Revolution Without Movement, Movement Without Revolution: Comparing Islamic Activism in Iran and Egypt

Revolution without Movement,
Movement without Revolution:

Comparing Islamic Activism in Iran
and Egypt
ASEF BAYAT
The American University in Cairo
Why did Iran of the late 1970s with a thriving economy, wealthy middle class,
repressive political system, massive military might, and powerful internation-
al allies go through an Islamic revolution, while Egypt of the early 1990s with
similar international allies, but poorer economy, impoverished large middle
classes, and a more liberal political system did not go beyond developing an
Islamist movement?1
explaining the revolution

Mainstream scholarship views the Iranian revolution as an outcome of an
ideological process, the culmination of a long-lasting Islamic movement
which had been evolving since the late 1960s. Hamid Dabashi’s impressive
work seems to suggest that in this “deeply religious society,” the Islamists
spent a long time preparing for an Islamic takeover. Through the institutions
of mosque, hawzeh (theological seminary) sermons, preaching, and publica-
tions, they were busy with recruiting, organizing, training, and mobilizing
their resources so that they could gain power when internal and international
opportunities presented themselves.2 Similarly, for Mansoor Moaddel, the
I should like to acknowledge the MacArthur Foundation, the Program on Peace and International
Cooperation, for supporting a broad project on ‘grassroots constituency of Islamic activism in
Iran and Egypt’ of which this essay is a part. My thanks are also to Professors Saad Eddin
Ibrahim, Fred Halliday, Ervand Abrahamian, Sami Zubaida, and Armando Salvatore, as well as
the anonymous reviewers of this journal who read and commented on earlier versions of this
essay. None of them are responsible for the conclusions drawn in this essay.
1 In 1978 the per-capita income in Iran was $2,400, compared to $660 in Egypt in 1988.
During the 1970s, some 15 percent of Tehran’s population lived in the squatter areas (and about
15 percent in slums), whereas this figure for Cairo in the early 1990s was 50 percent.
2 Hamid Dabashi, Theology of Discontent: The Ideological Foundation of the Islamic Revolu-
tion in Iran (New York: New York University Press, 1993), 110. For instance, Said A. Arjomand
states that “in 1961–78 . . . the religious institutions came under relentless attack by the Pahlavi
state and had to court the masses more assiduously in order to mobilize them in its defense”; see
0010-4175/98/1582–0594 $9.50 q 1998 Society for Comparative Study of Society and History
136
islamic activism in iran and egypt 137
emergence of the “Islamic discourse” in the particular “episode” of 1953–77

culminated in the Islamic revolution.3
Although Moaddel and Dabashi focus on internal factors, others such as
Anthony Parsons and Nikkie Keddie regard the Islamic revival as the popular
assertion of “Muslim identity” against Western political and cultural penetra-
tion. Parsons argues that the Iranian revolution was different from other revo-
lutions in that the “bulk of the ShiKi population of Iran knew both what they
did not want (the continuation of Pahlavi rule) and what they did want (a
government controlled by religious leadership, the historical guardians of the
Islamic Iranian tradition).” For Keddie, two additional factors played a role: a
growing association between secularism and western control and a govern-
ment associated with the western powers.4
Others have explained the revolution in terms of the breakdown of the
traditional social order caused by “social dislocation and normative distur-
bance.” Said Amir Arjomand views this as the result of the socioeconomic
changes that the state initiated. Unable to integrate the dislocated and disori-
ented groups into its own structure, the state pushed them to the arms of the
ShiKi clergy, who were ready to mobilize them since the 1960s. The Islamic
movement acted as the “rival integrative movement,” offering the disoriented
with a sense of moral and spiritual community.5 What happened in 1979,
according to Arjomand “was destined to be an Islamic revolution with the
goal of establishing a theocracy.”6
Structural factors and class interests are emphasized by yet another group of
scholars. Ervand Abrahamian, Fred Halliday, Mohsen Milani, and Keddie (in
her later writings) among others consider the contradiction between socio-
economic development and political autocracy as the main source of conflict
and the social classes as major players in the revolution.7 Parsa Misaq in
addition places special emphasis on the role of the state—the high degree of
Arjomand, “ShiKite Islam and the Revolution in Iran,” Government and Opposition, 16:2 (1981),
302.
3 Mansoor Moaddel, Class, Politics and Ideology in the Iranian Revolution (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1993); and M. Moaddel, “The Significance of Discourse in the
Iranian Revolution: A Reply to Foran,” in Critique: Journal for Critical Studies of the Middle
East, no. 4, (Spring 1994), 65–72. See also an interesting critique of Moaddel by Jhon Forn in his
“The Iranian Revolution and the Study of Discourses: A Comment on Moaddel,” in Critique:
Journal for Critical Studies of the Middle East, no. 4 (Spring 1994), 51–63.
4 Anthony Parsons, “The Iranian Revolution,” Middle East Review, 1988 (spring), 3–8. Nikkie
Keddie, Roots of Revolution: An Interpretive History of Modern Iran (New Haven: Yale Univer-
sity Press, 1981); N. Keddie, “Islamic Revival in the Middle East: A Comparison of Iran and
Egypt,” in Samih Farsoun, ed., Arab Society: Continuity and Change (London, Croom Helm,
1985).
5 S. A. Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown (Oxford University Press, 1988), 106, 197–200.
6 Ibid., 6.
7 Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions; Halliday, Iran: Dictatorship and Development;
M. Milani, The Making of the Islamic Revolution in Iran; N. Keddie, Iran and the Muslim World
(New York: New York University Press, 1995).
138 asef bayat
state intervention in capital accumulation eroded the mediating role of the

market, rendering the state the target of all conflict and opposition.8
I do not intend to offer a thorough assessment of each of these explanations.
Undoubtedly, these authors have on the whole shed a valuable light on the
complexities of the Iranian revolution. I do propose here to point to two
problems. First, despite their differences, these authors grant an overestimated
agency to a supposed strong Islamic movement which is said to have evolved
since the 1960s or earlier, and to its role in carrying the revolution to victory.
This is an assumption which I shall question in this essay. Second, the pro-
posed models, in general, may be able to explain not the revolution per se but
help to identify the major causes behind popular resentment and mobilization.
One still needs to examine how a massive mobilization and movement articu-
lates into a revolution. Indeed, as Henry Munson argues, most of the factors
suggested by the above authors—resentment of foreign domination, authori-
tarian rule, violation of traditional values, social dislocation, economic down-
turn, inequality, and state intervention—also existed in some other Middle
Eastern countries but did not materialize into revolution.9 For Egypt, Snow
and Marshal maintain cultural imperialism and globalization as the underlying
cause of the Islamist movement.10 Similarly, Burgat and Dowell see Islamism
in Egypt and in North Africa as the third phase of anti-colonialism—cultural
and discursive independence—after political and economic independence.11
Meanwhile, Saad Eddin Ibrahim (and more or less Gilles Kepel) among others
focus on the national crisis manifested in conflicts with foreign influence,
especially the defeat in the 1967 war with Israel, class incongruity, and indi-
vidual anomie among the educated rural migrants as the major factors which
furnished the rise of the Islamist movement since the 1970s.12 Like the Iranian
case, both internal (socio-economic and political) and external (resentment
against western domination and the Israel factor) played crucial roles in bring-
ing about Egypt’s Islamist activism. So, in what way do Iran and Egypt
represent two different trajectories? Why revolution in Iran, but not in Egypt?
The question can be addressed not simply in terms of the structural causal
analysis but by explaining the link between popular mobilization and revolu-
tions.
8 Misagh Parsa, Social Origins of the Iranian Revolution (New Brunswick: Rutgers University
Press, 1989).
9 Henry Munson, Islam and Revolution in the Middle East (New Haven: Yale University Press,
1988).
10 Snow and Marshal, “Cultural Imperialism, Social Movements, and Islamic Revival,” in
Research in Social Movements, Conflicts, and Change, vol. 7 (1989), 131–52.

11 F. Burga and W. Dowell, The Islamic Movement in North Africa, (Austin, TX: University of
Texas Press, 1993).

12 Saad Eddin Ibrahim, “Anatomy of Egypt’s Militant Islamic Groups: Methodological Note
and Preliminary Findings,” International Journal of Middle East Studies, 12 (1980), 423–53; G.
Kepel, Muslim Extremism in Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986).
social movements and revolutions

None of the major models of collective action has theorized the dynamics of
the transformation from collective action to revolution. They are concerned
largely with explaining causes of social discontent and revolutionary crisis.13
For James Davies, “Revolutions are most likely to occur when a prolonged
period of objective economic and social development is followed by a short
period of sharp reversal.”14 As in Gurr’s “relative deprivation” thesis, what
seems to mediate between these objective processes and the occurrence of
revolution is the psychological mood of the people, their expectations, and
frustrations.15 But as the resource mobilization theorists have pointed out, the
mood of a people may not lead to action unless they are able to mobilize the
necessary resources by creating appropriate opportunities. In this context,
Tilly’s important concepts—opportunity, or those factors which facilitate col-
lective action, and suppression, or those which restrict it—are particularly
useful.16 And so are the degree of the legitimacy of the authorities, the
dynamics of the use of violence, and the division within the elites which
Quee-Young Kim highlighted.17 Yet these theorists fail to capture the complex
dynamics of the interaction between the contenders and state during the revo-
lutionary process.
Popular discontents, whatever their cause, may give rise to two types of
mobilization. The first type, protest or insurrectionary movements, like Iran’s
revolutionary movement during 1978, aims solely to negate the existing order;
they may or may not be able to build an alternative structure. The second,
social movements, aim to alter the dominant arrangements but also attempt to
establish alternative institutions and value systems before a total change. The
European Socialist movements, Poland’s Solidarity, and some Islamist move-
ments, represent such a pattern. In general, such social movements are more or
less structured and require the durable efforts of a relatively large number of
people to produce social change. These movements may be composed of
diverse activities with pervasive institutional ramifications within civil soci-
ety. As constituents of alternative institutions and cultural settings, they differ
from such free-form collective actions as riots or street demonstrations or
from rigidly structured interest groups which concern only their own mem-
bers. Social movements are also different from power-seeking political par-
ties, small cliques like secret discussion groups, and underground guerrilla
13 See, for instance, Theda Skocpol, States and Social Revolutions (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1979).

14 James Davies, “Toward a Theory of Revolution,” American Sociological Review, 27:1
(February 1962), 6.
15 Ted Gurr, Why Men Rebel, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970).
16 Charles Tilly, From Mobilization to Revolution, 1978.
17 Quee-Young Kim, “Disjunctive Justice and Revolutionary Movement: The 4.19 (Sa-il-gu)
Upheaval and the Fall of the Syngman Rhee Regime in South Korea,” in Quee-Young Kim, ed.,
Revolutions in the Third World (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1991), 56–70.
140 asef bayat
organizations without mass support. Yet they may be connected to these kinds
of activities, share many features with them, or even transform into one
another (such as the Rifah Party or the Islamic movement in Turkey?). They
are, moreover, distinct from revolutions, in that the latter refers to processes of
pervasive, usually violent and rapid change, where the political authority
collapses and is replaced by the contenders.18
Protest movements which may culminate in insurrections, on the other
hand, are usually transitory and do not last long. Either they achieve their goal
or get suppressed. The most critical element for protest movements is sus-
tainability, since they directly challenge the political authority. Nevertheless,
in some rare cases, a protest movement may transform itself into a more
structured and institutionalized social movement or even into an interest
group. Jadwiga Staniszkis has referred to Solidarity’s transformation during
September 1980 and March 1981 from a national movement into a trade union
position as “Poland’s self-limiting revolution.”19 Solidarity regained its origi-
nal status after the crackdown by the military regime in 1981 and reemerged
in the late 1980s after the “Gorbachev revolution.”20
Because they are institutionalized within the civil society, social movements—
unlike protest actions and insurrections—are able to sustain and persist longer
when confronted with the state. However, precisely because of this dynamics,
they are likely to turn away from a revolutionary or insurrectionary character
by struggling, instead, within an existing arrangement. Many factors contrib-
ute to this. The first has to do with the temporal element. Unlike an insurrec-
tionary movement which does not have much time (because it either crushes
or gets crushed), social movements function within a longer span of time,
during which people can ask questions, debate key issues, and be clear about
the aims of the movement. Various ideas and consequently divergent tenden-
cies develop. While clarity and differentiation mark the salient features of a
social movement, ambiguity and unity are the hallmarks of insurrectionary
actions. Second, because of the positive changes that they may generate,
social movements may modify the conditions of their own existence. For
instance, the unemployed movement in Iran in 1979 undermined itself partly
because it achieved some of its goals.21 Unlike the protest movements or
insurrections which only negate the prevailing order, social movements tend
18 More precisely, a revolution is, in Huntington’s words, “a rapid, fundamental, and violent
domestic change in the dominant values and myths of a society, in its political institutions, social
structure, leadership, and government activity and politics.” See S. Huntington, “Modernization
and Revolution,” in Claude, E. Welch and M. B. Taintor, eds., Revolution and Political Change
(1972), 22.
19 Jadwiga Staniszkis, Poland’s Sef-Limiting Revolution (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1984), 17.

