Theodicy and Jihad

Ziya Meral tackles tough issues in his latest article The Question of Theodicy and Jihad, which tries to make sense out of Islamic violence and terror. I will reproduce a few of his core paragraphs (call them bullets if you must) here and try to analyze each separately later. Regardless, it is a good read.

When a state fails, when its promise to deliver a fair society does not actualize, and all other offers of a solution remain too feeble, religious networks, imaginations, solidarities, and mobilizations emerge as the most powerful, and often the only alternative, to address the question of theodicy and recreate a moral order.

Although this is not entirely wrong, from where I stand, I see a tendency towards violence, a lack of tolerance for others equally in affluent societies and prospering zones as well. Also, in some cases, the so called failure of the state is closely related to the actions and/or non-actions of the West.

In a context where violence is already present indiscriminately, it is easily seen as a regular and legitimate political option. Deployment of violence becomes a radical attempt to tame, control and re-order a universe that seems to be in decay and evil. Thus, it is not nihilistic as it is often thought, but a Nietzschean attempt to move ‘beyond good and evil’, to establish a new moral order as an answer to the question of theodicy.

Again, I beg to differ, at least partially. Deployment of violence is common in the Muslim world, but I agree that it is seen as an attempt to correct the wrong and the evil. Plus, Meral simply ignores the role of education and indoctrination of children.

An understanding of religious violence deployed by Muslim extremism through the question of theodicy rather than jihad has countless direct implications: from our aid and development programs to long-term counter-terror strategies at home and in theaters of conflict.

Most obviously, this means that we should stop efforts to have other Muslims “condemn violence in the name of Islam” or push for programs that promote theologies that challenge the use of violence. Such programs help to a certain extent, but often lead to a lot of counter-productive pressure on Muslims.

We agree. Creating a platonic Islam that is beautiful and ever good and condemning the problematic one as a fake does not take us anywhere, nor has it created a desired reaction from moderate Muslims (sic) so far.

The main theological challenge that lies before us is not whether or not a Muslim can commit acts of terror, but rather, how can there be theologies of hope and social change that channel deep grievances and deprivations into non-destructive activism. This means that our efforts to offer counter-narratives and break cycles of radicalization should not go through arguments on jihad and violence, but projects and messaging that offers a hopeful reading of the world and how deeply religious believers can work to improve, heal and restore a broken world.

Although this part nails it, in most areas of the world it is simply not possible and I cannot shake the feeling it addresses one problem only: keeping the violence away!

t.b.c.

Satire Does Matter

Lost in the wave of protest and commentary that followed the massacre at Charlie Hebdo is an adequate understanding of the social function of satire says Justin E.H. Smith and reminds us that

Freedom of speech, I have been working toward saying, needs to be defended. But we also need to be careful not to lose the sort of critical sophistication that enables us to appreciate the very different functions of different moods of speech. The satirical mood is not the declarative mood. Mockery of an imam in Charlie Hebdo is not the Islamophobia of the National Front. Vovochka, another stock figure of Soviet jokes, who explains to his teacher when asked why he is hurling spit-wads in class that he is a "class enemy," is not really a class enemy (emphasis mine).

Living in a dominantly Muslim country, I hate to hear people saying murder of people in CH is terrible but... There is no but, there should not be.

The Shaman Within - dd2

Following suit with the very old family tradition, I took the wrong bus. When I realized it, instead of the good ol' E5 we were already running on the freeway. As most of you know you can not find bus stops on freeways, ours included. Fortunately I was finally back home, in the land of the flexible rules and the least-bothered people with them. I asked the driver if he could drop me at a convenient place near to my destination. "No problem," he said and soon I was on a bridge trying to figure out the best path to the exit toll booths 50 meters below. That proved easy, too; apparently many had done it before and the path down to the booths was clearly marked. 10 minutes later, I was down and walking back on E5 - we had already cleared Hereke, my final destination - contrary to what I had originally intended.

I could have taken another bus, but it was August, I had 15 days off and nothing better to do with a very light hand baggage. So... After ten minutes on foot while a gentle breeze washing my face, I saw a cemetery, alongside the road, overlooking Izmit Bay. It did not occur to me that I had been to the place before until I arrived at the gate. Then I remembered. Here, in this isolated but beautiful place had we buried my grandmother. I was 5 then and could barely remember the details.

Cemeteries are special. Regardless of the monotheistic culture soup we are forced to swim, that little man, or the woman, your preference, the shaman inside survives. The only enemy that kills him is Hollywood. Against its horror movies, ghosts, zombies, etc, shaman is helpless, he suffers a silent death. And I met Hollywood at a very late age, so mine was alive and kicking. The little man told me to get in and I entered the cemetery. There was not a single soul around to ask for direction but the shaman knew the way. In less than a minute I found her grave and was standing by her tombstone. Her Birdie! After all those years, I was back, at my roots, at the place where I came from, and eventually would go.

"Birdie," she used to call me, because I was the one who would run to the grocery and fetch her cigarettes (now an illegal act), Gelincik brand, finest specimen of the once famous Turkish tobacco. I would run, not wasting a moment to deliver her cigarettes. The change was always mine!

Her smoking was like a ritual. She would wait for my mother, for coffee, real Turkish style, no less. Well, that meant 10 minutes during which she would open the box, take one cigarette, rolling it with her thin fingers, adjusting it so that it would fit perfectly to the holder. She took her time, hers was not a competitive world. Grace! That was all that mattered. When coffee was ready, so was she and her cigarette, now properly placed in its holder. She would light it, yes, oh so gracefully, take a puff, release the smoke with a barely audible sound. Then she would take a sip from her coffee and complement my mother.

Authority was her second nature. I had never seen her raise her voice. Yet, nobody could say no to her, especially my father. When facing her, he was like a child. I remember once reading in a study that in Turkish society the highest status for women was being a grandmother, somewhat similar but stronger than seen elsewhere around Mediterranean. A study in vain, confirming what is already known. Long time later, I asked my father if she abused it or was ever capricious. He told me "No, she was not." She was the wisdom itself, another shamanic trait.

And the shaman took over me completely. I walked over and sat on her grave, resting my back to the now slightly yellowish marble, where her name "Melek" (meaning angel in Turkish) was carved. I took out a cigarette, not Gelincik but pure Turkish still, and started my own ritual (I took a mental note to bring coffee next time). We smoked together. Although I usually gazed at the bay, I was careful enough to exhale towards the ground, so that she too could enjoy it. Here I was, together with grandma, in a cemetery, in our cemetery, two generations together, in the most peaceful place in the world.

Part 1: Significant Dots of Red and Black
Part 3: