I started writing this a few years ago in an attempt to create Islamic music according to traditional Scottish/Irish ballads, inspired by Sh. Abdal Hakim Murad, and finally finished it. This ballad is sung to the tune of Fause Foodrage in the Child Ballads, a tune also associated with modern singings of the Song Willie o’ Winsbury. I am not the best singer in the world, but I have included a recording to help listeners follow the tune. I would be quite interested to hear those blessed with more talented voices give it a try!

‘Ikrimah ibn Abi Jahl,
The pride o’ auld Quraysh,
A noble son o’ Makhzum’s line,
Held fast his fathers’ ways.

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

When Ahmad’s sun rose o’er Makkah
And shone on carven stone,
The father and the son stood fast
Against the Chosen One.

“Ken ye this, my stalwart son,”
Then Abu Jahl he said,
“No son o’ Makhzum bends the knee
Before a Hashimi man.”

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

At Badr the blades rang fierce and fell,
And dust blew o’er the plain;
The sons of ‘Afra struck him down,
He ne’er rose up again.

Ibn Mas‘ud found him breathing yet,
Low where the lances lay;
Still proud in death was Abu Jahl
Upon that bloody day.

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

When word came hame to ‘Ikrimah,
His heart was black wi’ wae;
But sorrow made nae road to faith,
It hardened him that day.

Six years he nursed the auld blood-feud,
Nor would he bend the knee,
Till Makkah saw Muhammad’s host
Come down in victory.

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

At Khandama he drew his sword,
Though hope was well-nigh gone;
But Khalid’s men broke through their line,
And ‘Ikrimah rode on.

Away he rode by southern road,
Frae Makkah toward the sea;
His fathers’ gods lay broken low,
And nowhere safe was he.

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

But Umm Hakim had made her peace,
And faith had found her heart;
She sought the Prophet’s pledge for him
Before she would depart.

“O Prophet, grant him peace,” she cried,
“He flees in mortal fear;
Give me thy word, and I shall ride
And bring my husband here.”

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

“His life is safe,” the Prophet said,
“Let none do him a wrong.”
So south she rode through heat and dust,
And sought him hard and long.

She found him by the southern sea,
Where salt wind shook the foam:
“Turn back, turn back, my ‘Ikrimah,
Ye need nae longer roam.

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

“I come frae Muhammad,” she said,
“The best of men I ken;
He grants thee peace; come hame wi’ me,
And stand before him then.”

Then ‘Ikrimah turned his face for hame,
No fetter, sword nor chain;
The man who fled Muhammad’s word
Went seeking him again.

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

And when the Prophet saw him come,
He sprang wi’ joy to meet;
His cloak lay yet where he had left it,
So swift he rose to greet.

“There is nae god but God,” said he,
“And thou His Prophet art.”
The feud his father left to him
Was lifted from his heart.

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

No sword had ever won his heart,
Nor fear compelled his knee;
Muhammad’s pardon conquered him,
And set the proud man free.

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

صلى ربي على النبي وعلى آله
والصحاب الكرام وعلى المؤمنين

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Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

I am ashamed that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

Whey they are bound to serve, love, and obey.1

The highest value of our age is freedom. Though the word carries rather different meanings for the star-spangled conservative and the rainbow-bannered progressive, both tend to imagine freedom as the shattering of hierarchy and the emergence of an individual among individuals, owing allegiance only to those arrangements into which he has voluntarily entered. Hasan Spiker describes this as an essentially Lockean ontology in which hierarchy is presumed arbitrary until proven otherwise, its apparent order concealing the selfish interests of those fortunate enough to occupy its summit. Earlier conceptions in which hierarchy might facilitate human flourishing, direct persons towards goods they could not attain alone, or even establish the conditions under which meaningful freedom becomes possible have largely receded from view.2 In such a milieu, to be tethered to a premodern hierarchical past is a most unwelcome inheritance, particularly where the hierarchy in question concerns relations between men and women.

The timeless universality of Shakespeare endures in postmodernity. Hamlet may wander with little difficulty into The Lion King or the distant reaches of Star Trek, while Romeo and Juliet are reincarnated whenever two adolescents from mutually hostile social tribes discover one another at an inconvenient party. Few dare approach The Taming of the Shrew with comparable innocence. The comedy appears to culminate in Katerina declaring that a wife owes her husband the obedience a subject owes his prince, condemning women who seek “rule, supremacy, and sway” when they are bound to “serve, love, and obey”. For almost a century, from 1754 until 1844, Shakespeare’s play was displaced from the English stage by an abridged and sanitised adaptation; modern productions have subsequently returned to it largely “in search of a liberated Kate”.3 Her concluding declaration becomes a ruse intended to secure domestic peace, an ironic performance shared with the women in the audience, or the final clue that Shakespeare was exposing the absurd cruelty of the society he outwardly portrayed. Others reduce the play to unserious farce, since words spoken amid theatrical horseplay need never be allowed to mean very much. The interpretations differ, yet they proceed from a common repugnance towards the possibility that the universally revered Shakespeare might actually have upheld a gender hierarchy.

The Taming of the Shrew therefore survives as a “problem play”, which is another way of saying that its place within the canon remains secure while its apparent moral vision must continually be placed on trial. Shakespeare can, of course, be forgiven. The misogyny of a sixteenth-century playwright may be dismissed as an unconscious reflection of his social world, an unfortunate crust which history deposited around an otherwise universal genius. An all-knowing and all-merciful God cannot be afforded the same indulgence. If Islam is to endure as a universally applicable religion, its scriptures must disclose timeless moral realities; a verse which appears to license husbands to strike their wives cannot simply be sealed inside the moral amber of seventh-century Arabia and excused as the product of its age. What is an embarrassment in Shakespeare appears as a theological catastrophe in revelation.

Confronted by the words wa-ḍribūhunna in Qur’an 4:34, contemporary Muslim thinkers have consequently searched for a liberated translation with something of the enthusiasm once directed towards finding a liberated Kate. The physical meaning becomes “separate from them”, “present them with an example”, or the barely physical gesture of brushing them with a twig. One senses at times that the exegetical conclusion was reached before the Arabic dictionary was opened: the moral integrity of the Qur’an requires the verse to mean something else, and philology is summoned afterwards to discover what that something might be.

The instinct is understandable. Its hermeneutical results are rarely persuasive. The prima facie meaning of ḍaraba in this context is physical striking, and the surrounding reports leave little room for the ingenious discovery that the verse always meant separation or metaphorical instruction. The principles of uṣūl al-fiqh require an indicant, a qarīnah, before speech may be removed from its apparent meaning, and no such indicant is present here.4 The hadith literature instead confirms the inherited reading: after physical discipline was permitted, women came to the household of the Prophet ﷺ complaining about their husbands, whereupon he declared that those men were not the best among the Muslims.5 It would be a peculiar report indeed if the wives had merely objected to being presented with metaphors.

Jurisprudential realities cannot be swept beneath the rug of metaphysics, nor can they be exorcised through philology whenever they offend contemporary sensibilities. An Islamic answer to Qur’an 4:34 must take place within a hermeneutic recognisable to the religion’s inherited intellectual tradition. One may criticise the conclusions of the jurists, their anthropology, or the social order they sought to preserve; it is rather more difficult to argue that the principles governing literal and figurative language were themselves a patriarchal conspiracy. Yet affirming the physical meaning of the verse merely identifies the problem. It offers no account of the imperative’s legal force, the jurisdiction within which it operates, the purpose for which the permission was granted, or the ethical judgement of a husband who exercises it. Those questions cannot be answered by the dictionary.

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The Patriarchal Cosmology

Ayesha Chaudhry frames the controversy through what she calls an “egalitarian-authoritative dilemma”. Muslims may remain faithful to an Islamic tradition whose interpretive authorities accepted patriarchal hierarchy and some degree of marital violence, or they may “demythologise” that tradition and permit a living community to construct readings more faithful to its egalitarian convictions.6 Her study is valuable precisely because she refuses the cheap consolation that the classical jurists never understood the verse physically. She recognises that the interpretive tradition is overwhelmingly clear, then concludes that its moral cosmology must be displaced.