20 P. Kuczynski and K. Nowak, “The Solidarity Movement in Relation to Society and the
State,” in L. Kriesberg et al., eds., Research in Social Movement, Conflicts and Change, vol. 10
(Greenwich: Connecticut, Jai Press Inc., 1988).
21 See Asef Bayat, “Workless Revolutionaries: The Movement of the Unemployed in Iran,
1979,” International Review of Social History, 42:2 (Summer 1997), 159–85.

also to construct alternative institutions and value systems. In this process,

they develop, for instance, alternative credit systems for the poor as well as
clinics, factories, mutual aid, housing, and systems of social protection, all of
which may fulfill some of the needs of their constituencies. Besides, they also
give rise to social and cultural sub-systems which usually coexist, albeit with
tension, within the dominant order. Alternative electoral systems in autono-
mous unions, syndicates, neighborhoods and associations for the excluded
groups are a few of their institutional manifestations. Finally, alternative
religious and cultural organizations—schools, holidays, charities, political
parties as well as those dealing with music, art, customs, and even laws—are
set up to serve as a moral community in which excluded people can feel at
home. The Austrian socialist movement in the 1920s and Egyptian Islamic
activism represent two examples.
Some neo-Durkheimian social theorists, such as Arjomand, view such insti-
tutions as the embodiment of an “integrative community” which breeds oppo-
sition to dominant institutions and value systems (as in Iran). However, in-
stead of political opposition, such arrangements are likely to lead to what
Guenther Roth (in an analysis of Social Democracy in Imperial Germany)
calls “negative integration”—partial economic and political inclusion com-
bined with alternative cultural and social existence.22 On the other hand,
integration theorists such as Bendix and Lipset (pointing to the Western Eu-
ropean trade union movement) have argued that institutionalization of this
nature helps contenders develop interests in the prevailing system and work-
ing within it.23 However, I wish to emphasize that social movements do not
simply integrate the contenders into a system, they also produce some real
change and generate sub-systems within which the actors operate and repro-
duce themselves. Instead of leading to a sudden revolutionary transformation,
these movements often both coexist and compete with the dominant social
arrangement. Unlike insurrectionist movements, they do not or cannot undo
political authority, although this does not mean that they are integrated in the
sense of ideological and political co-optation because the very operation of the
movement signifies considerable change for its members. Rather, in a sense, it
conjures up Gramscian “passive revolution” (or a “war of position”) which
aims not simply at capturing state power (as the insurrectionists do in their
“frontal attack”) but focuses on the gradual capture and possession of the
society by exerting moral and intellectual leadership over civil institutions and
processes.24 A true revolution, for Gramsci, is not just winning the state power
but winning the society by institutional, intellectual, and moral hegemony. “A
social group can, and indeed must, already exercise leadership before winning
22 Guenther Roth, The Social Democrats in Imperial Germany: A Study of Working Class
Isolation and National Integration (Totowa, NJ: 1963), 170.

23 Bendix, Nation-Building, 86 –89; Lipset, Political Man, 70–73.
24 Antonio Gramsci, Prison Notebooks (New York: International Publishers, 1971), 106–114;
206–8.
142 asef bayat
governmental power (this indeed is one of the principal conditions for the
winning of such power).”25 Although “passive revolution” represents a con-
scious strategy, its consequences reflect those of the social movements.
Whereas “frontal attacks” or insurrections are likely to occur in societies in
which civil institutions are minimally available to mediate between the gov-
ernment and the people, passive revolution occurs where a strong civil society
prevails. But the passive revolution, the “revolution of the spirit,” is pro-
longed, “complex, difficult,” and calls for “exceptional qualities of patience
and inventive spirit.”26 The reformist core of social movements and passive
revolution must be evident from both their “integrating” impacts and the
conscious strategy of the movements which give priority to changing the
society rather than to capturing governmental power. This is radically distin-
guished from the insurrectionary movements whose aim is frontal attack
against the government (the war of maneuver), which results in a different
outcome.
In this essay I argue that Iran experienced an insurrectionary movement
aimed at capturing the state power; Egypt, on the other hand, developed with a
degree of relative openness, a pervasive Islamic social movement which oper-
ated and brought about significant changes within the civil society but failed
to alter the political structure. In other words, Iran witnessed an Islamic
revolution without a strong Islamic movement; but Egypt experienced a
movement without a revolution. Three major factors were involved in this
equation: differing political and social statuses of the clergy, differences in the
ways that Islam was articulated and practiced, and finally different degrees of
political control in the two countries. In the following pages I will elaborate on
these two trajectories and their implications for revolutionary and reformist
outcomes.
the islamic revolution in iran

On February 11, 1979, Tehran radio announced the victory of the Iranian
revolution with feverish jubilation. This heralded the end of a 2,500-year-old
monarchy. A mood of ecstasy overtook the populace who rushed into the
streets en mass. Women milled through the crowd, handing out candies and
sharbat, sweet drinks. Vehicles sounded their horns in unison, beaming their
lights as they drove down the main streets, which only days before had
witnessed bloody clashes between the protesters and the army. These same
streets were now being patrolled by the revolutionary militias, the Pasdaran.
For those present, it was a day of incomparable victory.
The victory day was the culmination of over eighteen months of mass
demonstrations, bloody confrontations, massive industrial actions, a general
strike, and many political maneuverings. Yet the genesis of the revolution
25 Ibid., 207. 26 Joseph Femia, Gramsci’s Political Thought, 192.
must be traced to structural changes that had been underway since the 1930s,
when the country began undergoing a process of modernization. This process
was accelerated especially after the coup 1953 engineered by the U.S. Central
Intelligence Agency (CIA), which toppled nationalist prime minister, Moham-
mad Mosaddeq, and reinstated the Shah. This structural change resulted in
many conflicts, the chief among them being the contradiction between socio-
economic change and political underdevelopment.27 In addition to these struc-
tural causes, certain accelerating factors—state inefficiency, corruption and a
sense of injustice among many sectors of the Iranian society—were also
involved.
The policy of modernization and economic change, initiated by the state
under both Reza Shah (1925–46) and his son, the late Shah, resulted in the
growth of new social forces, a development that dismayed traditional social
groups. By the late 1970s, a large and well-to-do modern middle class, mod-
ern youth, public women, an industrial working class, in addition to a new
poor—slum and squatter dwellers dominated the social scene. With the ex-
ception of the latter, all these groups represented the beneficiaries of the
economic development, who enjoyed relatively high status and comparable
economic rewards. However, the persistence of the Shah’s anachronistic au-
tocracy (political underdevelopment) prevented these thriving social layers
from participating in the political process, something that angered them. At
the very same time, the old social groups—a segment of the traditional ba-
zaares, the old strata of the urban middle class, the clergy and those adherent
to Islamic institutions—were also frustrated by the modernization strategy
because it undermined their economic interests and social status.
When all the institutional channels that could have given expression to the
discontent were closed, the populace became increasingly alienated from the
state. In the meantime, corruption, inefficiency, a sense of injustice, and a
feeling of moral outrage characterized the social psychology of many Iranians.
So, during the tense years of the 1970s, at the height of the Shah’s authori-
tarian rule and remarkable economic development, many people (except per-
haps the upper class and landed peasantry) seemed dissatisfied, albeit for
different reasons. But all were united in blaming the Shah and his western
allies for that state of affairs. It is not surprising, then, that the language of
dissent and protests was largely anti-monarchy, anti-imperialist, third world-
ist, and even nationalist, turning towards the end to religious discourse.
The opportunity for popular mobilization arrived with what we used to call
the “Carterite breeze” (Nasseem-e Carteri). President Carter’s human rights
policy in the late 1970s forced the Shah to offer a political space for a limited
27 See Ervand Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1983); N. Keddie, Roots of Revolution; Mohsen Milani, The Making of the Islamic Revolu-
tion in Iran (Boulder: Westvew Press, 1986); Fred Halliday, Iran: Dictatorship and Development
(London: Penguin Books, 1979).
144 asef bayat
degree of expression. This expression, in the process, was cumulatively built

up and in the course of less than two years swept aside the monarchy. It all
began with a limited relaxation on censorship, allowing some literary and
intellectual activities (in the Goethe Institute and in the universities in Tehran)
and public gatherings by political Islamists (in Oquba Mosque). It continued
with the distribution, by the intellectuals and liberal politicians, of openly
critical letters to high-level officials. In the midst of this, an insulting article in
a daily paper, Ettilaat, against Ayatollah Khomeini triggered a demonstration
in the shrine city of Qum which left some demonstrators killed. To commemo-
rate this death, a large-scale demonstration took place in the Azeri city of
Tabriz in the north. This marked the beginning of a chain of events which
formed a nation-wide revolutionary protest movement in which diverse seg-
ments of the population, modern and traditional, religious and secular, men
and women, massively participated and in which the ˜ulamā came to exert its
leadership. But why did the clergy in particular lead the revolution?
For over twenty-five years of autocratic rule, since the 1953 coup, any
effective secular political parties and non-governmental organizations had
been removed or destroyed. The coup crushed both the nationalist and com-
munist movements; trade unions were infiltrated by the secret police, SAVAK;
publications were strictly censored; and there remained hardly any effective
non-governmental organizations (NGOs).28 The primary source of organized
political dissent came from the underground guerrilla organizations, Marxist
Fedaian and radical Islamic Mujahedin, whose activities were limited to iso-
lated armed operations.29 Student activism also remained restricted, limited
either to campus politics inside the country or to events carried out by the
Iranian students abroad. In short, the secular groupings, while badly dissat-
isfied, were disorganized and without leadership.
Unlike secular groups, however, the clergy had the comparative advantage
of possessing invaluable institutional capacity, including its own hierarchical
order, over 10,000 mosques, Husseiniehs, Huwzehs, and associations which
acted as vital means of communication among the revolutionary contenders.
Young Islamists, both girls and boys along with young clergymen linked the
institution of the ˜ulamā to the people. A hierarchical order facilitated unified
decision making and a systematic flow of order and information; and in
mosques higher-level decisions were disseminated to both the activists and the
general public. In short, beyond the lack of a credible alternative, this institu-
tional capacity and a remarkable ambiguity in the message of the clergy
28 On the anti-democratic nature of the Shah’s regime and its political implications, see Fred
Halliday, Iran: Dictatorship and Development (London: Penguin, 1977) (on SAVAK activities);
Habib Lajevardi, Labor Unions and Autocracy in Iran (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press,
1985); Homa Katouzian, The Political Economy of Modern Iran (London: Macmillan, 1982).
29 On guerrilla activities in Iran, see Fred Halliday, Iran: Dictatorship and Development;
Ervand Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions.

ensured the ˜ulamā’s leadership. That leadership was maintained due to the
relatively rapid conclusion of revolutionary events; there was little time for
debate and dissent for a social movement to emerge and a possible alternative
leadership to develop. Thus, the nascent Islamic movement of the 1970s
rapidly transformed into a state. Islamization unfolded largely after the victory
of the Islamic revolution and was enforced largely from above by the Islamic
state. It was manifested in the establishment of the valaya-ti faqih, or the rule
of clergy, Islamic legal system, restrictive policies on women, and Islamic
cultural practices and institutions.
socio-economic change and the decline of islam

This analysis does not underestimate the significance of political Islam before
the Islamic revolution. Indeed, the history of political Islam in Iran goes as far
back as that in Egypt, at least to the late nineteenth century. The role of the
Iranian ˜ulamā in the Tobacco movement—the first nationalist-religious
movement against foreign influence—and their impact in the Constitutional
Revolution of 1905–06, as well as the Jangali movement of the mid-1920s,
are well documented.30 Yet their legitimacy, political orientation (largely due
to their social heterogeneity), and thus political efficacy fluctuated markedly
in different periods. To preserve their special interests as a status group, along
with their judiciary prerogatives and economic benefits, clerical figures such
as Shaikh Fadlullah Nouri turned to become staunch opponents of the 1906
Constitution, leading “the vast majority of the constitutionalist ˜ulamā”31
toward a mashruã, or an Islamic constitution. Although mashruã politics
failed, the country being occupied by the Russians and British during the First
World War, Islamic leaders found yet another ground to combine nationalism
and anti-government politics. Many local uprisings and movements emerged
throughout the country. From 1917 on, Mirza Kouchik Khan, a dynamic
Islamic preacher from Rasht, along with secular revolutionaries such as Khalu
Qurban and Ehsanallh Khan, led a spectacular movement ( Jangalies) which
controlled much of the Caspian Sea Province of Gilan.32
The post-Second World War period witnessed intense activities of such
grand clergymen as Ayatollah Kashani and the Fedaian-i Islam in the politics
of the nationalist movement led by Mohammed Mosaddeq and in the urban
riots of 1963, when Ayatollah Khomeini emerged as a resolute politico-
30 Nikki Keddie, Religion and Rebellion in Iran: The Tobacco Protest of 1891–92 (London:
Frank Cass, 1966). Hamid Alghar, Religion and Politics. Said A. Arjomand, “The Ulama’s
Traditionalist Opposition to Parliamentarism: 1907–1909,: in Middle Eastern Studies, 17:2
(1981), 421–33.
31 See Said A. Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist Opposition to Parliamentarism: 1907–
1909,” in Middle Eastern Studies, 17:2 (1981), 186. Unlike Arjomand, Ervand Abrahamian, a
historian of Iran, believes that most of the clergy remained supportive of Constitutionalism
(personal communication).
32 Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 111–2.
146 asef bayat
religious figure.33 Following this turmoil, he was forced to leave for an exile
in Turkey, then Iraq, and in the midst of the Islamic revolution, was trans-
ferred to Paris, where he became the leader of the revolution. The events of
July 1963 were to mark the last major showdown of the Islamists in the streets
until the Islamic Revolution of 1979. In all of these episodes Islam played an
effective political role in mobilizing its supporters because both Islam (as a
faith, paradigm, and discourse) and the Islamic leaders enjoyed a great deal of
legitimacy among their followers. However, that role had begun to decline
since the reign of Reza Shah (1925–41).
Reza Shah, the father of Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, emerged during the
conditions of remarkable political instability and social insecurity spread by
years of upheavals, civil war, foreign occupation, and nomadic uprisings—
conditions which breed the desire for “strong leaders.” Brought to power by a
British-engineered coup, he set out to establish a strong state on the image of
the West and its third-world variant, the Turkish Republic headed by Kamal
Ataturk. He aimed to build a unified modern state founded upon secular
nationalism, educational development, and state capitalism.34 Many of these
measures seriously undermined the institutions of Islam and the ˜ulamā.
To begin with, the Judiciary, up to then under the influence of the clergy,
was entirely restructured; modern educated lawyers replaced traditional
judges; French Civil Codes took the place of most Islamic laws; and the
secular judges determined the nature of cases deemed to be raised in secular or
religious courts. Reza Shah, in addition, restricted religious festivals, com-
memorations, passion plays, and other practices that affected public life. The
establishment of a modern system of taxation, along with that of Ministry of
Awqaf (Endowments), deprived the clergy of a sizable segment of religious
tax income; and, with this, the economic independence which the ˜ulamā had
enjoyed for the previous two centuries was threatened. But more important,
educational reform played a lasting part in Reza Shah’s secular dreams. Set-
ting up unified state-run schools meant that traditional institutions of learning
controlled by the clergy and a curriculum dominated by the teaching of
QurÃan, grammar, rhetoric, and logic in maktabs and madresehs lost their
preeminence. Thus, while students in both modern primary schools and col-
leges grew more than five-fold between 1925–41,35 the number of talabehs
(theological students) in madresehs fell from over 5,500 in 1929–30 to fewer
than 1,340 in 1937. Indeed, even the children of many prominent ˜ulamā
preferred and moved into the modern administrative occupations.36 The social
and intellectual impact of modern schooling was also far-reaching. With its
33 For more details, see Shahroukh Akhavi, Religion and Politics in Contemporary Iran
(Albany: SUNY Press, 1980), 99–105.

34 Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions, 140.
35 Calculated from data provided by Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 144–45.
36 See Roy Mottahedeh, The Mantle of the Prophet (New York: Pantheon, 1985), 316.
emphasis on diversified subjects, it offered and facilitated alternative dis-

courses, scientific rationality, and secular practices instead of religious para-
digms. Moreover, modern schools, along with other public places such as
parks, cinemas, cafes, factories, and offices, contributed to the movement of
urban women from domestic seclusion into the public domain with men.37
Reza Shah’s relentless war against the veil was already under way. Notwith-
standing his patriarchism, he forcefully outlawed the chador, a long veil of a
single piece, and required high officials to bring their wives to public events.
These measures, introduced in drastic and often brutal ways, undermined
the clergy profoundly but neither eliminated them nor killed religious senti-
ments among people. The policies, however, did make accessible alternative
secular ways of living, thinking, and reasoning, while offering diversified role
models and sources of legitimacy. It is perhaps not surprising that after the
Allies removed Reza Shah and during an unprecedented democratic experi-
ence between 1941 and 1953, various sorts of secular, nationalist, radical, and
Marxist ideologies flourished. Islam as a faith, discourse, and mobilizing force
continued to decline. A few women who had been forced to unveil under Reza
Shah returned to wearing the traditional chador after his fall; the remainder,
along with the new generations of women, continued with their new identi-
ties.38 Although the number of talabehs increased,39 political Islam declined
drastically. Under Ayatollah Broujerdi, the marjaK taqleed, the Hawzeh re-
mained apolitical. When one segment of the ˜ulamā together with bazaares
supported the nationalization of oil, the Ayatollah chose to remain neutral. In
the end, the clergy’s fear of the Tudeh Party’s growth under Prime Minister
Mosaddeq allied them with the 1953 coup which toppled the nationalist lead-
er.40 There seems to be evidence to suggest a decline in religious practice
among ordinary people. An eyewitness account during the Mosaddeq era
reported about the mosques which had been emptied of the masses.41 While
it is likely that in general popular religious sentiments remained, new venues
of popular expression nevertheless opened up in political parties, artistic cir-
cles, associations, trade unions, and the like. Now millions of ordinary men
and women joined or sympathized with movements which were known to be
secular, radical, and Marxist. Mosaddeq, the secular leader of the struggle to
37 Interestingly, after the Islamic Revolution, the mayor of Tehran, Karbaschi, was attacked by
conservative student weekly, Payam-i Naneshju, because he had made hundreds of public parks
and green spots in the city where men and women could mingle in public.
38 See Bagher MoKmeni, “Islam-i Mowjoud, Islam-i MowKoud,” in Noghteh, 1:1 (1995), 74 (in
Persian). See also Vida Behnam, “Zan, Khanevadeh va Tajaddod,” Iran Nameh, 11:2 (spring
1993), 234 (in Persian).
39 See Akhavi, Religion and Politics, 187, Appendixes.
40 Ahmad Ashraf, “Zamineh-ye Ijtemaii-ye Sonnatgeraii va Tajaddodkhahui” [Social Frame-
work of Traditionalism and Modernism in Iran], in Iran-Nameh, 11:2 (Spring 1993), 177 (in
Persian).
41 Jami, Gozashteh Chiraq-i Rah-i Ayandeh Ast [A History of Modern Iran], (London: Jami (in
Persian), 1978).
148 asef bayat
nationalize the Iranian oil industry, became a national hero in the early 1950s.
His National Front, an alliance of various secular nationalist parties was
rivaled only by the more cohesive Tudeh, or Communist Party. With over
25,000 members, and some 300,000 sympathizers in the early 1950s, it en-
joyed support among workers, women, intellectuals, artists, military officers,
students, teachers, professionals, the urban underclass, and even some peas-
ants. Despite police restrictions, it became the most effective organization in
the country,42 leading the most powerful communist movement in the Middle
East.43
the post-coup era: accelerating the change

The coup d’état of 1953, planned by the CIA, was designed to end the
Premiership of Mohammad Mosaddeq and reinstate the authority of the Shah.
It thus ended the democratic experience, crushed both the secular nationalist
and communist movements, and pushed political Islam on to the sidelines. It
consolidated a regime that was to manifest a model of modernization in the
periphery. The post-coup era, notably the 1960s and 1970s, represented a
period of remarkable economic growth, integration in the world market, ur-
banization, and social change—all initiated primarily by the autocratic state of
the Shah, safeguarded by a notorious secret police, SAVAK. This new phase
of modernization enhanced many programs that Reza Shah had initiated. It
promoted the ascendancy of modern classes—the professional-bureaucratic
and technocratic intelligentsia, industrial working class, public women, and
modern youth—at the cost of traditional social groups and ideals: the feudal
class, bazaaries, the ˜ulamā, and the institutions of Islam in general.
The post-coup regime became the closest ally of the United States in the
region. It joined western military, political, and economic treaties to become a
satellite of the West. In a big push for modernization, the Shah inaugurated in
1963 the “White Revolution” in which land reform, women enfranchisement,
and the Literacy Corps were the most important elements with far-reaching
social consequences. Land reform, in particular, curtailed the power of feudal
lords, converted the peasantry into either small landowners or rural proletariat
who then migrated to cities, developed commodity relations in the country-
side, and expanded communications between villages and cities and within the
countryside in general.
In the meantime, rising oil prices contributed to a remarkable annual growth
rate of over 11 percent for the entire 1963–72 period, a rate that jumped again
to a staggering 30 percent during 1974 and 1975. Oil income was able to
finance impressive programs of industrialization and national education. Be-
tween 1963 and 78, Iran’s industrial output rose almost twelve fold, with an
42 Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions, 321.
43 Fred Halliday, Iran: Dictatorship and Development (London: Penguin, 1979).
average growth rate of 72 percent per year.44 This meant that the industrial
working class of factory and workshop workers grew to a sizable portion of
the population constituting one-third of the total work force in 1977.45 The
modernization strategy also boosted a large and fairly prosperous new middle
class by means of expanding modern education. The literate urban population
grew from 33 percent in 1956 to 65 percent in 1976, with 50 percent rate for
women. In 1978, some 175,000 students were enrolled in 236 institutions of
higher education in addition to some 80,000 students outside Iran.46 One third
of these students were female. Education became an important vehicle for
social mobility, contributing to the growth of modern middle class. Thus, the
number of students, professors, teachers, writers, doctors, lawyers, techno-
crats, and bureaucrats increased from 16.5 percent of the urban labor force in
1966 to over 33 percent, or over 1.9 million persons by 1976, including
300,000 women. A strong modern middle class had been created.47
Parallel to these developments, other traditional social groups were losing
ground. The feudal class, among them many important members of the clergy,
had virtually withered away. Its members gradually moved into commerce,
speculation, and industry. A large segment of the bazaar, well over 500,000
retail and wholesalers, felt the impact of the invasion of modern financial
institutions, trade companies, shopping centers, large factories, and new
tastes.48 While some surely resisted the invasion, others lost the battle, and
still many more began to conform to the reality of modernization by trading
foreign goods, employing modern trade relations and language.49 By the eve
of the Revolution, the Bazaar was sociologically, if not politically, divided.50
The political divide came only after the revolution manifesting along the lines
of Banisadr, who was supported by the more modernist and well-off bazaaries,
and the clergy backed by the more traditional-minded and small scale traders.
More than anybody, the clergy was on the defensive on the economic,
political and social fronts. In economic terms, land reform, together with the
establishment in 1963 of the Organization of Endowment cut back the main
source of clergy’s income from Awqaf. Earlier, Reza Shah’s administrative
44 Homa Katouzian, The Political Economy of Modern Iran (London: Macmillan, 1981), 276.
45 Asef Bayat, Workers and Revolution in Iran (London, Zed Books, 1987), 25.
46 Mehrdad Arman, “Naqsh-e Javanan dar Enqelab” [The Role of the Youths in the Iranian
Revolution], in Kankash: A Persian Journal of History and Politics, no. 5 (Fall 1988), 95 (in
Persian).
47 On these, see M. Milani, The Making of the Iranian Islamic Revolution (Boulder: Westview
Press, 1986), 115–9.

48 M. Milani, The Making, 116.
49 The generally modern or foreign nature of merchandise in Tehran bazaar becomes clearer
when one casually compares it with those in bazaars of Cairo or Istanbul.

50 Personal communication with Tahereh Qaderi, the author of a Ph.D thesis on bazaar in Iran
in 1970s (available at the University of Kent at Canterbury, England, 1985). The political
reflection of this division was revealed only one year after the revolution when different segments
of the bazaar exhibited support to different political leadership. They were notably divided
between supporters of President Bani Sadr and Ayatollah Beheshti.
150 asef bayat
reform had already diminished the fees the ˜ulamā were entitled to in their
legal and clerical duties such as registration of titles.51 What remained was
haqq-i imam and khoums, contributions from the faithful. In political terms,
the historic ally of the clergy, the traditional bazaaries and the feudal class,
were both seriously debilitated. At the same time, other social groups—such
as the middle class, women in the public domain, and modern youth—
developed, but most of them expressed little affinity with the institutions of
Islam, thus further undermining the social legitimacy of religious institutions.
I can recall back in the 1960s, my village classmates would question the
village mulla because they felt he lacked modern knowledge, and in turn the
mullahs expressed their dismay of the youth who, they felt, no longer listened
to their preaching. The number of madrasahs declined by 1968 to only 138
most of which had only a handful of students. “Some continued to exist as
monuments of landmarks more than instructional institutions.”52 Hence, Aya-
tollah Mutahhari’s acknowledgment as early as 1963 of this sad truth that
“materialistic philosophy has its appeal among Iranian youths.”53 He blamed
this on the ˜ulamā’s failure and on their dated practices.54
Indeed, this onslaught of secular tendencies made some Muslim leaders
rethink their practices and modernize their strategy. The opportune time came
when a vacuum was created following the death in 1961 of Ayatollah Broujer-
di, the marjK-i taqlid. A group of like-minded ˜ulamā and Islamic intellectuals
began to present Islam in an attractive modern language, mixing Islamic
discourse with rational scientific concepts, paying particular attention to con-
cerns of everyday life.55 Instead of jurisprudence or religious rituals, they
discussed Darwin’s evolution, Sartre’s existentialism, and Marx’s materialism.
As an engineer, Mehdi Bazargan was particularly emphatic that hard scientific
discourse had to be used to arrive at religious conclusions. Sympathetic clergy
followed suit. The leaders of Freedom Movement, a remnant of Mosaddeq
National Front (including Mehdi Bazargan, Morteza Mutahhari, Beheshti,
Allameh Tabatabaii, and Mahmoud Taleqani, most of whom were to become
leaders of the Islamic Revolution) organized monthly seminars around the
51 Akhavi, Religion and Politics, 134–5. 52 Ibid., 129.

53 This concern seemed to continue even up to the eve of the Revolution. During the famous
lectures of Oqba Mosque organized by modernist clergy in Fall 1977, I could observe how most
of the preaching, in particular those of Ayatollah Motahhari and Mehdi Bazargan, centered on
attacking rival secular, materialist and Marxist ideas. In the final evening which was devoted to
discussing participants’ questions and comments, I presented a critical review of Bazargan’s
lecture. The angry response of Ayatollah Mutahhari to my comments pointed to a sense of
insecurity of Islamists at the time.
54 Morteza Mutahhari, “Rahbari-ye Nasl-i Javan” (Leading the Youths), in Goftar-i Mah, no. 3
(1986), pp. 46–48.

55 Ali Ashtiani, “EhyaK-e Fikr-e Dini va Sarkardegui-ye Islam-e Syassi dar Inqilab-e Iran,” in
Kankash: A Persian Journal of History and Politics, no. 6 (Fall 1989) (in Persian); see also Ali
Mirsepassi-Ashtiani, “The Crisis of Secularism and Political Islam in Iran,” in Social Text, 12:3
(Spring 1994), 51–84.
theme of marjaKiyat va velayat dar Islam; (the source of immulation and

leadership). These seminars continued under the rubric of Maktab-i Tashayo
but still paid little attention to strictly QurÃanic teachings or traditional ShiKi
texts; instead, they maintained their emphasis on modern scientific language.
They published a journal, Maktab-i Tashayo, which printed articles on such
themes as “Leading the Young Generation,” “The Law of Causality in Human
Science and Religion,” and “Islam and the Proclamation of Human rights.” A
similar publication, Goftar-e Mah, also carried comparable contributions.
These reformist Muslim leaders even resorted to sociological surveys to learn
what the youth thought about Islam. Such developments were the beginning of
what came to be known as EhyaK-e Fikr-e Islami (or, reviving Islamic thought)
which characterized political Islam throughout the 1960s and the early 1970s
until it was overshadowed by the radical Islamist, Ali Shariati. It was mani-
fested in Islamic publications, the organization of Islamic study groups, and
the establishment of Islamic schools. The Islamic schools were different from
the madrasahs in that they combined a regular curriculum with Islamic extra-
curriculum activities, including tafseer and QurÃan recitation sessions, Islamic
entertainment, daily collective prayers, and alternative weekends. Their mis-
sion was to create “true” Muslim individuals.
This trend surely represented a significant shift in the socialization and
politicization of Islam. However, this and its contemporary religiosity were far
from a mass social movement and bore little resemblance to the Egyptian or
Algerian versions in the early 1990s. In Iran, the Maktab- i Tashayo and
similar activities remained weak, isolated, and elitist. Only three issues of
their two periodicals were published. As historian Reza Afshari points out,
Ayatollah Khomeini’s most significant contributions to the Islamic ideology,
velayat-e Faqih, was unknown to some of his most ardent followers.56 Con-
trary to the prevailing assumption, there is not adequate evidence suggesting
that the ˜ulamā resorted to making an appeal to the masses.57 Indeed, none of
the major leaders paid a particular attention to the mustazKafin as a special
class. A review of 88 sermons, messages, and letters by Ayatollah Khomeini
attests that in the 15 years prior to the revolution, he made only 8 passing
references to lower-class people, compared to 50 references to educated
youth, students, and universities.58 In turn, Ayatollah Mutahhari’s elitist ap-
56 See Reza Afshari, “A Critique of Dabashi’s Reconstruction of Islamic Ideology as a Prereq-
uisite for the Iranian Revolution,” in Critique: Journal of Critical Studies of the Middle East, no. 5
(Fall 1994), 76.
57 This assumption is made by Akhavi, Religion and Politics, 101; Arjomand, The Turban;
Mottahedeh, The Mantle; and Kazemi, The Unknown.

58 See Ayatollah Rouhullah Khomeini, Sahife-ve Nour, collected works compiled and edited
by the Ministry of National Guidance (Tehran, 1982). Interestingly, the term mustazKafin appeared
in his language only during the height of the revolution (Aban 1357), when he used it merely to
repudiate the leftists by attempting to offer an alternative conceptualization of the poor. For a
more detailed discussion see Asef Bayat, Street Politics: Poor people’s Movements in Iran, 1977–
1990 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997).
152 asef bayat
proach is clear through his warnings about avaam-zadegui, or populism59; for

Ali Shariati, intellectuals, not the popular masses, constituted the revolution-
ary force.60 For these Muslim leaders, then, the critical mass was not the
mustazKafin but the educated youth.
Indeed, some evidence seems to point to the growth of Islamic books, tapes,
and associations in general during the late 1960s and 1970s. Accounts are
given in 1976 about, for instance, 48 publishers of religious books in Tehran,
the sale of 490,000 copies of Mafatih al-Jnan, 13 centers of recording and
distribution of tapes, approximately 12,300 religious associations in Tehran,
of which 1,800 had formal titles.61 Despite serious doubts on the accuracy of
these figures,62 many scholars take these as “firm evidence” of a “religious
movement” in the 1960s and 1970s which presumably underlay the Islamic
Revolution.63
To begin with, the censorship policies after 1966 caused a general decline in
volumes of published works in non-religious subjects and, thus, an increase in
relative proportion of religious books.64 It is interesting to note that imme-
diately after the revolution, when censorship was removed, secular periodi-
cals, books, pamphlets, and tapes flourished, on a massive scale. According to
the Iranian Publication Association, more than 2 million books were published
in the country within the first six months of 1979.65 Whereas the highest
circulation for the largest daily in Tehran (Keyhan) was recorded at 300,000 in
1978, the circulation of Tehran’s two major evening dailies (Keyhan and
EttilaKat) reportedly surpassed 1.5 million in the early months of the revolu-
tion, and the leftist morning newspaper, Aynadegan, hovered at around
400,000. On the whole, over 100 newspapers and periodicals began to work or
resumed publication in Tehran alone in the post-revolutionary months.66
In addition, most of the religious publications put out before the revolution
59 See Anonymous, ed., Bahthi dar Bare-ye MarjaKiyyat va Ruhanyyat, 183 (in Persian).
60 Ali Shariati, Jahatguiri-ye Tabaqati-ye Islam (Tehran, 1980, in Persian).
61 Arjoman, “ShiKit Islam and the Revolution in Iran,” Government and Opposition, 16:3
(1981), 311–3.
62 The number of books can be verified by reference to UNESCO statistical sources. However,
on the number of Islamic Associations, only those formal titles, numbering 1,800, are reliable. It
is impossible to verify the other categories. Of the 1,800, it is not clear how many were really
viable or existed only in name.
63 See also Mirsepassi-Ashtiani, The Crisis, 77; Roy Mottahedeh, The Mantle, Hamid
Dabashi, Theology of Discontent: The Ideological Foundation of the Islamic Revolution in Iran
(New York: New York University Press, 1993).
64 Akhavi, Religion and Politics, 160. It is important to note that at the time Iran had one of the
most severe censorship policies in the world. About censorship on popular press, see also William
Milliard, “Popular Press in Iran,” in Gof-O-Gou, no. 4 (Tehran, 1994) (in Persian).
65 See Majid Tehranian, Socio-Economic and Communication Indicators in Development
Planning: A Case Study of Iran (Paris: UNESCO, 1980), 63.

66 On these figures, see Majid Tehranian, Socio-Economic, 56–57. The total number of regis-
tered periodicals jumped from 104 in 1975 to 227 in 1980, one year after the revolution. However,
a crackdown on oppositional publications and organizations reduced the number to a mere 66. In
other words, some 161 periodicals, almost all secular, were banned publication. For figures see
MarkazKi Amar-e Iran, Iran dar AaKine-ye Amaar, no. 4 (Tehran), 1363.
hardly represented political Islam. Instead, they were either practical guides
on religious rituals, preaching on morality, or scholarly inquiries into mysti-
cism or theosophy.67 While it may be true that Maktab-e Islam, a journal of
the Hawzeh in Qum, had reportedly high circulation in the late 1960s, it
always refused to publish reformist or political materials68; and, Mafatih al-
jnan represented, according to Ali Shariati, no more than “the most other-
worldly aspect of fossilized traditional shiKism.”69
One should also be cautious about the success of the Islamic schools in
spreading religious messages or, for that matter, political Islam. In my own
three-year experience in one of them in the 1960s, the Islamic programs were
the least attractive to most students,70 and the clerical instructors the least
popular with the many of us who, in the end, felt the pressure of institutional
indoctrination and left the school for secular counterparts. The somber mood
of the Islamic entertainment could hardly compete with the non-religious fun
which the students actively sought. On the other hand, there is a widespread
assumption that the mustazKafin, the poor, knew the mullas and joined the
revolution through such Islamic institutions as heyKats, the ethnic-based and
ad-hoc religious setups. Contrary to what is claimed,71 while they did bring
together many shiKi poor, the heyKats were hardly the sites of political mobiliz-
ation. My own direct observations confirm a young squatter’s view that the
functions of the heyKats remained limited to “socializing,” “sacrificing Imam
Hussein and weeping [for his dead body].”72 The urban poor went under the
political banner of the ˜ulamā only just before the insurrection of February
1979.73 In short, the significance of religious publications and institutions for
political Islam lay not much in their ideological impact during the 1960s and
the 1970s but in their networking capacity and mobilizing role on the eve of
the revolution.
More important, taking these as a sole indication of Islamic revival, espe-
cially when they are seen in retrospect, downplays a significant parallel phe-
nomenon, that is, a strong secular tendency that was developing at the very
same time, a subject almost totally overlooked by the post-revolutionary schol-
arship. Above, I pointed to the historical bases of secular behavior in Iran:
widespread modern education, the expansion of communication, and the ero-
sion of economic and social position of the clergy. The trend reached its peak in
67 See Akhavi, Religion and Politics, 161–2. 68 Ibid., 138.
69 The phrase is Amir Arjomand’s; see his “Shi˜ite Islam and the Revolution in Iran” (1981),
312.
70 My own school, Taheri-ye Eslami, which had both primary and secondary levels, was part
of the Islamic conglomerate, JameKe-ye TaKlimat-e Eslami.

71 See, for instance, Farhad Kazemi, Poverty and Revolution in Iran (New York: New York
University, 1980); Roy Mottahedeh, The Mantle of the Prophet: Religion and Politics in Iran
(New York: Pantheon Books, 1985).
72 Ali Banuazizi, “Alounaknishinan-i Khiaban-i Professor Brown,” in Alifba, 2:3 (Summer
1362/1983), 59.
73 For an analysis of the role of the urban poor in the Iranian Revolution, see Asef Bayat, Street
Politics: Poor Peoples’ Movements in Iran (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), ch.3.
154 asef bayat
the very decade in which the Islamic revolution occurred. Unlike the 1940s,
when communist, nationalist, and intellectual movements manifested in the
major secular institutions, the Shah’s dictatorship in the 1970s largely deprived
the society of comparable institutions. Instead, there was a tremendous boost in
the production and consumption of secular journals, cinemas, western movies,
pop music cassettes, popular singers, youth centers (khane-ye Javanan), bars
promoting alcohol drinks, Caspian Sea holidays, and the vast popularity of
western-produced television programs.74 The number of movie viewers in-
creased by over 50 percent between 1969 and 1975, nearly twice as much as
that of urban population growth in the same period. During the 1970s, over 500
foreign films a year, one-fourth American, were shown in the Iranian cinemas.
Beyond that, by 1975 about 50 percent of urban families had acquired televi-
sion sets, compared to less than 4 percent in 1960, with about 65 percent of
total households owning radio sets.75 This media succeeded by the late 1970 in
shaping a highly secular popular culture embodied in the songs and perfor-
mances of dozens of popular singers and actors, such as Gougoush, Fardin,
Aghasi, and Sousan. These were at a time when cinema, radio, and television
were condemned by religious-minded people, since in Ayatollah Khomeini’s
views, these media were being “used to corrupt our youth.”76
It was such a background that rendered Islamic leaders skeptical about any
political change. Although many scholars writing after the revolution magni-
fied the extent of an Islamic movement in the late 1960s and early 1970s,
Shariati’s letter to his son (in the late 1960s) shows how he was frustrated,
pessimistic, and bitter with the people who had remained disinterested in his
mission.77 Even Ayatollah Khomeini in 1970 thought that it might take two
centuries to overthrow the Iranian monarchy.78
Indeed, the popularity of Ali Shariati, a modernist Islamic intellectual,
during the mid-1970s seemed to begin an Islamic movement, although it
remained limited to political discourse among Muslim intelligentsia and hard-
ly assumed any institutional form within the civil society, whether in associa-
tions, NGOs, syndicates, schools, neighborhoods, workplaces or media, in
contrast to Egypt during the early 1990s. Although the Mujahedin-e Khalq
Organization was influenced by Shariati’s ideas, it did not receive a mass
following until after the revolution.79 The Islamic movement in pre-revolution
74 It is important to note that, unlike attending mosques, shrines, or heyKats, these were
commodities for which ordinary and middle-income people had to pay. I exclude those leisure
items which only the rich could afford to consume, such as cabarets, European holidays (as
opposed to attending Hajj).
75 On these figures, see UNESCO, Statistical Yearbook (Paris: various years).
76 Cited in Hamid Nafici, “Iranian Cinema under the Islamic Republic,” American Anthro-
pologist, 97:3 (September 1995), 548.

77 In Reza Afshari, A Critique, 80.
78 Ruhollah Khomeini, Hokumat-e Eslami: Eslam Din-e Syasat Ast (n.p. 1970 [1392 Arabic
year]), 160.
79 On Mujahedin, see Ervand Abrahamian, Radical Islam: The Iranian Mojahedin (London:
Tauris, 1989).
Iran proved, in short, to be a late starter. There remained no time for political
Islam to evolve into a mass social movement. In Iran, an Islamic movement
was in the making when it was interrupted by an Islamic Revolution.
the egyptian islamist movement
Unlike Iran, however, Egypt developed a strong and pervasive Islamist move-
ment by the early 1990s. The popular image of the Islamist Movement in
Egypt is represented in the protracted war of attrition between the militant
Islamists, notably members of the Jihad and al-Jama’a al-Islamiya, and the
state, beginning since the assassination of President Sadat in September 1981.
It was also manifested in attacking Christian Copts, western tourists, secular
Muslim thinkers, and the image of Shaikh Omar Abdur-Rahman, the spiritual
leader of al-Jama’a al-Islamiya, who was detained in the United States for his
alleged involvement in the bombing of the World Trade Center. Indeed, during
1993 alone, the confrontations between these Islamists and the government
forces left 1,106 killed or wounded, and 17,191 arrested.80 Several attempts
were made to kill politicians, security heads, and public figures. In addition, a
number of cinemas, cafes, video shops, Nile cruisers, and banks also became
the target of bombing campaigns. Despite its dramatic appearance, this mili-
tant trend was by far less influential and pervasive than the gradualist and non-
violent trend. The more significant was the growth of religiosity in general,
which further fed the spread of political Islam within the civil institutions.
Islamist revival in Egypt expanded from below through a pervasive social
movement which began in the 1920s but spread rapidly after the early 1970s,
reaching its peak in the early 1990s. It manifested itself in a vast spectrum of
groups, encompassing, on one end the violent militants, the non-violent and
gradualist Islamic coalition (El-Ekhwan and HizbulKAmal), and the individu-
alist sufi orders. At the other end, it also included Al-Azhar and a number of
institutions of the secular state, including the Ministry of Awqaf and the
Supreme Islamic Council. The 1980s experienced a dramatic increase in the
number of ahli, or private mosques. Officials reported that the number of non-
governmental mosques had increased sharply from 40,000 in 1981 to 70,000
in 1989.81 Many of these mosques served as places for alternative and often
dissenting religious messages. Over 4,000 Islamic associations existed in the
early 1990s, also a rise of over 100 percent since 1975. The period saw a
spectacular popularity in the production and sale of Islamic books, pamphlets,
and religious cassettes. In 1994, over one quarter of books published were
religious, a 25 percent rise since 1985.82 About 85 percent of books sold
80 In Saad Eddin Ibrahim, “The Changing Face of Egypt’s Islamic Activism: How Much of a
Threat?,” Ibn Khaldoun Center’s papers (Cairo, May 1995), p. 7.

81 Stated respectively by the minister of awqaf in Jarida Mayo (2 January 1989) and an offical
of the ministry in Al-Ahram (5 December 1981), cited in Hala Mustafa, Al-Dawla wal-Harakāt
al-Islamiyya al-Muãrida (Cairo: Al-Mahrousa Publications, 1995), 409. It is worth noting that
the government-sponsored mosques increased by only 40 percent between the mid-1970s and the
late 1980s.
82 Data obtained from the Egyptian Ministry of Culture (November 1995).
156 asef bayat
during the 1995 Cairo book fair were Islamic.83 The tapes of figures such as
Shaikh Kishk, numbering over a thousand, were on sale in their millions.
Dozens of Islamic newspapers, weeklies, and monthlies had high circulation
rates.84 Radio Quran, a channel devoted entirely to religious matters, main-
tained its highest popularity in this period, while in contrast, movie viewers and
production of domestic films declined.85 Self-censorship emerged in the pro-
duction of television programs in response to pressure on the state by popular
sentiment, and religious programs increased by 50 percent between 1975 and
1990.86 Islamic sentiment was particularly expressed in a marked decline of
alcohol consumption, bars, liquor stores, and night clubs for Egyptians.
At the same time, Islamic activism in the last two decades penetrated a
variety of civil institutions, mass media, formal education, and community
social services. By the early 1990s, the Muslim Brotherhood was able to
control Egypt’s major professional syndicates—doctors, engineers, pharma-
cists, lawyers, dentists, commerce, college professors, as well as the student
unions. In general, the 4,000 Islamic NGOs outdid the 9,000 secular ones.
They were widely believed to be financed, managed, and to function better
than others.87 The Muslim Brothers were also involved in creating Islamic
investment companies in the early 1980s until the government cracked down
on them. With returns as high as 20 percent return, the companies were
considered by many to subsidize the low-income groups in society. In addition
to civil activism, the Islamic coalition (of Muslim Brotherhood with the La-
bour Party) made considerable headway in the local and national elections.
83 Personal communication with Professor Mustafa El-Sayyed of Cairo University (1996).

84 The newspapers included Al-ShaKb of the Islamist Labor Party, Al-Nour of Liberal Party/
Muslims Brotherhood. Al-Moslimoun and Al-Moslim Al-Moasir are international dailies. Others
included Al-LiwaKa Al-Islami, of the National Democratic Party; Aqidati, an Al-Azhar sanctioned
journal; and LiwaK Al-Islam (published weekly). Periodicals included: Al-Mukhtar Al-Islami
(MB), Minbar El-Sharq (Labor Party), Al-Tasawaf Al-Islami (the Sufi Council), Minbar Al-Islam
and Al-Azhar (Al-Azhar Institute), Al-Muslim Al-Saqir (Islamic children). In addition, a number
of dailies and weeklies are published by the leading Islamic political organizations and parties.
They include: Al-Ahrar (daily), Al-Aharar (weekly), Al-Haqiqah (weekly), Al-Nour (weekly), Al-
Osrat el-Arabi (weekly), plus over 30 specialized or regional related publications, such as El-
Orouba, Shabab el-Aharar, Ahrar el-Saiid, and Ahrar El-Hilwan. Despite this, some Islamists
protest the “crisis of religious publications in contemporary Egypt.” See for instance, articles in
Liwa Al-Islam, 50:2 (October 1995), 11–15; El-Wasat, no. 195, 23/10/1995, pp. 32–34.
85 See UNESCO publications; also Simon Brindle “Egypt’s Film Industry,” Business Monthly:
Journal of the American Chamber of Commerce in Egypt, 11:6 ( July 1995), shows a steady
reduction in the production of domestic movies.
86 See Nagwa Al-Fawal, Al-Barnamag Al-Dini-yya Fi Al-Televzion Al-Masri (Cairo: National
Center for Sociological and Criminological Studies, 1994). Data for television religious programs
in 1990 extracted from the above source; for 1975, it was obtained from a sample of daily
television programs printed in the daily paper, Al-Ahram.
87 S. Ibrahim, The Changing Face, 4. It is believed that the number of Islamic NGOs in fact
exceeded this. In the Ministry of Social Affairs’s figures, many religious PVOs are actually
hidden under such categories as “multiple” NGOs. So, taking these into account, the Islamic
PVOs have grown since the 1970s to reach at least 50 percent of the total welfare NGOs, that is,
over 5,000 in the early 1990s. See Saad Eddin Ibrahim, “Grassroots Participation in the Develop-
ment of Egypt,” in Cairo Papers in Social Science, 19:3 (1997).
From 12 seats in Parliament in 1984, the number of Brotherhood delegates

reached 38 seats in 1987.88
As a mass movement, support for the Muslim Brothers came from diverse
social groups, ranging from segments of the business community to lower
classes, with old, young, male and female members. Yet its backbone origi-
nated from members of the modern middle class. On the other hand, activists
of the militant groups were mostly young men (between 20 and 30 years) with
rural or provincial background, primarily educated, many with college de-
grees, or professionals, who resided in Cairo’s lower class neighborhoods or
large villages of Middle Egypt. The early 1900s witnessed entry of younger
(average age 21) and less-educated members (only 30 percent being university
educated, compared to 64 percent in the 1970s) into the ranks of the mili-
tants.89 Lower-middle-class youth appeared to be new players in radical Isla-
mism. Although organized labor remained in general out of Islamists’ reach,
the relationship between the urban poor and Islamists is complex. I will
suggest below that, contrary to common perception, Islamic social welfare
organizations were not places for Islamists political activism. On the other
hand, it is true that while many radical activists in Greater Cairo, for instance,
come from or reside in slums or shanty towns, this in itself does not neces-
sarily point to their political presence among the poor. High rent and visibility
are sufficient reasons for a militant to dwell in a cheaper and a hide-out
locality.90 In fact, a pervasive housing crisis has made a spatially “margin-
alized” middle class a peculiar Egyptian urban phenomenon. Although the
episodes of Cairo earthquakes in 1992 and flooding in upper Egypt in 1994
pointed to the Islamists’ attempt to build a social basis among the poor, these
were largely occasional activities.
Political Islam in Egypt in this period reflected primarily the rebellion of
the impoverished middle class who were frustrated by a feeling of moral
outrage.91 Their high expectations, an outcome of their high education and
thus social status, were dampened in the job market, which offered few
prospects for economic success. A product of Nasser’s welfare-state boom,
this segment represented the losers of Sadat’s infitah policy—one which
88 Ibid, 4.
89 See NeKmat Guenena, “The Changing Face of Egypt’s Islamic Activism: 1974–1995”
(unpublished manuscript, Ibn Khaldoun Center for Developmental Studies, Cairo, September
1995), 7–8.
90 Indeed, some evidence suggests that the spread of militants in the slums of Cairo began in
the 1970s when, after the dismantling of Al-Takfir wa al-Hegra, escapee militants from upper
Egypt sought refuge in the overcrowded and invisible informal communities, ‘ashwaiyyat’. See
Ali Essawi, El-Ashwaiyyat wa Tagarob Al-Tanmiyyah (Cairo: Cairo University, 1995).
91 Evidence for social profile of militant Islamists may be found in Saad Eddin Ibrahim,
“Anatomy of Egypt’s Militant Islamic Groups”; Gilles Kepel, Muslim Extremism in Egypt, 210–
18; and NeKmat Guenena, The Jihad’: An ‘Islamic Alternative’ in Egypt. Although Akhwan got
support from different social layers, nevertheless the new (educated, professional, and
muwazzafin) middle class was the major player. No detailed study has been published on the
social profile of the El-Ekhwan. However, their clear influence in the professional associations
point to their largely urban middle class constituency.
158 asef bayat
opened the country to western economic, political, and cultural influence, as

well as a rapprochement with the Jewish enemy. Islamism in Egypt repre-
sented an ideological package which negated all the perceived causes of such
a state of deprivation—economic dependency, cultural sell-out, and national
humiliation (1967 defeat by the Israelis and then Camp David Accord). In
view of all the failed ideologies, chiefly Nasserite socialism and Sadat’s
capitalism, and of the conditions of western cultural, political, and economic
onslaught, Islam, was seen as the only indigenous doctrine that could bring
about a genuine change.
Such an articulated ideology in political Islam belonged clearly to the core,
the cadres and activists. Beyond those, there were many others in the outer
concentric circles of the movement, such as the lower-class elements, who
found in Islamism not the leaders’ ideologies but, largely in pragmatic terms,
the only viable opposition to the status quo. These fringe groups, “free riders,”
often articulated no coherent ideology of their own, nor did they even internal-
ize that of the leadership. Indeed, they would have turned to almost any social
force which offered them a way out of their impasse and the prospect of a
dignified future. Similar strata had followed the Wafd in the 1920s and 1930s,
then Nasser in the 1950s and the 1960s. Both were secular to the bone but
offered credible alternatives.92
political versus social islam
Why did Islamist activism in Egypt assume a social movement character,
whereas in Iran it was narrowly politicized? It is often noted that shiKism is a
tradition which, unlike its Sunni counterpart, mixes religion with politics and,
as an oppressed sect, constitutes an inherently revolutionary tradition. The
ShiKi and Sunni branches of Islam surely take different approaches to the issue
of rule, or hakimiyya. Yet both regard Islam as politics; and, as Zubaida and
Keddie note, there is nothing inherently revolutionary about shiKism’s charac-
ter. In Sunnism, the community determines political authority. In ShiKism,
however, only the imams have the legitimacy to rule the umma. In reality, this
transpired in the time of shiKi imams. After the occultation of the last, twelfth,
imam, the issue remained in controversy for over a century until the Qajar
period in Iran, when shiKi scholars were divided into the two schools, the
akhbari and usuli. The former stressed the literal following of the Prophet’s
traditions; the latter recognized the concept of ijtihad, which granted power to
the ˜ulamā to interpret the Prophet’s sunna and stipulate new injunctions if
deemed necessary. Although the clergy gained an unprecedented prominence,
they were not yet entitled to exercise full authority on behalf of the imams. As
such, Ayatollah Khomeini’s concept of Hokoumat-e Islami (Islamic Govern-
ment), written in 1971, represents simply a new invention in the shiKi tradi-
92 I am grateful to Professor Saad Eddin Ibrahim for bringing these historical notes to my
attention.
tion93; and its invocation after the revolution was largely the result of political
circumstances at the time which ensured the clergy’s leadership.94 Yet, as
Alghar and Keddie among others have noted, certain historical and institution-
al specificities in shiKi Islam contributed to the political versus social character
of Islamist activism in Iran.
In both Iran and Egypt, the clergy constitute a distinct status group who
despite internal differentiation (along seniority position and economic status)
share common interests in terms of the security of income and social and
spiritual legitimacy. But their political and social positions in the two coun-
tries differed. Unlike in Iran, where religious affairs were the exclusive pre-
rogative of traditionalist Shi-i clergy, who became opposition leaders, in
Egypt the administration of religious affairs was extended to lay activists who
spread their message through massive associational work within civil society.
In the eighteenth century, the ˜ulamā of Egypt were an integral part of the
ruling elite and acted as a medium between the elites and the people. By the
time Mohammed Ali consolidated his power, the ˜ulamā had become a formi-
dable power which the Egyptian leader could not afford to ignore. He first
bought off their support by offering them income from farm tax and endow-
ments and a prerogative of consultation on political matters, then later subor-
dinated them by denying them those privileges and making them paid employ-
ees of the state. The ˜ulamā, nevertheless, remained a significant component
of the anti-colonial movement.95 Opposition of ˜ulamā to British rule contin-
ued most notably with the activities of Al-Afghani and Mohammed Abdu, and
later Rashid Reda. As Islamic reformers, they struggled not only against
foreign domination but also attempted to reformulate Islam to rival with the
western progress—a measure that some modernist ˜ulamā in Iran began as
late as the 1960s.
As a component of the state, however, the political role of the ˜ulamā
remained limited only to nationalist postures. On domestic matters, except for
some clerical figures, they remained by and large complacent. ˜Ulamā’s de-
pendence on the state was further intensified by Nasser, who in 1955 abol-
93 For a fine discussion on this matter, see Hamid Enayat, “The Concept of Valayat-i Faqih in
Imam Khomeini,” in Kiyan, 6:34 ( January–February 1997, in Persian). Published in English in

