primarj della città.
14. Sono gli uomini di questo villaggio che vengono più specialmente
reclutati per la difficile e perigliosa pesca del corallo sulle coste di
Barberia, e così possono ricondursi di poi in patria con un bel gruzzolo
di danaro.
15. La misurazione dell’elevazione del Vesuvio sopra il livello del mare varia
nelle scritture dei dotti che la vollero fissare. Nollet nel 1749 la disse di
593 tese; Poli nel 1791 di 608 tese; il colonnello Visconti nel 1816 di
621; Humboldt dopo l’eruzione del 1822 la rinvenne di 607 tese, e nel
settembre 1831 l’altezza della punta più alta del cono risultò di tese 618.
La tesa, antica misura di Francia, era lunga sei piedi; la nuova tesa
francese si chiama doppio metro e per conseguenza contiene 6 piedi, 1
pollice, 10 linee. Siffatta varietà di misure non da altro procede che dagli
elevamenti e dalle depressioni, le quali si avvicendano secondo le
diverse eruzioni.
17. «Partito Ercole di poi dal Tevere, seguendo il lido italiano si condusse al
Campo Cumeo, nel quale è fama essere stati uomini assai forti, ed a
cagione di loro scelleratezze, appellati giganti. Lo stesso Campo del
resto, denominato Flegreo, dal colle che vomitando sovente fuoco a
guisa dell’Etna sicula, ora si chiama Vesuvio, e conserva molte vestigia
delle antiche arsioni.»
22. L’eguale fenomeno si avverò sul Vesuvio nella eruzione del 79. Ecco le
parole di Plinio: Nubes (incertum procul intuentibus ex quo monte;
Vesuvium fuisse postea cognitum est) oriebatur: cujus similitudinem et
formam non alia magis arbor, quam pinus expresserit. Nam longissimo
velut trunco elato in altum, quibusdam ramis diffundebatur, etc. Epist.
XVI. Lib. VI.
27. Sylv. 2
28. Satir. Lib. II. Sat. 1. v. 35. Così traduce Tommaso Gargallo:
29. Secondo Esiodo, Gerione era il più forte di tutti gli uomini nell’isola
d’Eritia presso Gade o Cadice sulla costa della Spagna. I poeti venuti di
poi ne hanno fatto un gigante con tre corpi, che Ercole combattendo
uccise, menandone seco i buoi. Coloro i quali ridur vorrebbero tutta la
scienza mitologica ad un solo principio, cioè, al culto antico della natura,
pretesero Ercole un essere allegorico e non significar altro che il Sole.
Questa impresa vinta su Gerione sarebbe il decimo segno che il sole
trascorre, vale a dire i benefizj d’esso che, giunto al segno equinoziale
del Toro, avviva tutta la natura e consola tutte le genti. Vedi Dizionario
della Mitologia di tutti i Popoli di Gio. Pozzoli e Felice Romani. Milano
presso Gio. Pirotta.
30. La Mitologia chiama i Dioscuri figliuoli di Giove e afferma essere il
soprannome di Castore e Polluce. Glauco fu il primo che così li chiamò,
quando apparve agli Argonauti nella Propontide (Filostr. Paus.). È stato
dato questo nome anche agli Anaci, ai Cabiri, e ai tre fratelli che
Cicerone (De Natura Deorum 3, c. 53) chiama Alcone, Melampo ed
Eumolo. Sanconiatone conserva l’identità dei Dioscuri coi Cabiri, che
Cicerone vuol figli di Proserpina. Ritornerò su tale argomento nel
capitolo I Templi.
33. Secondo la più probabile opinione, Caudio era situato dove ora il borgo
Arpaja, e le Forche Caudine in quell’angusto passo donde si discende
ad Arienzo, specialmente nel sito che si chiama pur oggi le Furchie.
34. Ora Lucera delli Pagani, nella Puglia Daunia, volgarmente Capitanata,
provincia di Foggia, nel già reame di Napoli.
36. Dante, Paradiso c. VII. 47. Qui parla il Poeta di Manlio Torquato che
comandò, come più sopra narrai, la morte del figliuolo per inobbedienza,
e parla di Quinzio Cincinnato.
43. Quid ergo indicat, aut quid affert, aut ipse Cornelius, aut vos, qui ab eo
hæc mandata defertis? Gladiatores emptos esse, Fausti simulatione, ad
cœdem, ac tumultum. Ita prorsus: interpositi sunt gladiatores, quos
testamento patris videmus deberi. Cic. Pro. P. Sulla cap. XIX.
47. In Toscana l’aveva alle falde degli Appennini e dalla regione in cui era
situata si dicea Tusci; in Romagna l’aveva sul litorale del Mediterraneo
fra le due città di Laurento e di Ostia, e per esser più vicina a quella città
chiamavala Laurentino e l’abitava nel verno; in Lombardia due ne
possedeva lungo le ridenti sponde del Lario una nel paesello di Villa e si
nomava Commedia, e l’Amoretti nel suo Viaggio ai tre laghi credette
riconoscerla nel luogo ove v’ha la villeggiatura dei signori Caroe,
pretendendosi persino di vederne tuttora i ruderi contro l’onde del lago;
l’altra, detta Tragedia, in altra località che forse fu presso Bellagio. Lo
che valga a rettifica dell’opinione volgare che crede la Commedia fosse
dove ora è la Pliniana, così detta unicamente perchè vi si trovi la fonte
da lui descritta nell’ultima Epistola del libro IV e dell’opinioni di taluni
scrittori che la assegnano in altra parte del lago. Alla Pliniana, venne
fabbricato da Giovanni Anguissola, altro degli uccisori di Pier Luigi
Farnese, nè prima di lui vi si riscontrarono ruderi che accusassero
antecedenti edificazioni. Della prima, in Toscana, fa una magnifica
descrizione nella lettera 6 del lib. V; della seconda in Romagna, nella
lettera 17 del lib. II.
