Salafism in Modern Egypt: Panacea or Pest

[PT 11.6 (2010) 802-825] Political Theology (print) ISSN 1462-317Xdoi:10.1558/poth.v11i6.802 Political Theology (online) ISSN 1473-1719

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010, 1 Chelsea Manor Studios, Flood Street, London SW3 5SR.

SalafiSm in modern egypt:panacea or peSt?

Richard Gauvain1

Room C-441Middle Eastern Studies Division, Building C

American University in DubaiMedia City

Dubai [email protected]

AbstrAct

The aim of the article is to introduce the reader to the nature of Salafism in Egypt and its growing influence on the population. It sets out to explore the degree to which Egypt’s current Salafi networks may justifiably be described as a Saudi Arabian phenomenon, and as promoting behaviours that clash with Egyptian religious and cultural traditions. The paper is divided into three sections: (1) It begins with an overview of what Salafism means in the modern global context; (2) It briefly describes Salafism’s development in Egypt since the early twentieth century; (3) It explores the ways in which Salafism acts in concert with, as well as confronts, Egypt’s cultural and reli-gious traditions.

Keywords: culture; Egypt; Islamic law; ritual; Salafism.

In 2009, I visited the UK to promote the setting up of a British branch of “Islamic Hotline” (al-Hatif al-Islami), an Egyptian-based phone service that, for a minimal charge, provides “centrist” Islamic responses to ques-tions posed by members of the public.2 Three senior figures led the visit: the ebullient founder of Islamic Hotline, Mr Cherif Abdel-Meguid, the mufti of Syria, Dr Abdul-Fattah al-Bizem, and a senior scholar of the Faculty of Law at al-Azhar University, Dr Anas Abdel Fattah Abou Shadi. As part of the promotion, “Team Hotline” was pushing the publication of

1. Richard Gauvain is currently Assistant Professor in Middle East Studies at the American University of Dubai. Previously, he taught at the American University of Cairo from 2003–2009. 2. On al-Hatif al-Islami, see http://www.elhatef.com/index.php?lang=en

Gauvain Salafism in Modern Egypt 803

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010.

its new book, al-Rad, or The Response.3 As the book’s title suggests, these individuals perceive themselves to be engaged in a response to, or reac-tion against, a new threat within Islam, a reading of the faith that does not agree with their interpretations. The book’s aim is to overturn “hard-line” legal opinions that “threaten to distort the essentially tolerant and forgiving nature of Islam.” In al-Rad, over a hundred such opinions are presented by Dr Abou Shadi, before he and his colleagues at al-Azhar University provide alternative legal opinions, of a less conservative nature. Interestingly, despite the fact that all opinions singled out for criticism belong to the same school of thought, al-Rad never mentions this school by name. It is “Wahhabism,” a way of thinking that favours a conservative approach to both theological doctrine and ritual-legal practice, and which is most often associated with the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. According to my colleagues in Islamic Hotline, Wahhabism has spread throughout the Middle East and beyond under the guise of Salafism, though these are not identical movements. Abdel Meguid and Abou Shadi voiced their concern at the growth of Saudi-oriented Salafism in Egypt. They observed that, unlike the Muslim Brotherhood movement (al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun), Salafism has proven influential across the social spectrum, from the city’s upper and upper-middle-class areas of al-Muhandisin and Madinat Nasr (where the major-ity of the city’s foreign Salafis congregate) to the working-class areas of Shubra, Faysal and Dar al-Salam/Ma‘di. What seemed most perturbing to these men was the monolithic nature of the phenomenon. That is to say they find Salafis adhering to the same basic rulings, listening to sermons by the same scholars, accessing the same websites, watching the same sat-ellite channels, and reading the same sources, both classical and modern. They have a point: Egypt is now home to hundreds of charities, schools and mosques (often all part of the same complex) that ideologically unite individuals sympathetic to the Salafi cause in a myriad of different social settings. Further, enormously popular Salafi satellite channels—such as al-Nas, al-Rahma, al-Hikma (now disbanded) and al-Hafez—now func-tion as overarching agents of cohesion, providing Egypt’s disparate Salafi circles with a way to unite behind common goals.4

3. I translated the book from Arabic into English. For al-Rad, see http://www.fixy-ourdeen.com/htm/final/aboutus.asp. On the trip itself, see http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/can-a-muslim-say-happy-christmas-to-his-friends-1827628.html 4. Just before this article was completed, the Egyptian government closed the Salafi stations in response to the making of allegedly controversial statements regarding the Chris-tian church. It remains to be seen what impact their closure will have on Egypt’s wider Salafi scene.

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For Abdel Meguid, Salafism is fundamentally at odds with “the Egyp-tian character” (al-shaksiyya al-misriyya) and its “intellectual traditions” (al-taqalid al-fikriyya). In his view, the arrival of Salafism in Egypt from Saudi Arabia has triggered a hardening of attitudes towards anyone who is not religiously conservative. He attributes this process to a “Bedouin-ization” of the Egyptian high-street. For Abdel Meguid, “the desert Arab nomads” (i.e. Wahhabis) have betrayed the faith by describing it with “sternness, aggression, coarseness, and dryness.” Abou Shadi, though also critical, expressed a different view: throughout Muslim history, he pointed out, there have always been Salafis. Yet, under the influence of the Saudis, modern Egyptian Salafis too often exhibit the worst traits associ-ated with the movement: they are short-sighted and aggressive, with a misplaced sense of superiority—rooted in a supposed technical virtuosity within the ritual sphere—that leads them to clash with Sufis, and other voices of traditional Egyptian culture. While subtle differences may exist in their understandings of Salafism, both Abdel Meguid and Abou Shadi are in agreement regarding the devastating effects of Salafism on Egyptian “civilization” (hadara). Critics such as Abdel Meguid and Abou Shadi perceive Egypt’s current Salafi movement as an unwelcome and in many ways “anti-Egyptian” phenomenon, imported by uneducated Egyptians on their return from work in Saudi Arabia during the 1970s and 80s. Neither figure claims to understand Salafism’s appeal to the modern Egyptian. Egypt’s liberals and academics, among which the increasingly conservative nature of Egyp-tian religious society signals disaster, join in the general head-scratching. Negative appraisals are echoed by the handful of Western and Western-ized Muslim scholars willing to speak on the subject. The most prolific of these critics include the British scholar Tim Winters, the Egyptian Khalid Abu al-Fadl and the Lebanese born G. H. Haddad. Post-September 11, there is no mistaking the existence of an underlying fear that Salafism is inherently “radical” and “radicalizing” and that it may bubble over into jihad. Until very recently, the majority of Western academic interest on Salafism was generated by the same conviction.5

While a great deal of research has been carried out into the develop-ment and ongoing struggles of Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood, the overall aim of the current paper is to introduce the reader to the daily workings of

5. Before 11 September 2001, Salafism had attracted surprisingly little academic interest. Quentin Wiktorowicz was one of the few interested in the phenomenon, which he approached from the perspective of social movement theory. Cf. Wiktorowicz, “Anatomy of the Salafi Movement,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 29, no. 3 (2006): 207–39 (217ff.). Of groundbreaking importance is a collection of essays edited by Roel Meijer, Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement (London: Hurst & Co, 2009).