James Piscatori, ed., Islam in the Political Process (London: Cambridge University Press, 1983).
A more detailed account may be found in Ahmad K. Moussavi, Religious Authority in ShiÃite
Islam: “From the Office of Mufti to the Institution of Marja” (Kuala Lumpur: ISTAC Publication,
1996), especially ch. 8.
94 In his memoir, Bani Sadr, the first president of the Islamic Republic and one of the closest
aides of Ayatollah Khomeini in Paris, says: “In Paris, Khomeini did not believe that the Shah
would fall. Two or three times a week I would reassure him that the Shah would relinquish
power. . . . Reporters would ask him “what is your frame of reference, your model? what is an
Islamic state?” We weighed our answers carefully. To what period of our history could we refer?
The Abbasid dynasty? The Umayyads? Or the period of first caliphs? We had to formulate an
ideology worthy of a revolution: (cited in Al-Ahram Weekly (Egypt, 26 October, 1995, p. 5) (added
emphasis).
95 See Ira Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies (Cambridge, 1988), 617–20.
160 asef bayat
ished religious courts, put all endowments under state control, and then took
over Al-Azhar and Islamic education in 1961. Despite a similar move in Iran
in the 1960s, which seriously curtailed the clergy’s control over shrines and
mawqufat, they nevertheless maintained their autonomy by relying on them-
selves (many of them were landowners), on bazaaris with which they had
close ties, and on small voluntary religious donations.96
Thus in Egypt, it was not the ˜ulamā but the lay Islamic activists who took
the banner of opposing internal rulers. Hence, the emergence of the Society of
Muslim Brothers (MB) in 1928 during Egypt’s liberal era (1919–52), when
the secular-nationalist Wafdist Party and the Royal family ruled the country.
The MB was founded by Hassan El-Banna, a school teacher from Ismailiya
who was dismayed by the imperialist economic domination of his country;
corruption and degradation of Muslims, especially those in the younger gener-
ation; and the decadence of the kings. His messages found appeal among a
vast array of Egyptian citizens who came to believe that theirs was a society of
Jahiliya. The Brotherhood grew rapidly from having only four branches in
1929 to 2,000 branches in 1949, with about one million activists and sympa-
thizers at its peak. The activists came from various walks of life, but the core
originated from the rising urban middle classes who felt the crunch of “foreign
economic control which limited the prospects for the new bourgeoisie.”97
Hassan El-Banna was assassinated by police in 1949 and was replaced by
Hassan el-Hudaybi as the spiritual guide.
Despite its close connection with the Free Officers, the MB went through a
series of suppressions after the 1952 Revolution by Nasser, a nationalist leader
committed to modernism, secularism, nationalism, and later to socialist
ideas.98 Such MB figures as Sayyed Qutb, a major ideologue, were sent to jail
and executed; and the State outlawed the organization. After Nasser, a split
has divided the movement between the revolutionary views like those of
Sayyed Qutb and the gradualist views of Hassan al-Hudaybi. Both sides
agreed that Egyptian society and polity was one of Jahili, which was charac-
terized by the worship of man by man, and the sovereignty of man over man.
While both strived for an alternative Islamic state and society, they differed on
the ways to achieve such order. Sayyed Qutb advocated action and movement,
regarding non-actives as non-Muslims. Hudaybi, on the other hand, called for
discourse, preaching and daKwa for the Islamic cause. Both wings shared an
opposition to Zionism, crusaders, communism, secularism, and Nasserism.
This schism was to mark the origin of the split between today’s militant and
96 On clergy–bazaar relations, see Ahmad Ashraf, “Bazaar-Mosque Alliance: The Social
Roots of Revolts and Revolutions,” in Politics, Culture, and Society, 1:4 (Summer 1988), 418–21.
97 Richard Mitchell, The Society of Muslim Brothers (London: Oxford University Press)
328–30.
98 See Gilles Kepel, Muslim Extremism in Egypt (Berkeley: California University Press,
1986); Nemat Guenena, Jihad: An Islamic Alternative; and Sameh Naquib, “The Political Ideolo-
gy of the Jihad Movement” (unpublished M.A. thesis, Sociology Department, The American
University in Cairo, 1993).
the reformist Islamic coalition (with Muslim Brothers). From the revolution-
ary trend emerged al-Takfir wal-Hejra, Jamaãt Islamiya (both crushed during
Sadat), al-Jihad, and al-Jamaã al-Islamiya (active to date).99
The Muslim Brothers owed much of their success to their associational
character—their commitment to social mobilization within the civil society
through organizing cells, alternative mosques, schools, youth associations,
women’s organizations, clinics, work cooperatives, as well as athletics and
paramilitary groups. This strategy solidified the grass-roots basis of the MB,
turning it into a mass social movement that spread Islamic sentiments in the
society, integrating them into people’s everyday lives.
In turn, the spread of Islamic sentiments (aided by both the failure of the
liberal experiment and the mistrust of secular liberalism which in the 1940s
was associated with colonialism) pushed the Egyptian secularists to give way
to Islam.100 As Lapidus notes, in this period, the secular intelligentsia “ac-
cepted an Islamic framework, and attempted to compromise between Islam
and modernity. The net effect was not so much to rescue secularism as to
legitimize the Muslim revival.”101 Yet it was a peculiar kind of revivalism, in
that the fusion of Islamic symbols into the people’s everyday life contributed
to the production of a somewhat secularized religion.
Whereas the secularization of religious symbols has been a feature of the
Islam of Egypt, Iran, on the contrary, has held religion and its symbols in an
exalted position, emphasizing the sacred and esoteric nature of Islam. The
Iranian, for example, would treat the QurÃan with great deference, placing it in
assigned holy locations, where it rests in that protected place until it is taken
out to be read on a special occasion. In Egypt, on the other hand, it is not
uncommon to see a taxi driver switching between playing Egyptian pop music
and reciting the holy book. In contrast to Egypt, where religious occasions are
by and large popular festivals (eids), they are seen by an Iranian Muslim as
sober, sad, and serious affairs, often associated with death and mourning. The
playful and highly festive mood of the Egyptian Ramadan is comparable only
to the Iranian Nowrooz (new year festivities). Islamic pop music is a common
feature in Egypt’s cultural and religious landscape, where popular singers
perform songs about the Prophet Mohammed accompanied by a full backup
band with synthesizer and electric guitar. It would be, however, unthinkable
for an Iranian Muslim to imagine Gougoush singing about Imam Hussein. In
99 On radical Islamic groups, see Gilles Kepel, Muslim Extremism in Egypt; Saad Eddin
Ibrahim, “Anatomy of Egypt’s Militant Islamic Groups,” International Journal of Middle Eastern
Studies, no. 12 (1980); Hamid Ansari, “The Islamic Militants in Egyptian Politics,” International
Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 16: (March 1984), 418–33; Uri Kumferschmidt, “Reformist
and Militant Islam in Urban and Rural Egypt.” Middle Eastern Studies, vol. 23 (October 1987),
403–18. See also various issues of Civil Society (Ibn Khaldoun Center for Developmental Stud-
ies, Cairo).
100 Afaf Lutfi El-Sayyid Marsot, Egypt’s Liberal Experiment (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 1991); Ira Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1988).
101 See Ira Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, 627.
162 asef bayat
short, in contrast to Iran, where modernity and religion and the mundane and
sacred were treated as mutually exclusive, Egypt experienced some kind of
cultural hybridity in which religion remained by and large dominant.102 Con-
sequently, binary oppositional identities of religious and traditional versus the
secular and modern identities were by far more pronounced in the Iran of the
1970s than the Egypt of the 1980s and 1990s. Like Turkey today and unlike
Egypt, Iranian society was deeply divided along secular and religious lines.
The implications of these different forms of religious practices vis-à-vis the
social and political status of the clergy in the two countries were highly
significant.
The ˜ulamā in Iran were frustrated by the overall cultural change, rapid
westernization, and secular behavior, which during the 1950s and 1960s
threatened their social and cultural legitimacy. Modern educated youth partic-
ularly began to dismiss the clergy and the institution of religion in general.
The source of this evil was perceived by the ˜ulamā as the corrupt regime and
its western allies. These conditions then turned the ˜ulamā to oppositional
politics which targeted the state. The experience of clergy in Egypt, however,
was different. Despite the rise of modern ideas and social groups (such as the
middle classes, educated youth and public women), Al-Azhar (and non-
clerical Islam) still enjoyed a great deal of respect and legitimacy among
Egyptian Muslims; and despite the upsurge of political Islam, Al-Azhar con-
tinues to represent religious orthodoxy in the country. Friday sermons of Al-
Azhar are well attended; its publications have mass circulation; and millions
of people are still attracted to Sheikh ShaÃrawi’s television lectures (khotabas).
Today, young modern Egyptians do not shy away from embracing traditional
Islam. As someone who had observed the religious laxity of Iranian youth
during the early 1970s, I was astonished by the extent of religiosity of the
westernized middle- and upper-class Egyptian youths who spoke with rever-
ence about Islamic precepts and the clergy’s authority. Consequently, not only
had different segments of Egyptian society—the youth, the traditionalists, the
˜ulamā, and the state—found something to cherish about their Islam, the
clergy did not experience as much frustration, resentment, and political dissent
as their Iranian counterparts. They continued to maintain a great deal of social
constituency and religious legitimacy.103 Nevertheless, similar to the political
Islamists, the ˜ulamā also remained committed to Islamizing the society, albeit
not by seizing political power, but by daKwa.
102 In Egypt, one can notice this in the day-to-day behavior of upper- or upper-middle-class
families. While young people get married in fancy hotels like Merriott or Hilton, I have not
observed alcohol being served on such occasions. Young girls and boys from westernized classes
mostly fast during the Ramadan, many regularly pray and shout respect for Islam and the clergy.
In contrast, in Iran of the late 1960s and 1970s, modern classes in general expressed a great laxity
in observing religion.
103 It is only very recently, in January 1997, that a group of clergy formed a group, The Ulema
Front, distinct from the official Al-Azhar, in response to the government’s encroachment on their
prerogatives, which included requests for permission to preach in the mosques and to bring
private mosques under the control of the Ministry of Awqaf. See Al-Hayat ( January 25, 1997), 7.
reformist outcome
Thus, strategically, two different approaches to Islamic change differentiated
Iran and Egypt. The Iranian experience conjures up Gramsci’s “frontal attack”
or insurrectionary mode, whereas Egyptian Islamists pursued “passive revolu-
tion” with reformist consequences. Hardly familiar with Antonio Gramsci,
Hasan El-Banna echoed this strategy many years ago:
Our duty as Muslim Brothers is to work for the reform of our selves, of our hearts and
souls, by connecting them to God the all-high; then to organize our society so that it
becomes a virtuous community which calls for the good and forbids evil-doing, then
from the community will arise the good state.104
Mustafa Mashur, the present Ekhwan’s leader points to the same approach:
“All we ask is an Islamic state based on shariKa . . . It may take us a century to
establish an Islamic state. Our principles should be bequeathed to future
generations and there should be no deviation from these principles.”105 In a
recent encounter in a Cairo mosque, a militant young man accused the shaikh
of political complicity. The shaikh, a young man wearing a suit and necktie,
responded that the task was not a matter of anti-government political agitation
but “building an ideological infrastructure” and creating a truly Muslim soci-
ety at the base.106
The Muslim Brothers had begun to put their passive revolution, to build that
ideological infrastructure into practice years earlier through extensive net-
works and grass-roots structures. Not only did these networks spread Islamic
sentiments, they concomitantly served to fulfill some fundamental material
and spiritual needs of the ordinary Egyptians. By doing so, the movement
unintentionally provided conditions for a “negative integration” of its constit-
uency, since those networks and activities devised coping mechanisms and a
moral community in which many contenders felt at home. Guilian Denoeux’s
argument that reformist outcomes occur only when the leaderships in such
institutions adopt conciliatory strategy is partly true, but it disregards the
objective (reformist) impact these networks often have over the perception of
the constituency and the dynamics of the movements.107 In Egypt, Islamic
associations played a crucial institutional role in this process of both integra-
tion and change.
In the last two decades, the shortcomings of the traditional top-down plan-
ning and implementing development objectives in Egypt boosted the expan-
sion of the local and small-scale development projects, especially the NGOs.
Islamic associations, often centered in ahli mosques, were quick to utilize the
opportunity and grew extensively. They accounted for one third of the total
104 Hasan Al-Banna. Nadarat fi Islah al-Nafs wal-Mujtana˜ (Cairo: Maktaba al-IÃitisam,
1980), 62–63.
105 In an interview in Al-Ahram Weekly (November 16–22, 1995), 2.
106 I observed this interaction in a mosque in Cairo, in October 1996.
107 See Guilian Denoeux, Urban Unrest in the Middle East: A Comparative Study of Informal
Networks in Egypt, Iran, and Lebanon (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993).
164 asef bayat
private voluntary organizations (PVOs) in the late 1980s,108 and at least 50

percent of all welfare associations, or 5,000 PVOs in the early 1990s, offering
charity and health services to millions of Egyptian poor.109 Indeed, it appeared
that the mosques came to provide alternative support services to the low-
income to compensate for the government’s withdrawal from its social provi-
sions after more liberal economic policies. As a typical association, the Islam-
ic CDA in Ezbat Zein in Cairo, for example, offered classes on the QurÃan but
also provided a sewing center, day care, medical treatment, remedial tutoring,
a food cooperative, and septic tank cleaning.110 Others offered video clubs,
computer training centers, and other services to cater for the needs of such
groups as the high school graduates who are the potential recruits of the
radical political Islamists. The availability of both funding (in the form of
zakat from businesses and migrant workers in the Persian Gulf ) and the spirit
of voluntarism (scarce in today’s Egypt) rendered these associations compara-
tively advantageous.111 The government supported the initiative only to the
extent that this sector shouldered a portion of the government’s burden of
providing social services.
What made these practices Islamic was the combination of an alternative to
both the state and the private sector, the religious conviction of some of their
activists, zakat funding, and especially the provision of affordable social
services. Yet for many involved in them, these associations simply provided a
job or, for some, even a business. Contrary to the common perception, Islamic
social welfare organizations were not places where Islamists conducted politi-
cal mobilization, but simply acted as service organizations. The vast majority
of these NGOs had no link to political Islam. Only a few were related to
Muslim Brothers and only a handful to the radical Islamists.112
However, unlike the Islamic associations, the Islamic-dominated profes-
sional syndicates were all allied with the Muslim Brotherhood. The Ekhwan
managed by the early 1990s to control the major professional syndicates and,
in others, to constitute a formidable opposition. The influence of the Islamists
meanwhile caused a dramatic increase in membership of many unions such as
the Teachers Union, which grew from 250,000 in 1985 to 750,000 by 1992.113
108 Al-Ahram Strategic Studies Center, Taqrir Halat Eddiniyya fi Misr (Cairo, 1996), 236–7.
109 See Saad Eddin Ibrahim, “Egyptian Law 32 On Egypt’s Private Sector Organizations: A
Critical Assessment” (Cairo: Ibn Khaldoun Center for Development Studies, November 1996,
Working Papers, No. 3, pp. 34–35).
110 See Denis Sullivan, Private Voluntary Organizations in Egypt (Miami University Press of
Florida, 1994), 65–68.

111 In 1990, for instance, about 5,400 zakat committees spread in the mosques. They were
operated in ways that were similar to the Naser Social Bank, which was set up in 1971, funding
social and charity activities, QuÃran recitation classes, and building new mosques. During 1990,
some two million poor people benefited from this. See Amani Qandil and Sarah Ben-Nafisah, Al-
Jamaiyyat Al-Ahliyya fi Misr (Cairo: Al-Ahram Center for Strategic Studies, 1995), 61, 282–3.
112 Ibid., 282.
113 See Amani Qandil, “Taqdim AdaaK El-Islamiyn fi-Nniqabat Al-Maniyya” (Cairo: CEDEJ/
Cairo University, 1993).

The popularity of these syndicates had largely to do with the performance of

the Islamist leaderships: They fought corruption, increased members’ income,
created systems of social welfare, found jobs for unemployed members, set up
consumer cooperatives, established sub-syndicates and social clubs, and did a
great deal of political mobilization.114 An exemplary activity was their rapid
mobilization during the Cairo earthquakes in 1992 and flooding in upper
Egypt in 1994. The syndicates became so powerful and vocal that the govern-
ment saw no choice but to curtail them by both legal means and the arrest of
their leading members.115
In providing social services, the Muslim Brothers were not alone. Indeed,
their grass-roots activities compelled other social forces to enter into the
competition, hoping to share the political space. Al-Azhar, for instance, began
to offer similar grass-roots social services as oppositional Islamists.116 In
addition, the Egyptian government’s measures to upgrade slums and squatter
areas in the early 1990s clearly reflected the incident of Imbaba, a slum area in
Cairo, in 1991, when militant Islamists had created, according to foreign
media, “a state within the state.” Similarly, secular groups, in particular secu-
lar NGOs seemed to work hard to offer their own piecemeal alternatives. An
estimated five million poor benefited from the health, educational, financial,
and community services of Egyptian PVOs in 1990.117 As in many other
similar experiences, the net result of such an intense competition was both to
mobilize the critical mass and to provide a coping mechanism of a political,
economic, and spiritual nature.
Beyond improving material conditions, the Islamist movement in Egypt
also offered alienated constituencies with an alternative social, cultural, and
moral community within which the rival secular and western culture seemed
less threatening. Facing the conditions of rapid globalization and western
cultural penetration, these communities provided the traditionalists both with
an expression of discontent and a moral safety net. The ritual of weekly
gatherings that spread across the small and big cities reflected not only a
cultural protest but also materialized a Durkheimian social solidarity, security,
and moral integration—the contradictory conditions to which Arlene Mac-
Leod referred when she called the new veiling among Cairian women a way
of “accommodating protest.”118 The Young Men’s Muslim Association, with
its over 2,000 members just in Tanta, for instance, offered youth libraries,
sport facilities, language and computer classes, video and television sessions,
114 Ibid. Also based upon my interview with a member of Doctors Syndicate (Cairo, 1990).
115 The Law 100/1993 ruled that a syndicate election would be legitimate if at least 50 percent
of the total membership cast votes. Seventeen syndicates rejected this law, leading to major
confrontations with the government.
116 See El-Liwa El-Islami (September 28, 1995, p. 15).
117 Saad Eddin Ibrahim, “Egyptian Law 32,” 34.
118 Arlene MacLeod, Accommodating Protest: Working Women, the New Veiling, and Change
in Cairo (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991).