52. Tacito nel libro XV degli Annali c. XVII non fa che accennare sotto
quest’anno un tanto disastro: «Un terremoto in Terra di Lavoro rovinò
gran parte di Pompeja, terra grossa.»
54. Aulo Gellio trova la etimologia del municipio a munere capessendo; più
propriamente forse il giureconsulto Paolo: quia munia civilia capiant. E
l’uno e l’altro accennano al diritto o dono conferito della cittadinanza, a
differenza di quelle altre località che erano solo fœderatæ, ricevute dopo
vinte e a condizione inferiore, che non acquistavano la podestà patria,
nè le nozze alla romana, nè la capacità di testare a pro’ d’un romano
cittadino, o d’ereditarne, nè l’inviolabilità della persona.
56. Il laticlavo era una striscia di porpora che orlava la toga di porpora,
scendendo dal petto fino a’ ginocchi. Essa era alquanto larga a
distinzione della striscia de’ cavalieri, che però dicevasi augusticlavo.
Come basterebbe oggi dire porporato per intendersi cardinale, allora
dicevasi laticlavius per senatore; onde leggesi in Svetonio (in August., c.
38): binos laticlavios præposuit, per dire due senatori.
59.
62. Vedi Plinio epistola 12 del lib. II: Implevi promissum, priorisque epistolæ
fidem exsolvi, quam ex spatio temporis jam recipisse te colligo. Nam et
festinanti et diligenti tabellario dedi. Vedi anche dello stesso Plinio
l’epistola 17 del lib. III e 12 del VII e la nota alla prima lettera del suo
volgarizzatore Pier Alessandro Paravia. Venezia Tip. del Commercio
1831.
66. Tra i papiri latini si conta un frammento di poema sulla guerra di Azio.
68. Ad retia sedebam: erant in proximo non venabulum aut lancea, sed
stilus et pugillares. Così Plin. loc. cit. Vedi anche Boldetti, Osserv. sopra
i Cimelii, l. 2, c. 2.
69.
74.
78.
79.
83. Ne’ possedimenti di Giulia Felice, figlia di Spurio, si affittano dalle prime
idi di agosto alle seste idi per cinque anni continui un bagno, un
venereo, e novecento botteghe colle pergole e co’ cenacoli. Se taluno
esercitasse in casa (o il condannato) lenocinio, non è ammesso alla
conduzione.
La formula invece, quale è ristabilita dal sen. Fiorelli, vorrebbe dire: se
trascorrerà il quinquennio, la locazione ai riterrà tacitamente rinnovata.
Altri poi, leggendo aggiunta alla iscrizione surriferita anche le parole
SMETTIVM . VERVM . ADE, pretendono interpretare le sigle in
questione nella seguente maniera: si quis dominum loci ejus non
cognoverit, — se alcuno non conosca il padrone di questo luogo, si
rivolga a Smettio Vero.
84. Veggasi: Della Patria dei due Plinii, Dissertazione di Pier Alessandro
Paravia indirizzata al cav. Ippolito Pindemonte, edita nell’appendice al
Volgarizzamento delle Lettere di Plinio il Giovane dello stesso Paravia,
già altre volte da noi citato. Il Paravia prova, a non più lasciar ombra di
dubbio, i Plinii essere stati di Como.
87. «Le mofete, scrive Giuseppe Maria Galanti, formano molti fenomeni
curiosi. Terminate le grandi eruzioni sogliono esse manifestarsi sotto le
antiche lave e ne’ sotterranei, e qualche volta hanno infettata tutta
l’atmosfera. Non sono che uno sviluppamento di acido carbonico. Circa
quaranta giorni dopo l’ultima grande eruzione del 1822 comparvero le
mofete nelle cantine ed altri luoghi sotterranei delle adiacenze del
Vulcano. L’aria mofetica cominciava all’altezza del suolo superiore, e
spesso infettava anche l’aria esterna. In alcuni sotterranei si
manifestarono rapidamente, in altri lentamente: dove durarono pochi
giorni e dove sino a due mesi. Dopo l’eruzione del 1794 molte persone
perirono per mancanza di precauzione contro queste mofete. Esse si
sviluppano più assai nei luoghi dove terminano le antiche lave, cioè nei
luoghi prossimi alla pedementina del Vulcano, forse perchè il gas acido
carbonico che si svolge in copia nell’interno del Vulcano, si fa strada
negli interstizi delle lave, le quali partono tutte dal focolare vulcanico.»
Napoli e Contorni, 1829. — Vedi anche La storia de’ fenomeni del
Vesuvio di Monticelli e Covelli. Napoli, 1843.