Salafism in Egypt, a subject that despite its importance has received scant attention from scholars. As part of the same process, I wish to complicate the picture regarding the two assumptions identified above. That is to say, I set out to explore the degree to which Egypt’s current Salafi networks may justifiably be described, first, as a foreign, specifically Saudi Arabian phe-nomenon, and, second, as promoting behaviours that clash with Egyptian religious and cultural traditions. This paper is divided into three sections: (1) It begins with an overview of what “Salafism” means in the modern global context. (2) It then briefly describes Salafism’s development in Egypt since the early twentieth century. Pace the claims of Abdel Meguid (though not of Abou Shadi), I argue that, while Saudi (and other) influences are certainly present, modern Egyptian Salafism must also be understood as having developed within the Egyptian religious establishment. Next, (3), in response to Abou Shadi’s comments, the reader is invited to consider the ways in which Salafism acts in concert with, as well as confronts, Egypt’s cultural and religious “traditions.”

1. What is Salafism?

For Abdel Meguid, the kind of Salafism now practised in Egypt is merely the implementation of Saudi-style beliefs and practices in his homeland; as such, it is an entirely modern phenomenon. For Abou Shadi, Salafism constitutes an ancient approach that has once again been adopted by certain figures, most, though not all of whom are Saudi Arabian. As shall become clear, both views hold some measure of the truth. Modern global Salafism is the result of a complex web of factors, many of which are genuinely ancient, while others are more recent. Modern Salafism offers Muslims a worldview in which the beliefs and practices of the earliest believers have been distilled into an educational curriculum (manhaj). Were we to sit in on a Salafi lesson on doctrine (‘aqida) or law (fiqh), it would not be long before we encountered a reference to the medieval theologian and jurist Ibn Taymiyya (1328 ce), whose views continue to be seen as definitive in a wide variety of Salafi (and, for that matter, non-Salafi) contexts. Living at the time of the Mongol invasions, Ibn Taymiyya was a brilliant though divisive scholar, who sought to purge the Muslim world of his day of its various heresies.6 It is easy to see Ibn Taymiyya’s appeal to the modern Salafi; and, since the arrival of colonialism in the Middle East, his inde-pendence of thought, as well as his fondness for jihad and inclination to

6. Ibn Taymiyya singles out Shi‘is, Ash‘aris, Jahmis and philosophers. Interestingly, though he warns against its excesses, he does not attack Sufism itself. For modern Salafis, however, Sufism is a key target. This may be understood as a particularly Wahhabi trait.



pronounce others as non-believers (a process known as takfir), has proven extraordinarily influential to many Muslim thinkers. Indeed, Bernard Haykal traces the roots of modern Salafism directly to Ibn Taymiyya, locat-ing six characteristics of Ibn Taymiyya’s thought that have been developed by subsequent writers to form the foundations of modern Salafi theology. These characteristics include: a desire to “return to the authentic beliefs and practices of the first three ‘generations’ of Islam—the al-Salaf al-Salih (pious ancestors),” a period understood to span from the time of the Prophet (d. 632) to the death of Imam Ibn Hanbal (d. 855); an emphasis on Islam’s core monotheistic principle, tawhid (God’s Oneness), which draws out the importance of ritual practice in maintaining faith (iman); an aggressive targeting of all forms of unbelief (kufr); an assertion that the only valid sources of authority are the Qur’an, the Sunna, and the consensus of the Prophet’s Companions; a striving to rid Muslims of “reprehensible innovations” (bid‘a) in belief and practice (i.e. those things that one does not find in the Qur’an, Sunna and consensus of the Companions); and, finally, the claim that Islam’s sacred sources offer immutable, unchanging sources of authority so that, while new rules may need to be derived in modern contexts, this derivation is a relatively straightforward procedure for those with sufficient knowledge. Alongside that of Ibn Taymiyya, there is no doubting the importance of Muhammad Abd al-Wahhab (d. 1791) to the construction of a distinctively modern Salafi identity. Born in the Najd and greatly influenced by Ibn Taymiyya, Abd al-Wahhab set out to purge his surroundings of what he considered its heretical accretions. Writing at a time when Saudi Arabia’s reputation for scholars had long passed, and when the Safavid Shi‘ites and Ottoman Sunnis (under whose reign various Sufi branches prospered) controlled most of the Muslim world, Abd al-Wahhab’s main targets were folk Islam, Shi‘ism and (unlike Ibn Taymiyya) Sufism. Perhaps not unfairly, his public mission has been condensed into a single line: “forbidding people from depending on any being but God, whether they are saints, holy men, trees or idols.”7 Like Ibn Taymiyya, Abd al-Wahhab’s work is combative in tone: those who did not share his vision of the doctrine of tawhid were dismissed as unbelievers (kuffar), and to be waged war against. Unlike the former scholar, whose controversial opinions ensured that he spent a fair percentage of his life behind bars, Abd al-Wahhab managed to secure lasting political protection in 1744 through a pact with the tribal chief, the amir Muhammad ibn al-Sa‘ud. With the Sa‘uds appealing to the pared-down, muscular form of monotheism espoused by Abd al-Wahhab,

7. Abd al-Rahman ibn Abd al-Latif, cited in David Commins, The Wahhabi Mission and Saudi Arabia (London: I.B. Taurus, 2009), 17.



the alliance proved a success. By the 1790s, the Sa‘uds had control of Ara-bia’s eastern heartland, and its hugely important religious centres Makka and Madina. The new religious aristocracy, since labelled “Wahhabi” by its critics, was drawn from the descendants of Abd al-Wahhab; and, whereas previous Arabian scholars had travelled abroad to further their education at traditional centres of Muslim learning, such as Damascus and Cairo, the scholars of Arabia became increasingly inward looking. In Roel Meijer’s view, modern Salafism has absorbed various charac-teristics from the classical Wahhabi stance. In particular, he points to Wah-habism’s “strengthening of a xenophobic attitude towards foreigners and its sectarianism towards non-Wahhabi Muslims.” By this Meijer means that, for the Wahhabis, “a true believer could only express his belief and the sincerity of his faith by demonstrating open enmity towards idolaters,” a frame of mind captured in the theological principle of al-wala’ wa’l-bara’ (loyalty [to Muslims] and dissociation [from all things non-Muslim]). Here, Christians and Jews, traditionally understood to receive dispensation according to their status of People of the Book, are just as theologically cul-pable as polytheists (mushrikun). Furthermore, within the Muslim world itself, anyone insufficiently in step with Wahhabi understandings is also likely to be described as a non-believer.8 Another Wahhabi influence on modern Salafi realities is the condemnation of Shi‘ism as a heresy. Hence, the Wahhabi polemic against the Shi‘ites—which resurrects the ancient insult “rawafid” (rejectionists), and which concentrates on the Shi‘ites’ veneration of their imams and the supposed denial of the authenticity of the rule of the first three of Sunnism’s Righteously Guided Caliphs (Abu Bakr, Umar, and Uthman)—is very likely to be found in Salafi treatments of the same topic.9 A final, very important addition to the Salafi canon is the Wahhabi’s interpretation of the doctrine of hisba, or the “command-ing of right and the forbidding of wrong” (al-amr bi’l-ma‘ruf wa’l-nahy ‘an al-munkar). In original Wahhabi hands, this doctrine was aimed at stop-ping people from innovatory or un-Muslim forms of behaviour, such as worshipping at shrines, listening to music, or smoking tobacco; in modern Salafi hands it has become one of the spurs for jihadi action. While the theological spirit underpinning the religious mission of Muhammad Abd al-Wahhab owed a great debt to Ibn Taymiyya, unlike that scholar, Abd al-Wahhab showed little interest in coming up with new legal rulings, a process known as ijtihad. Indeed, with their founder’s apparent lack of interest in ijtihad, subsequent scholars within (Saudi)

8. Meijer, “Introduction,” in Global Salafism, ed. Meijer, 10. 9. Note, for instance, the tendency of modern Saudi authorities to describe the Shi’ites as outside the pale of Islam.



Arabian Wahhabism tradition have, until recently, tended to uphold tradi-tional Hanbali scholarship. As we shall see, however, the identity of many modern Salafis is dependent upon their departure from the established rulings of the four Sunni law schools (madhahib), including that of Ibn Hanbal: modern Salafis generally dislike the practice of taqlid (imitation), and consider the “slavish” adherence to any one law school one of the reasons behind the decline of the Muslim Umma. On a certain level, given their loyalty to Ibn Taymiyya, this development is not surprising, though it doubtless has much to do with the intellectual influence of the Yemeni legal scholar, al-Shawkani (1839), and the Southern Asian Jama‘at Ahl-e Hadith, begun in the 1870s. The former argued that it is the duty of all Muslims, and not merely the legal expert (mujahid) to exert independent legal reasoning; while the latter endeavoured to revitalize Islam’s legal codes by systematically reapplying the hadith material to them. By offering a critique of traditional legal scholarship through the reapplication of the hadith, and by seeking to make law a matter of public rather than expert concern, these figures anticipated the arrival of perhaps the definitive stage in the development of modern Salafism, the strikingly independent ahl al-hadith movement of Muhammad Nasir al-Din al-Albani (d. 1999). Despite his considerable influence upon it, al-Albani’s relationship with Wahhabi orthodoxy is complex. Al-Albani was not an Arab by birth. Rather, he was born in Albania in 1914, before moving to Damascus when still a child. Famously, al-Albani was self-taught. Rather than sitting in scholarly halaqat, like his Saudi Arabian contemporaries, he preferred to study in the public library; and thus he set a pattern for future Salafis, whose scholarly credentials might otherwise have been attacked. Initially influenced by Rashid Rida’s al-Manar journal, he inherited a suspicion of taqlid. Yet, unlike Rida, al-Albani claimed to follow Ibn Hanbal’s original ahl al-hadith movement, as well as the more recent Indian Ahl-E Hadith incarnation—like ibn Baz, he was also influenced by Sa‘d ibn ‘Atiq—in rejecting the use of reason during the formulation of law. Becoming friends with the then President of the Islamic University of Madina and eventual grand mufti of Saudi Arabia, ibn Baz, al-Albani was offered a teaching post at the University of Madina in the 1960s; and it was from there that he honed his theories. Like the Ahl-E Hadith, al-Albani argued for Sunni Islam’s law codes to be revised according to his reassessment of the relevant hadith material. Yet, al-Albani was more ambitious. He returned to Sunni Islam’s classical canon of hadith and dismissed the valid-ity of many reports that had been judged “sound” for centuries.10 While the Ahl-E Hadith had been settled in Southern Asia, al-Albani suggested

10. See al-Albani’s Silsilat al-ahadith al-sahihah.



his revisions when based in the Wahhabi heartland, and teaching in one of its most prestigious institutions. As if this was not controversial enough, al-Albani appeared to go out of his way to aggravate his Saudi hosts by questioning the strength of Muhammad Abd al-Wahhab’s knowledge of hadith, and by giving a number of legal rulings that not only contradicted the established schools of law, but ran directly counter to Saudi religious sensibilities. Al-Albani was theologically conservative, legally innovatory, and dedi-cated above all to the study of hadith. In his passionate call for a return to the way of the Salaf al-Salih, the main theological and historical strands of modern Salafism—Ibn Taymiyya, Abd al-Wahhab, Shawkani and Ahl-e Hadith—coalesced. In light of the tendency to present Salafism and Wah-habism as synonymous, it is thus significant that, because of al-Albani, traditional Saudi Wahhabi realities imploded, with young “Sahwa” (reviv-alist) scholars claiming the right to ijtihad to challenge the establishment’s quietist views on the correct relationship between politics and religion. Most significant of all is the fact that, partly to face down the challenge presented by their Sahwa critics, the Saudi-Arabian religious establishment made al-Albani their main point of reference regarding hadith criticism. Espousing allegiance to al-Albani, a new school of hadith scholarship—often referring to itself as ahl al-hadith—spread across the Muslim world. This school set down roots in Egypt, via one of al-Albani’s most cherished disciples, Abu Ishaq al-Huwayni. Before turning to focus on modern Egyptian Salafi realities, how-ever, it is necessary briefly to consider the contributions of a very differ-ent group, also largely based in Egypt, who also (somewhat confusingly) described themselves as “Salafis.” This group, which Abou Shadi describes as “Enlightened Salafis” (al-salafiyya al-tanwiriyya), or, with grim good humour, as “the [only] good Salafis” (al-salafiyya al-tanwiriyya), emerged at the end of the nineteenth century as part of a reform movement spear-headed by the intriguing philosopher-reformer Jamal al-Din al-Afghani (d. 1897) and his colleague Muhammad Abdu, the future Egyptian mufti. These men were primarily rationalists who, in response to the politi-cal and ideological pressures of the day, argued that the spirit of Islam is in keeping with modern Western philosophies, such as democracy and women’s rights. The writings of Afghani and Abdu have little to do with the type of Salafism practised in today’s Egypt. Nevertheless, they are extremely important in that they re-introduced into the Azhar a desire for legal reform, through the channel of ijtihad. The same figures also bring us to the point where we may begin to consider one of our two princi-pal questions: to what extent is Salafism, as practised in modern Egyptian settings, merely an ideological import with no connection to indigenous



Egyptian religious realities? In attempting to answer this question, one of the more important figures is Muhammad Abdu’s disciple, Rashid Rida, whose Manar journal so influenced the young al-Albani. Despite his ini-tial debt to the philosophical theories of Abdu, Rida became increasingly conservative in his understanding of Islam. Haykal notes that, in the later years of his life, “[h]is writings, whether in the famous journal al-Manar or elsewhere, also expressed traditional Salafi theological and legal posi-tions, without ever fully adopting these unconditionally.”11

2. Some Observations on the Development of Modern Salafism in Egypt: Ansar al-Sunna, al-Azhar University,

and the Scholars of Saudi Arabia

It has been claimed that Rashid Rida’s move towards traditional Salafi thought, and away from the rationalism of his teacher Muhammad Abdu, was motivated by his conversations with Muhammad Hamid al-Fiqqi, the founder of Egypt’s Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammidiyya organization in 1924. Like the Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya, which had been established slightly earlier by Mahmud Muhammad Khattab al-Subki, Ansar al-Sunna called for religious reform through close study of the Qur’an and the Prophetic Sunna. The respective histories of these two organizations are described in terms of their battles against innovation, superstition and ignorance, the excesses of Sufism, the deviousness of Shi‘is, and the cruelties of colonialism. In familiar language, they call for Muslims to uphold the way of the al-Salaf al-Salih by paying strict attention to the development of the correct doctrine (‘aqida), based on the Qur’an and Sunna, and the fundamental necessity of ritual worship (‘ibada) to the doctrine of tawhid. Both proclaim the importance of the writings of Ibn Taymiyya and his student Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, while warning Muslims of the dangers of dallying with politics.12

For Abou Shadi, al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya is “less Salafi” than Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya. This is because, in his view, the former move-ment is more dedicated to the setting up of charities and mosques than to the dissemination of specifically Salafi theology, and because it is less overtly influenced by Saudi Arabian scholars. While a great deal has been written on the founding and development of the less scholastic and more politically oriented Muslim Brotherhood, begun by Hassan al-Bana at around the same time (1928), Egypt’s indigenous Salafi scholars are rarely

11. Bernard Haykal, “On the Nature,” in Global Salafism, ed. Meijer, 46. 12. Despite their shared ambitions, the relationship between Ansar al-Sunna and Gama‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya is complex, and not always friendly. See e.g. http://tinyurl.com/ 36fnjyg.



mentioned by Western analysts. In this section, it is worth introducing these figures, particularly those associated with Ansar al-Sunna. As noted already, my main aim is to explore the relationship between Salafism, the Azhar University and Saudi Arabia. For, while there is no point in dismissing the influence of Wahhabi thinking in shaping global Salafi realities, Abou Shadi’s comment—that the scholars of Ansar al-Sunna are honorary Saudis by dint of their theological and legal approaches—is at least partially misleading in the Egyptian context. While in this paper I focus on formal mosque-based Salafi settings (and particularly on the Ansar al-Sunna group), the overall phenomenon of Salafism in Egypt may not be limited to such concrete settings. Particu-larly in the wake of the modern ahl al-hadith’s arrival in Egypt (through al-Albani), there are thousands of informal, Salafi groups in universities and colleges, workplaces of all kinds, and now, increasingly, on the world-wide web, where virtual communities form and disband with remarkable frequency. Such groups may, or may not have, a connection to Ansar al-Sunna, al-Gam‘iyya al-Shari‘iyya and the other main Salafi da‘wa groups. Salafism, in short, is an intensely social phenomenon that requires no special forum, or formal organization, to exist. When I discussed the history of Ansar al-Sunna with representatives of their organization at their branch in Ma‘di, in stark contrast to Abou Shadi’s assessment, they emphasized the Egyptian, and particularly the Azhari, roots of the organization—an observation that appears solid when we look at the educational background of its founders. Indeed, for many years, the movement seems to have been led by well-established members of Egypt’s Azhari elite. Graduating from the Azhar in 1916 to become Imam of Sharkas mosque, Hamid al-Fiqqi (like Rashid Rida) had been taught by Muhammad Abdu. Under al-Fiqqi’s guidance, the early Ansar al-Sunna movement proclaimed itself dedicated to spreading knowledge of tawhid, as described in the works of Ibn Taymiyya, and to refuting the claims of the various heretical movements that existed within Egyptian society. The founding committee of the organization, and the contributors to the group’s journal, al-Hadi al-Nabawi, included some of Egypt’s foremost Azhari scholars of the day, such as the renowned hadith scholar and jurist Ahmad Shakir, who became chief editor of al-Hadi al-Nabawi, and shaykh al-Azhar, Muhammad Shaltut, whose works on jihad continue to provoke interest in reformist circles. Among the mourners at al-Fiqqi’s funeral in 1959 were the much respected Azhari scholars Abd al-Rahman al-Tag and Hasanain Makhluf, the latter having been elected grand mufti twice, in 1946–50, and in 1952–55. The close connection between the Azhar and Egypt’s indigenous Salafis continued after al-Fiqqi. In fact, his successor as leader of Ansar al-Sunna, Abd al-Razzaq Afifi, had even stronger Azhari



credentials, having earned a doctorate there in the study of the sources of law (‘usul al-fiqh), while the next leader, Abdul al-Rahman al-Wakil who was elected in 1965, was also an Azhar graduate. In assessing the overall nature of the relationship between al-Azhar and Ansar al-Sunna, a recent supporter of the movement sensibly observes that much has depended upon the identity of the main scholars in the Azhar at the time. That is to say, when reform-minded legal specialists, such as Muhammad Mustafa al-Maraghi (shaykh al-Azhar 1928–29, 1935–45), Abd al-Majid Salim (grand mufti 1928–45, shaykh al-Azhar 1950–51) and Muhammad Shaltut (shaykh al-Azhar 1958–63), have been in positions of power, there has often been close affiliation between the Azhar and the Salafis in Ansar al-Sunna; whereas, when other, more traditionally madhhabi and/or Sufi voices (for instance shaykhs Abd al-Halim Mahmud, or more recently Tantawi and Ali Gum‘a) have been at the helm, this relationship has been less friendly. There is no doubt that many of the early Ansar al-Sunna scholars benefited from close ties with the Saudi Arabian Wahhabi regime and its scholars. Indeed, several of them were invited to travel to Saudi Arabia to contribute to the teaching and practising of Islam in the Kingdom. Having made clear his admiration of Muhammad Abd al-Wahhab in his own writ-ings, al-Fiqqi taught in Hijaz for three years, where he was “beloved” by no less a figure than King Abd al-Aziz ibn Sa‘ud. The trip clearly made an impression: when al-Fiqqi returned, he redoubled his efforts in Ansar al-Sunna by strengthening its leadership structure and reformulating its goals. Al-Fiqqi’s example set a precedent, and his successor Abd al-Razzaq Afifi was asked by the Saudi Arabian mufti, Muhammad bin Ibrahim, to go to the Kingdom to teach. Originally giving courses on tawhid in Ta’if, in 1951, Afifi travelled to Riyadh to lecture at the prestigious College of Islamic Law. From then on, he appears to have balanced his time between Egypt and Saudi Arabia, where he rose swiftly in the latter’s religious estab-lishment. In 1965 ce, he was appointed manager of the Higher Institution for Legal Rulings (al-Ma‘had al-‘ali li’l-qada’); and, significantly, he was involved in the development of a new Saudi school curriculum. In 1971, he moved to the general administration in the Institution for Research and Legal Rulings (al-idara al-‘ama li’l-buhuth al-‘ilmiyya wa’l-ifta’) before eventually becoming deputy manager (na’ib) of the extremely influential Permanent Committee for Research and Legal Rulings (al-Lajna al-da’ima li’l-buhuth al-‘ilmiyya wa’l-ifta’). It was in this position, alongside ibn Baz, that Afifi ruled in defence of al-Albani when the latter was under attack by the Saudi establishment in the 1970s; other Egyptian Salafi scholars proved almost as impressive to the Saudi religious establishment as Afifi. Afifi’s role is particularly important because, in addition to being handpicked



by ibn Baz to provide fatawa through the Permanent Committee, he was responsible for teaching a generation (jil) of some of Saudis’ most influ-ential scholars, among whose numbers are ‘Abd Allah bin Jibrin and Salah al-Fawzan. In this sense, he made concrete contributions to the formula-tion of the modern (pre-al-Albani) Saudi Arabian manhaj. Returning to Abou Shadi’s comments regarding the fundamentally Saudi Arabian nature of the Ansar al-Sunna organization, some general observations may now be made. From the 1920s to the 1960s, the Ansar al-Sunna scholars contributed to a sea-change in Egyptian religious realities: Egypt’s Sufis fell increasingly out of favour, particularly with the urban middle classes in Salafi strongholds, and the call for a re-implementation of Islamic law as a panacea for all of society’s ills rose in strength. The Salafis’ attack on Sufism was (and still is) a source of controversy in Azhari circles; while it remains problematic to speak of initial influences, early Ansar al-Sunna scholars, such as al-Fiqqi, undoubtedly owe a debt to Abd al-Wahhab and his scholars, who anticipated their main line of attack by describing Sufis as peddlers of superstition (khurafa) and disbelief (shirk). Furthermore, after al-Fiqqi, the relationship between Ansar al-Sunna and the Saudis has always been cordial: a general similarity in approach has blossomed into friendships and, for those like Afifi, employment opportunities. Without a doubt, Egyptian scholars have been remunerated handsomely for their contributions to the development of the modern Saudi religious landscape.13 Yet it is misleading to describe the original Ansar al-Sunna scholars as if they were mere conduits for Saudi Wahhabi ideology. Indeed, while al-Fiqqi acknowledges his respect of the Wahhabi movement at length, he also anticipates al-Albani in criticizing some of their number on the grounds that they are “excessively loyal” (mut‘assibun) to the Hanbali school of law, “in the same way that anyone who follows any law school” might be called excessive.14 Similarly, it is hardly possible that al-Fiqqi was perceived in wholly negative terms by his countrymen in the Azhar when Azhari scholars populated his organization, contributed to its journal, and attended his funeral. Matters have changed since the late 1960s, when it could be argued that the wishes of Ansar al-Sunna’s early scholars came true. For, since this time, the ideology of Ansar al-Sunna with its emphasis on salvation through a pure, textually-based version of Islam has shifted from the academic to the public sphere as a result of what is now known as the

13. A point eloquently made by Khaled Abou el-Fadl, The Great Theft (London: Harper One, 2007), 88. 14. Khalid Muhammad Yunus’ doctorate, “Al-Qarn al-ashriyin wa juhud al-harakat al-da‘wiyya fi Misr” (The Twentieth Century, and the Endeavours of Egypt’s Proselytizing Movements) (2006), 162 available at http://eprints.hec.gov.pk/2722/.



“Islamic Revival” (sahwa). Not surprisingly, Ansar al-Sunna declares that it (rather than the Muslim Brotherhood or any of Egypt’s other religio-social movements) was responsible for igniting the Revival—a claim that is beyond the scope of this essay to support or refute. While the Azhar’s reputation has suffered as a result of being perceived under government control, the Ansar al-Sunna has flourished in an increasingly competi-tive environment. As the institution’s two main scholars in recent years, Tantawi (shaykh al-Azhar from 1996–2010) and Ali Gum‘a (grand mufti from 2002-present) are demonstrably not supporters of Salafism, relation-ships between Ansar al-Sunna and the higher echelons of al-Azhar (as also represented by Abou Shadi) have cooled.15

These days, it seems that few of Ansar al-Sunna’s better known scholars and proselytizers completed their original studies at the Azhar. Rather, the majority have obtained their primary religious qualifications in Saudi Arabia, though many continue to supplement their education with courses at the Azhar, where they engage primarily in the fields of law and hadith, rather than in matters of doctrine (‘aqida). Indeed, despite recent Azhar-related initiatives such as al-Rad and the occasional angry comment from a handful of well-known Azharis, the overall impression is that the Azhar is becoming increasingly “Salafi-zed.” This explains why the sermons of Egypt’s Salafi scholars invariably receive al-Azhar’s stamp of approval before being sold, either on cassette or DVD, throughout Egypt and further afield. Accord-ing to Safwat Nur al-Din, the Damiyyat-based leader of Ansar al-Sunna from 1991 until his death in 2002, communication between the two parties became a matter of necessity as a result of Gamal Abd al-Nasr’s decision to place all mosques under the control of the Government’s Ministry of Religious Endowments (wizarat al-awqaf). For many Egyptian Salafis, there is an assumption that, through such exposure, the Azhar itself will be won over by the Salafi viewpoint. The relationship between Saudi Arabia and Ansar al-Sunna continues to flourish. Indeed, on a practical level, this relationship has probably

15. “If anything, Tantawi’s replacement, Dr. Ahmed al-Tayeb, is perceived as even more anti-Salafi than his predecessor. Al-Tayeb has already made news by describing Egypt’s Wahhabi-influenced scholars as “foreign to Egypt” and of posing a threat similar to Christian missionaries and Marxists to Muslim society!” See Hani Nasira, “Salafists Chal-lenge al-Azhar for Ideological Supremacy in Egypt,” Terrorism Monitor 8, no. 35, September 16, 2010, available at: http://www.unhcr.org/refworld/docid/4c9c50952.html. NB: Nasira argues the direct opposite of the present article. To his mind, “the relationship between Egypt’s Salafis and the Azhar has been antagonistic from the beginning.” To my mind, however, Nasira underplays the original significance of men like Fiqqi and al-Affifi to both Azhari and Salafi circles. More importantly, he does not appear to acknowledge the influ-ence of Salafi thought on current theological and ritual discourses within the Azhar.



strengthened due to the setting up, in Egypt, of a variety of Saudi-staffed and organized da‘wa institutions. In agreement with Abou Shadi, it is clear that the current Ansar al-Sunna organization is indebted to the theology of recent Saudi Arabian and Saudi-based theologians to a greater degree than its early, pioneering scholars.16 It is tempting to suggest that the reason for this is predominantly political. For, while al-Fiqqi advocated embracing religion, not politics, he and other members of Ansar al-Sunna were also committed to performing jihad. In 1969, a concern that Ansar al-Sunna had become a breeding ground for revolutionary thought led the government to freeze its assets and merge the group with al-Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya. On regaining its independence, the organization has gener-ally been careful to maintain the appearance of political neutrality within Egypt’s own political sphere. This approach stands in direct contrast to that of the Muslim Brotherhood, and the more recent revolutionary move-ments such as al-Gam‘at al-Islamiyya, al-Jihad and al-Takfir wa’l-Hijra. In essence, Ansar al-Sunna declares that there is no evidence to suggest the present Egyptian leadership is not Muslim. Overthrowing it, the Ansar al-Sunna scholars insist, would only cause civil unrest (fitna) and chaos (fawda).17 Unlike those interested “in undoing the unity of the Muslim world,” Ansar al-Sunna dedicates itself to promoting “purity of belief and practice, and to distancing itself from all [matters of] politics.”18 Thus stated, its (a)political position is almost identical to that of the Wahhabi religious establishment, a fact enabling the organization to weather the storms visited on the abovementioned groups, all of which are now either disbanded or seriously weakened because their leadership languishes in Egypt’s political prisons (mu‘taqalat). In summary, Ansar al-Sunna, and modern Egyptian Salafism, owes much to Saudi Arabian scholarship. Yet, should we say, with Abou Shadi, that “the roots” of Ansar al-Sunni are Saudi? I would argue that there are several reasons not to do so. After all, while al-Fiqqi was a supporter of Wahhabism, a traditional form of scholarly Salafism, centring on Ibn Taymiyya and emphasizing the renewal of Islam through a purifying of

16. Perhaps the most influential voice in Ansar al-Sunna these days belongs to the followers of the Saudi-Arabian hadith specialist Rabi al-Madkhali. In passing we note that the most famous local Egyptian Salafi scholars, such as Ishaq al-Huwayni and Muhammad Hassan (whose relationship with Ansar al-Sunna is often fraught with tension), are both critical of al-Madkhali. 17. Predictably, the Ansar al-Sunna stands accused of cowardice and hypocrisy by more revolutionary figures on Egypt’s current political scene. For an impassioned response to this, emphasizing the movement’s involvement in jihad in Palestine, Afghanistan and elsewhere, see Ahmad Tahir’s arguments, cited in Yunus, “Twentieth Century,” 344ff. 18. Yunus, “Twentieth Century,” 181.



doctrine and practice, predates the interaction of (Saudi) Arabia and Egypt. Further, since the time of Muhammad Abdu, al-Azhar’s legal scholars were generally more ambitious than their (Hanbali) Saudi Arabian peers in challenging the idea that scholars should prefer one law school above the others. Last, during much of the previous century, the Saudi elite clearly assumed that there was much still to learn from Egyptians such as Abd al-Razzaq Afifi. Yet, if the historical roots of Ansar al-Sunna are not Saudi, its scholars in recent years do appear increasingly indebted to Wahhabi instruction and publications. In particular, the fear of political prosecution has rendered Ansar al-Sunna’s attitude to matters of political involvement very similar to that of the Wahhabis. This is not to say that the Ansar al-Sunna has been overrun by Saudi-educated figures. Indeed, it appears that Azhari scholars are now increas-ingly involved in (privately) educating students of the organization. Following Nur al-Din, the interest of the latter even extends to academic study of the movement. It remains to be seen what effects this will have in the long term. A final objection to Abou Shadi’s characterization of Ansar al-Sunna as fundamentally Saudi can be made. For, as it transpires, the thing that annoys the Azhari shaykh most about the Egyptian Salafis—indeed, to his mind, this is what renders them most “Saudi”—is their recent changes to mosque etiquette. Such changes, we recall, came as the result of Albanian, rather than Saudi, influence.

3. How does Egyptian Salafism Clash with Egyptian Cultural and Religious “Traditions”?

In its introduction, al-Rad gives the impression that Egyptian Salafis will-ingly position themselves on a collision course with traditional religious norms and Egyptian cultural values. Once again, caution is advised. It bears repeating that Egypt’s Salafis have been remarkably successful at integrating into virtually all levels of Muslim Egyptian society; this surely could not have happened if Salafi ideology were perceived as a rupture in Egyptian culture or tradition. Rather, the majority of Salafis with whom I spoke perceive themselves as proud participants in Egyptian society. On one level, this can be attributed to the eloquence of their shaykhs and the subsequent success of the Salafi’s media exploits. The extent to which satellite channels such as al-Nas (The People) and al-Rahma (The Mercy) bring Salafism into the lives of average Egyptians should not be underes-timated. It is also true, however, that as a code of practice Salafism is not as alien to general Egyptian contexts as is implied by the writers of al-Rad. Rather, in matters of family and gender relations, the Salafis lay claim to being defenders of Egyptian Muslim tradition.



In Abdel Meguid’s view, the definitive hallmark of Egyptian Salafis is their harshness, intolerance and inflexibility regarding the practices and beliefs of other Egyptians, Muslims and otherwise.19 He also points to the Salafis’ standard objections to most forms of music and art as proof of their cultural poverty. In this respect, Abdel Meguid is at one with the views of Olivier Roy, who views Salafism as a form of neo-fundamentalism that, among other things, rejects the very concept of culture.20 Similarly, Meguid observes that the Salafis show no mercy in their treatment of women. The realization that the Saudi and Egyptian Salafis know their law sometimes puts traditional madhhabi Azhari scholars, such as Abou Shadi, in a difficult position. Indeed, so as to appear both more lenient and in step with modern Egyptian culture—a position they describe as “centrist” (wasati)—the writers of al-Rad must at times opt for minority legal positions. Hence, for instance, while Saudi’s main institution, The Permanent Committee, follows the majority of Sunni jurists in prohibit-ing for purposes of entertainment and/or education the use of any musical instruments, bar the taba’ drum, al-Rad suggests that this is possible (fatwa no. 104). In order to do so, however, its authors turn to the brilliant, though unconventional, scholar of the Zahiri law school, Ibn Hazm, to support their view.21 In this instance, al-Rad defends the tastes of modern Egyptian culture, which greatly enjoys music, but leaves itself open to attack from the Salafis, who feel that they are in possession of stronger legal evidence.22 Further, in striving for “centrism,” the writers of al-Rad emphasize that, “if a particular song, or genre of song, speaks directly to a Muslim’s animal, rather than spiritual, side, he should avoid listening

19. Note, for instance, al-Rad ’s rejection of al-‘Uthaymin’s (summary of Abd al-Wah-hab’s) argument that, by repeatedly missing the obligatory prayers, a person leaves Islam (fatwa no. 2) and ibn Baz’s claim that ignorance of doctrine is no excuse for sinning (fatwa no. 7). See also fatwas, nos. 13, 16, 17, 18, 19 for al-Rad’s more lenient stance regarding the pros and cons of interacting with non-Muslims. 20. Olivier Roy, Globalized Islam: The Search for a New Umma (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), 259–69. 21. The irony here is that the Salafis (and particularly al-Albani) are often criticized for preferring Zahiri views above those of the four orthodox madhahib (Malikis, Hanafis, Shafi‘is, Hanbalis). 22. For many Salafis, music is either an unpleasant reminder of Egypt’s Sufi past or a chilling wake-up call regarding Egypt’s current debt to the West. According to Abou Shadi, perhaps the first real confrontation between the Egyptian religious establishment and that of the Saudis came as a result of their different attitudes to music: in 1926, the Egyptian sol-diers carrying the covering of the Ka‘ba (kiswa), traditionally brought from Egypt to Saudi Arabia in time for the Hajj, were attacked because of the music that was being played by the caravan in which it was being brought. Abou el-Fadl, The Great Theft, 86.



to it.” In one fell swoop, the text thus alienates both lovers of law and of modern music culture.23

Both Abdel Meguid and Abou Shadi rue the effect that Salafism has had on Egypt’s Sufi communities, but it is not clear that such feelings are shared by the Egyptian public. Traditionally, of course, Egyptian society has enjoyed a wide variety of Sufi branches.24 Influenced by Abd al-Wahhab’s polemics on the subject, modern Salafism does not toler-ate any form of Sufism. In practical terms, this means that Egyptian Salafis outlaw such culturally embedded practices as seeking intercession with God (tawassul), visiting the shrines of the saints and the righteous (ziyarat qubur al-awliya wa’l-salihin), and celebrating the birthday (mawlid) of the Prophet and other important figures—all of which are formally celebrated in Sufi contexts, and all of which the Salafis perceive as inno-vations threatening the integrity of a pure Islamic society. These acts continue to occur on the Egyptian religious landscape; while the Salafis continue to rail against them. Many of their practitioners, however, are not necessarily card-carrying Sufis; rather they visit shrines and celebrate the birthday festivals (mawalid) because such acts are interwoven into the fabric of traditional Egyptian culture. Yet, in a sense, this makes the task of dissuading the average practitioner from continuing his or her habits that much easier for the Salafis, who, rather than facing an organized Sufi movement with its own spiritual and textual justifications, perceive themselves merely as educating uninformed and superstitious individuals in the way of true Islam. Needless to say, for historically minded Azhari scholars, the Salafis’ apparent victory over the Sufis is tragic; yet, despite the continuation of Sufi-related practices such as venerating the saints and celebrating the mawalid, it is difficult to say how much the general public misses its Sufi past. For Abdel Meguid, Egypt’s Salafis are brutally insensitive towards the needs of modern women. The question of whether they are out of step with Egyptian cultural and religious orthodoxy (if such a thing can be said to exist) is another matter. Indeed, for many Egyptians, Salafism’s unam-biguously patriarchal stance towards women is a necessary corrective to what they perceive as the whining of feminists, secularists and other non-Muslim, non-Arab voices. In blatant opposition to these voices, the Salafis argue that a Muslim woman should stay at home, look after her children,

23. Also see fatwa no. 69 which controversially permits the buying and selling of alco-hol. To do this, al-Rad once again looks outside the four main Sunni madhahib to a Zahiri opinion. 24. For an interesting study of contemporary Sufi realities in Egyptian society, which argues for Sufism’s ongoing importance to Egyptians, see Valerie Hoffman, Sufism, Mystics and Saints in Modern Egypt (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1995).



defer to her husband, and work only when financially obliged to do so (and in places where she is unlikely to encounter other men). There is little doubt that the Salafis find themselves in agreement with a large number of working- and middle-class Egyptians, both male and female.25

The patriarchal appeal of Salafism is brought into focus by the ongoing debates over the Islamic legitimacy of female circumcision (khitan al-inath)—debates in which the Salafis, and not the Azharis, can claim to be the real defenders of Egyptian tradition. A great deal has been written on the subject of khitan over the past thirty years.26 Suffice it to say that, in the wake of criticism from Arab/Egyptian secular-liberals (such as Nawal al-Saadawi) and of Western writers from various backgrounds, al-Azhar University has decided that the still very common operation should not continue to be performed in Egypt. Indeed, on textual and humanitar-ian grounds, Tantawi and Ali Gum‘a went so far as to denounce female circumcision as “un-Islamic.”27 Although public attitudes towards khitan seem to be changing, most Egyptians would probably disagree, citing Egyptian tradition in their defence. Indeed, in response to the Azhar’s ruling, and objecting to Western tampering in matters of Islam, a number of religiously conservative Egyptian voices—some, but not all, belonging to Salafis—have united in defending the validity of female circumcision from the perspective of normative Sunni Islamic law.28

25. For obvious reasons, interviewing women involved in Egypt’s Salafi movements has proved the most challenging aspect of my research. Those who agreed to interviews have generally been from the upper classes. In their view, Salafism is a profoundly empow-ering discourse. Rather than treating the males in their lives as superior, their religious knowledge allows them to negotiate from a position of power. 26. For an overview of this material, see Kecia Ali, Sexual Ethics in Islam (Oxford: One-world Publications, 2006), chapter 6. 27. In so doing, they overturned the argument of the previous shaykh al-Azhar, Gad al-Haqq, who is generally beloved by Salafis for vociferously upholding the practice of female circumcision. See al-Haqq, “Khitan Al Banat,” in al-Fatawa al-Islamiyyah (1983). The essence of the Sunna circumcision of women is “to reduce, but not destroy” sensation, by removing the clitoral hood. According to Salafi doctors in Madinat Nasr and Shubra, in practice, a “sunna” khitan normally entails the partial removal of the clitoris itself so as to dull the sexual appetite of the women. 28. Thus, we find perhaps the best known of modern Egyptian Salafi proselytizers, Muhammad Hassan, confessing his amazement at the intrusion of Westerners—“be these German, American, or British”—on the subject of khitan. Hassan asks why these foreign-ers should be so interested in the lives of Egyptian Muslim women. Doubtless referring to the opinions of Tantawi and Gum‘a, Hassan expresses greater surprise still that “our great shaykhs” would deny the legal validity of female circumcision. In response to the latter, he challenges “any Muslim to open any book on law,” and to skim the opinions of the ulama’ for “just five minutes.” Were we to invest this brief time exploring the matter for ourselves, Hassan notes, we would find the jurists divided into two opinions on the subject. Yet, neither



The Salafis’ talent for ticking several boxes of importance to the con-struction of a modern Egyptian identity—“Muslim,” “Arab,” “Egyptian” (not necessarily in that order)—is apparent in their discussions over the niqab, the full veil which, though deemed obligatory by the Salafis, is not traditionally worn by most Egyptian women. Indeed, for many years, the Salafis’ insistence that any Muslim women wanting to go out in public must first don a niqab was described as a prominent symbol of their bleak and backward fundamentalism. Recently, however, the Salafi proselytiz-ers on Qanat al-Nas and the other satellite channels have been able to exploit a slip-up by the late shaykh al-Azhar, Tantawi, in order to justify a position of righteous outrage on the subject. As he had done previously on the subject of khitan, Tantawi described the wearing of the niqab as “un-Islamic,” and as merely “cultural,” by which he meant Saudi-Arabian culture. He then proceeded to ban women wearing the niqab from attend-ing public universities. His Salafi opponents automatically accused Tantawi of seeking to placate Western interests rather than fulfil the conditions of Islam, and/or of complete incompetence in the field of law. The Salafis correctly note that, according to the classical Sunni jurists, the wearing of the niqab is either obligatory or recommended.29 By eliding their discus-sions on niqab (an un-Egyptian practice) with those on khitan (an Egyptian one), and by accusing the Azhar on both issues of siding with the West, the Salafis are able to give the impression of simultaneously defending Islam and Egyptian-Arabic culture in both cases. For, as one Salafi respondent pointed out to me, when an average Egyptian is given the choice between the religious traditions of Arabs and those of the West, he will automati-cally choose those associated with the former. Here, the decision to wear the niqab becomes associated with Egyptian religious culture simply by dint of the fact that it, like khitan, is something that Westerners, and those perceived as stooges for the West (such as Tantawi), do not want to see occur.30 The same impression—that Salafism promotes qualities that are

of these opinions questions the legal validity of khitan; rather, as he correctly observes, they merely disagree as to whether the practice is “obligatory” (fard) or recommended (mustahhab); see www.youtube.com/watch?v=3EMr5B-E2Q8&feature=related. For a similar response, see al-Huwayni’s fatwa at http://www.alsalafway.com/cms/news.php?action=news&id=733. 29. Yet this issue has succeeded in publically dividing the Salafis from the Azharis per-haps more than any other. The most provocative comment came from the respected Azhari female scholar, Su‘ad Salih, who claimed to feel “repulsion” (ishma‘az) at the sight of women in niqab, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVPfcojrn5M&feature=related. Needless to say, it spurred a furious response from the likes of al-Huwayni, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARFXOJioHq8&feature=related. 30. As part of this process, the Azharis’ opinions are also dismissed as “merely politi-cal,” with “no relation to religion”; see e.g. another of al-Huwayni’s discussions on the importance of niqab, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12uQu0lj4Rk&feature=related.



inherently Muslim, Egyptian and Arab, rather than Western—is under-lined by the great emphasis placed on the debt of children to their parents. In short, then, in matters of gender and family, much of the Salafis’ success in the field of da’wa is based on their capacity to promote themselves as traditionalists. When Anas Abou Shadi describes Salafism as “anti-Egyptian,” he means something different to Abdel Meguid. The Azhari shaykh’s main criticism focuses on the disruption to Egypt’s mosque communities by the Salafis’ introduction of a large number of non-Egyptian ritual prac-tices into the sphere of worship. This primarily occurred through the arrival of certain key works by al-Albani on Egypt’s Salafi scene, where the correct performance of ritual worship to Muslim identity had always been much emphasized. According to the Ansar al-Sunna respondents, before the arrival of al-Albani, average Egyptians in the Ansar al-Sunna and Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya mosques had been encouraged to study from Fiqh al-Sunna, an enormously influential text written by the Azhari scholar Sayyid Sabiq.31 Demonstrating the legal inventiveness of the early twentieth-century Azharis (in contrast to the Hanbali loyalty of their Saudi Arabians peers), Fiqh al-Sunna does not champion the view of a particular madhhab. However, it does tend to follow the Shafi‘ite view in most ritual matters. This was convenient as, according to Abu Shadi, until recently almost all Egyptian mosques upheld Shafi‘ite ritual. Abou Shadi estimates that 70 per cent or more of Egyptian mosques have now fallen under the sway of modern Salafism, the power and appeal of which has largely depended upon al-Albani’s re-evaluations of the hadith mate-rial and the subsequent legal developments in the field of ritual. In Abou Shadi’s youth, the vast majority of Cairene Muslims were able to pray anywhere in the city following the same basic (Shafi‘ite) ritual pattern. He now complains that the Salafis have wilfully corrupted such harmony through their “colonization” of mosques and insistence upon their ritual preferences to the exclusion of all others. Certainly, in the fields of ritual purity and prayer, there are few aspects of established Egyptian ritual behaviour that have not been tinkered with. To give an indication of this overall trend, a few examples must here suffice: whereas in prevailing legal custom human blood is seen as ritually defiling, the Salafis argue that it is pure; traditional mosque etiquette requires the removal of one’s shoes before entering the mosques, while the Salafis permit (even

31. Fiqh al-Sunna was commissioned by the founder of the Muslim Brotherhood Hasan al-Bana in the 1940s. It automatically filled a niche in the practical life of Salafi inclined Egyptian Muslims and continues to be revered in both Salafi and, in particular, Muslim Brotherhood circles.



encourage) Muslims to pray wearing their shoes; even the way in which a Muslim should move his finger—a waggle, rather than a point—during the pronouncement of God’s name in prayer is different according to certain Salafis’ views.32 In deciding about such matters, the Salafi scholars pick eclectically from the law schools and sometimes base their ruling on individual hadiths. Following the Salafi manhaj under al-Albani, moreover, it is not enough for a Muslim merely to learn about an additional ritual requirement. Rather, all ritual performance must be finely honed and tweaked, so that technical mastery is achieved. The end result has been the creation of elite groups of individuals, profoundly knowledgeable on the subject of ritual. Within anthropological circles, there is a growing body of literature on the importance of ritual performance in the cultiva-tion of Muslim identity. Essentially in agreement with the bulk of such literature, Abou Shadi perceptively notes that ritual performance, and the debate surrounding it, allows the modern Egyptian Salafi to construct his identity as a Muslim, a follower of the Prophet, and an enemy of Western thought. It is doubtless for this reason that, for the modern Egyptian Salafi, the ritualization process appears often to extend beyond those things, spaces and acts usually associated with the sacred—i.e. the Qur’an, the mosque, and the acts of ritual worship—to encompass aspects of prosaic life. Indeed, the modern Egyptian Salafi endeavours to sacralize as much as possible of secular society by basing his dress, grooming and daily behaviour on examples set in those prophetic hadiths that have been verified through the Salafi manhaj. While Sunni jurists have always recommended Muslims to follow what they perceive to be man’s fundamental and essential nature (fitra), the Salafis treat such recommendations as obligations. They dictate, therefore, that if a man does not let his beard grow (more than a handful), or prevent his trousers from descending beneath the ankle, or repeat his purification regardless of whether it is time to pray, he risks manifesting the tell-tale signs of disbelief. For Abou Shadi, such dedication to ritual, and to one’s general appearance, is laudable only when accompanied by the correct legal and spiritual understanding. In his view, very few Salafis seem to possess such understanding and their commitment to ritual may at best be described as excessive. Worse still, according to Abu Shadi, is the way in which the Salafis’ attempt to sacralize the quotidian robs Egyptian culture of its peculiarities: Salafi funerals and weddings, he observes, “lack the Egyptian flavour” (mafihumsh al-ta‘m al-misri).

32. See e.g. al-Huwyani following al-Albani’s lead in “How to Move your Finger in the Prayer during Tashaddud” at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ze8j_wX7Guw&feature= related.



To return to our question concerning the degree to which Salafism promotes qualities that are intrinsically anti-Egyptian, it has been argued that, despite the instincts of two key members of the Islamic Hotline team, Egyptian Salafism does not, in many respects, clash with Egypt’s religious and cultural traditions. Indeed, while Egypt’s Salafis are unusu-ally strict regarding non-Muslims, Sufism, music, art, and women’s dress and behaviour, they often uphold what Sunni Islamic law (generally, but not always of Hanbali origin) deems to be the correct legal position on these matters. As the centre for Sunni Islamic law is Egypt’s Azhar Uni-versity, the positions upheld by the Salafis on many basic issues generally accord with those previously adopted by traditional Azhari jurists, such as Gadd al-Haqq, of whose Egyptian-ness no doubts are expressed. Indeed, in certain instances, and particularly regarding women and the family, the Salafis are able convincingly to claim to uphold traditional Muslim, Arab and Egyptian sensibilities against the onslaught of Western ideas and practices. At the same time, however, because Egypt’s indigenous Salafi circles (through Ansar al-Sunna and Gam‘iyya al-Shar‘iyya) proved so receptive to the creativity of al-Albani’s ahl al-hadith movement, a wealth of new practices have arrived in Egyptian mosque settings. As a result of this process, modern Egyptian Salafis share a conviction that, unlike other non-Salafis, they will be fully rewarded for correctly fulfilling their ritual duties. It is on the level of ritual performance, then, that the real tensions between Egyptian tradition and Salafi “innovation” are primarily experienced.

4. Conclusion

To the dismay of many individuals from across Egypt’s social and ideo-logical spectrum, Salafism is proving increasingly popular. This paper has focused primarily on the complex and shifting relationship between Egypt’s religious establishment, the Azhar University, its Salafis (in the Ansar al-Sunna group), and the Saudi Arabian Wahhabi regime. As I have endeavoured to show, modern Egyptian Salafism is a composite entity. In contrast to the writers of al-Rad, and for that matter most Egyptian Salafis, I am not sure that it is necessary, or even possible, to distinguish clearly between the voices of these parties as they now (co-)exist in Egyp-tian society. Indeed, it is the extent to which these voices have become interlinked that so worries Islamic Hotline. In political, theological and (particularly) ritual spheres, this fusion has brought change. Yet, despite all the talk of acculturation, the Salafis’ ability to lay claim to the voice of “culture” (hadara) and “tradition” (taqlid), in the Arabic and Middle Eastern sense, as these are rooted in family and gender relations, is also apparent in the Egyptian context.



I spent four days in the UK with al-Hatif al-Islami. During that time, the team worked tirelessly to promote its vision of Islam, as a tolerant and peaceful influence in people’s lives. Salafism was portrayed as the enemy: a dangerous, pervasive force that has threatened the equilibrium of the Muslim world. On reflection, however, I wonder whether al-Hatif al-Islami’s views will translate to the UK, where Salafism has different connotations from those it carries within Egyptian settings. In the UK, Salafism has won a certain following for its ability to capture and articu-late the frustration and anger of Muslims in the face of what is perceived as a history of oppression at the hands of Western and/or Westernized countries, particularly Britain, America and Israel. Such individuals are unlikely to be impressed by al-Rad’s bold attempt to reintroduce nuance and variety into Muslim legal discourses. Concomitantly, however, as I was told many times by non-Salafi British Muslims during our short visit, the difference between the Salafis and al-Hatif al-Islam’s Azhari represen-tatives is primarily one of degree rather than of fundamental perspective. Who cares, they asked, whether growing a beard is obligatory (the Salafis) or only recommended (al-Rad, fatwa, no. 37)? In Egypt, on the other hand, a man can scarcely think of a more important question in announcing his religio-social identity. To shave his face is to reflect his urbanity, and his Western style education; to shave, but to leave his moustache is to give a nod to his working-class Egyptian roots; to grow a short, tidy beard may announce his allegiance to the Muslim Brotherhood; to grow a long beard and to curl the moustache is popular among some Sufis; and to grow a long beard, while shaving the moustache, is to be counted as Salafi, one of the “saved sect.” In modern Egypt’s complex and often confus-ing religious landscape, profound questions of religio-social identity are being contested along such lines. In seeking to answer them, the writers of al-Rad are competing for the identity of Egyptian Islam.

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Salafism in Modern Egypt: Panacea or Pest

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