166 asef bayat
lectures, tours, and holidays.119 In hundreds of urban neighborhood gatherings

(halaqat), women from diverse socioeconomic backgrounds grouped together
weekly not only to learn about Islamic precepts but also to gain a sense of
belonging to a moral community. In another domain, Islamic-dominated syn-
dicates became the places where members, mostly excluded from national
political processes, could really participate in decision making and be confi-
dent that their votes be counted. The syndicates were the site of the struggle
for human rights, where issues like political prisoners and the Palestinian
cause could be discussed; activists could collect donations for the victims of
Bosnia, Iraq, and Chechnia120; and Hajj pilgrimages could be organized for
members. Even young adults could stay away from opulent Egyptian hotel
marriage ceremonies by organizing “Islamic weddings.”
The growing number of Islamic private schools accounted for the develop-
ment of yet another institution of both religious dissent and integration. In
addition to a decent education (taKlim) which, the Muslims believed could not
be obtained from a feeble and “morally misguided” national education system,
these schools socialized their pupils into morality and the virtues of Islam
(tarbiyya). Different from the Azhari institutions, these new institutions were
not dissimilar to my own Islamic school in Tehran back in the late 1960s,
where the daily collective prayers, religious classes, camps, and alternative
leisure defined its Islamic identity but on a scale that was much larger in
Egypt than in Iran.121
In short, during the 1990s, contestation in Egypt at the level of culture and
moral virtues became even more fierce (perhaps because it was less costly)
than that in the provision of material welfare. There, “true Islam,” both in idea
and in deed, became the subject of an intense competition between various
contenders, including the seculars, the net result being further concessions by
secularists and the spread of Islamic ideas. This included not only variants of
political Islam but also the modernists (for example, Mustafa Mahmoud) as
well as the secular state which had already made significant concessions to
Islamist revivalism. State-controlled television cut back many of the “immor-
al” shows and increased Islamic programming after the early 1980s. In the
same period, the government nationalized many mosques, hiring thousands of
shaikhs to offer sermons during the month of Ramadan. The number of Imams
who worked for the Ministry of Awqaf increased more than three-fold, from
6,000 in 1982 to 22,000 by 1996. In the same period, the number of groups
memorizing the QurÃan jumped from 900 to about 1,200.122 In 1993, the
government launched the program, “Caravans of Light,” which sent awqaf
119 See Denis Sullivan, Private Voluntary Associations in Egypt, 73.

120 Amani Qandil, “Taqdim AdaaK El-Islamiyyn.”
121 On the Egyptian Islamic schools, I have relied on Linda Herrera’s study of these schools
for 1995–96.
122 El-Liwa El-Islam (December 5, 1996), 14.
employees and Azhar graduates to spread its message of Islam throughout the
country.123 Al-Azhar had already begun to expand its grass-roots activities
tremendously in the past decade. In 1995, it controlled well over 10,000
mosques, over 6,000 educational institutions ranging form primary schools,
QurÃan classes, to branches of the University and close to 1.25 million stu-
dents.124 As graduates of Al-Azhar and local kuttabs, every year thousands
were added to the rank of the ˜ulamā.125 On the other hand, the ruling National
Democratic Party and the secular elite figures began to offer their own brands
of Islam. Such Islamic weeklies as El-Liwa el-Islami (by the ruling National
Democratic Party) and Aqidati (by a westernized publisher) were established
to “spread correct Islamic thought and culture among Egyptian youth.”126
Ironically, both publications exhibit a traditionalist and at times remarkably
fundamentalist versions of Islam.127 The Army also joined the race in 1989 by
putting out its Islamic monthly, Al-Mujahid. Such competition fed further into
a traditional popular religiosity in which, unlike Iran’s shariati type of nascent
Islamic revivalism, had the effect of rather isolating modernists.
At any rate, by the early 1990s, it appeared as though the prevalence of such
communities and the conduct of their members equaled a partial realization of
the notion of an Islamic society. Side by side, with great strides towards
building an “Islamic infrastructure,” the integrationist and even acquiescent
consequences of these measures became ever more apparent. This angered the
revolutionaries, rendering them demoralized. The latter expressed concern
about the conciliatory ˜ulamā and “apolitical” preaching and the mosques’
messages. Although these Islamists blamed the growing police surveillance
for this, which was partially true, nevertheless the reformist consequences of
Egypt’s Islamist movement played a crucial role.128
These concerns signified not only a widespread debate in the Egyptian
society but also considerable differentiations and divisions within its Islamist
movement (various militant groups, reformist Muslim Brothers and its inter-
nal fractions, to Al-Azhar and its internal discontent, certain state institutions
such as courts, and the various Sufi orders). The intense competition for “true
Islam” and “correct strategy” for change espoused a heated controversy; even
as it offered an opportunity in which people could put hard questions not only
123 The incompetence of the preachers, however, partially led to the failure of the program.
See Diana Digges, “The Government School: The Next Generation of Imams in Apolitical
Islam,” Cairo Times (18 September–1 October 1997), 7.
124 Ibid.
125 See El-Liwa El-Islami (September 28, 1995), 15.
126 Statement made by Ahmed KUmar Hashim, the president of Al-Azhar University, in Aqidati
(November 7, 1995), 3.
127 El-Liwa El-Islami, which has a respectable circulation, supported the “fundamentalist”
critiques of Professor Abu-Zaid and sided with the conservative tendencies of the Beijing Wom-
en’s Conference.
128 See Heba Rauf in Shaub ( January 3, 1997), 9. See also the interview with the author in
March 1997.
168 asef bayat
to the politicians but also the Islamic opposition—a phenomenon totally

absent from the Iranian political scene prior to the Islamic Revolution. It is
important to note that these debates and expressions owed much to a relative
political openness in the Egypt society. The space available in Egypt for the
political parties, press, and NGOs in the 1980s, however limited, was unpar-
alleled to that under the Shah in Iran during the 1970s. During the 1980s,
Egypt, unlike Iran, enjoyed a multi-party political system with nine parties,
periodic elections, opposition newspapers, popular criticism of the govern-
ment (unthinkable in some Arab states), and—most important—a judiciary
that maintained its independence from the political authorities. But competi-
tion and controversy within the Islamist movement was also important in
another respect. They implied a relative clarity on political views, a diversity
of positions, internal dissent, and thus disunity—things which characterize a
social movement and are anomalous to a revolutionary scenario. Revolutions,
unlike social movements, rest on high degree of unity, generality, and ambi-
guity. Unlike in Egypt, these elements were clearly present in Iran. The
autocracy of the Shah, the sole leadership of the clergy resulting from the ShiKi
clergy’s hierarchical structure, lack of time for debate and dissent, and thus a
remarkable ambiguity in the discourse of the revolution provided that aston-
ishing unity.129
In the meantime, the perseverance of both the Islamists and the state in
Egypt created a political equilibrium in which neither party was ensured of a
total victory. The Islamic Revolution in Iran, just like the socialist Revolution
in Russia, surely bolstered similar movements in other parts of the world. Yet
its very victory, in a sense, prevented similar scenarios in other countries,
principally because it made incumbent states more vigilant while carrying out
some reforms. Thus, not only did the Egyptian political regime remain intact,
but it began by the mid-1990s to intensify pressure on even moderate Islam-
ists. The emergency law barring public assembly was maintained. In 1992, a
new Anti-Terrorism Law made preventive detention legal and restricted the
opposition press. In 1993, the government used Law 100 to limit the success
of Islamic candidates by interfering with the election procedures of the syndi-
cates. Similar policies were used in the universities to restrict the election of
Islamists to leadership positions. The Ministry of Awqaf screened and mon-
129 Of course, unity can be built by political coalitions, but this requires an hegemonic element
to enforce consensus on other dissenting parties. This was lacking in Egypt. An indignant and
well-organized clergy might have played that role as in Iran; but in Egypt, the ˜ulamā were not in
political opposition. Nevertheless, if the situation changes, the Al-Azhar and its ˜ulamā are likely
to join the bandwagon, even becoming major actors in an Islamic order. Indeed, even today there
are signs that this state institution may be used by militant young muslims, Egyptians and
foreigners alike, who acquire Islamic knowledge while maintaining a critical stand against concil-
iatory politics of the Al-Azhar. Unrest in the Al-Azahar University during October 1995 when
many students protested the government arrests and military trials of Muslim Brothers point to the
political potential of this institution. For details, see Al-Ahram Weekly and Aqidati during the last
two weeks of October and the first week of November 1995.
itored Islamic preachers. Those without the ministry’s permit were not al-
lowed to operate.130 Finally, the state accelerated its policy of taking over ahli
mosques to the point where the Ministry of Awqaf was claiming to nationalize
an average of 9,000 mosques a year.131 This pressure further exacerbated
controversies and rifts within the movement. Internal division within the
Ekhwan led to a split in 1996 from which Hizb El-Wasat emerged. While
pleased with the divisions, the government refused to recognize the splinter
group. Notwithstanding these developments, Islamic reforms from below con-
tinued unheeded. Egypt in the early 1990s was undergoing such an Islamic
social change which was so significant that would have been unthinkable for
the Iranian clergy under the Shah. Egypt, thus, experienced the persistence of
an Islamic movement without an Islamic revolution, whereas, Iran underwent
a revolution without a strong Islamic movement. By the mid-1980s, it looked
as if Iran had begun to experience a “post-Islamist” phase,132 a return from
revolutionary ideology, the Egyptian Islamist movement was in the grip of
three major challenges: an increase in hostility from the state; an acceleration
of economic, political, and cultural globalization, and the revelation of what
Oliver Roy termed the “failure of political Islam.”133 This was not good news
for Egypt’s Islamists.
130 El-Liaw al-Islami (28 November 1979), 2.

131 Cairo Times (18 September–1 October 1997), 7.
132 See Asef Bayat, “The Coming of a Post-Islamist Society,” in Critique: Journal for the
Critical Studies of the Middle East, no. 9 (Fall 1996), 43–52.

133 Oliver Roy, The Failure of Political Islam (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995).

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Revolution without Movement,

Movement without Revolution:

explaining the revolution

emergence of the “Islamic discourse” in the particular “episode” of 1953–77

state intervention in capital accumulation eroded the mediating role of the

Research in Social Movements, Conflicts, and Change, vol. 7 (1989), 131–52.

Texas Press, 1993).

social movements and revolutions

University Press, 1979).

Press, 1984), 17.

1979,” International Review of Social History, 42:2 (Summer 1997), 159–85.

also to construct alternative institutions and value systems. In this process,

Isolation and National Integration (Totowa, NJ: 1963), 170.

the islamic revolution in iran

degree of expression. This expression, in the process, was cumulatively built

Ervand Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions.

socio-economic change and the decline of islam

(Albany: SUNY Press, 1980), 99–105.

emphasis on diversified subjects, it offered and facilitated alternative dis-

the post-coup era: accelerating the change

Press, 1986), 115–9.

when one casually compares it with those in bazaars of Cairo or Istanbul.

51 Akhavi, Religion and Politics, 134–5. 52 Ibid., 129.

(1986), pp. 46–48.

theme of marjaKiyat va velayat dar Islam; (the source of immulation and

Mottahedeh, The Mantle; and Kazemi, The Unknown.

proach is clear through his warnings about avaam-zadegui, or populism59; for

Planning: A Case Study of Iran (Paris: UNESCO, 1980), 63.

of the Islamic conglomerate, JameKe-ye TaKlimat-e Eslami.

pologist, 97:3 (September 1995), 548.

Threat?,” Ibn Khaldoun Center’s papers (Cairo, May 1995), p. 7.

83 Personal communication with Professor Mustafa El-Sayyed of Cairo University (1996).

From 12 seats in Parliament in 1984, the number of Brotherhood delegates

opened the country to western economic, political, and cultural influence, as

Imam Khomeini,” in Kiyan, 6:34 ( January–February 1997, in Persian). Published in English in

private voluntary organizations (PVOs) in the late 1980s,108 and at least 50

Florida, 1994), 65–68.

Cairo University, 1993).

The popularity of these syndicates had largely to do with the performance of

in Cairo (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991).

lectures, tours, and holidays.119 In hundreds of urban neighborhood gatherings

119 See Denis Sullivan, Private Voluntary Associations in Egypt, 73.

to the politicians but also the Islamic opposition—a phenomenon totally

130 El-Liaw al-Islami (28 November 1979), 2.

Critical Studies of the Middle East, no. 9 (Fall 1996), 43–52.

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