Chaudhry contends that, no matter what limiting qualifications surrounded spousal discipline, the practice remains inherently problematic as the product of a patriarchal order in which Muslim husbands possessed a disciplinary authority their wives were helpless to resist. No doubt, Islamic relationship ethics were, and remain, asymmetrical, but asymmetry does not itself entail injustice. Chaudhry claims that, within the classical Muslim cosmology, “women’s relationship to God is mediated by men, who must oversee their wives’ moral well-being”.7 Yet the Ḥanafī jurists quite clearly confined marital taʾdīb to matters arising from the marital relationship itself. Mullā ʿAlī al-Qārī, for example, states that a husband should not discipline his wife for neglecting prayer or the ritual bath following major impurity, since those obligations pertain to her rather than to him.8 The husband is therefore not her priest, confessor, or earthly intermediary before God, but the bearer of a limited authority arising from a particular juridical relationship.

More problematic is Chaudhry’s anachronistic projection of contemporary individualism upon the Muslim past. Her criticism assumes that justice consists in equal allocations of authority between autonomous individuals, secured principally through state intervention in private life, and thereby ignores the differentiated social structures through which classical Muslim households were governed. Domestic disputes did not occur within an empty space between an isolated wife and a distant judge. Kinship, family mediation, custom, communal reputation and religious accountability all exercised forms of protection and restraint which disappear within an exclusively individual-and-state analysis. This is typical of modern criticism of the Sharīʿah, which treats whatever lies beyond direct judicial regulation as a moral vacuum in which humanity’s ugliest impulses will necessarily emerge.

Thus, because the jurists did not necessarily dissolve a marriage in response to an accusation of mistreatment, Chaudhry concludes that they were “ethically untroubled by the right of husbands to physically discipline their wives”.9 Yet this ignores the moral world of the Sharīʿah beyond qaḍāʾ. To describe something as obligatory diyānatan was not to say nothing at all, for the juristic order regarded accountability before Allah as possessing genuine regulative force even where wrongdoing could not be established before a court. Its willingness, in certain contexts, to accept a person’s oath where exhaustive verification was impossible did not arise from naïveté concerning human corruption, but from the recognition that adjudication possesses epistemic limits and that divine accountability continues where those limits are reached.10 The jurists certainly recognised abuse; they simply did not reconstruct the entire institution of marriage around the presumption that every husband would become a tyrant unless continually restrained by the state. Chaudhry’s patriarchal cosmology consequently overdetermines her analysis: whatever the jurists permitted proves their commitment to male domination, while whatever limits they imposed are dismissed as merely procedural, leaving no conceivable evidence capable of disturbing the conclusion with which she began.

This does not require us to romanticise the premodern Muslim household. Kinship could fail, relatives could protect abusive men, communal reputation could become an instrument of coercion, and a woman’s theoretical access to a judge did not guarantee an effective remedy. Taqwā has never operated as a magical substance which dissolves human depravity on contact. The jurists nevertheless inhabited a moral and institutional order in which the court represented one mode of regulation among several, and in which religious obligation did not become optional merely because the judge could not reliably compel it. To read every discussion of marital authority as though it described two strangers sealed inside a house until the modern state arrives is to mistake the institutional poverty of our own imagination for the anthropology of the Sharīʿah.

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The Jurist as Physician

Much contemporary discourse surrounding Q 4:34 is stymied by a failure to understand the traditional ordering of the Islamic sciences (tartīb al-ʿulūm). Modern readers approach works of exegesis and hadith commentary expecting them to provide holistic answers to major ethical questions, only to encounter what Tarif Khalidi describes as the “overly philological, atomistic, verse-by-verse analysis” characteristic of much traditional tafsīr.11 The problem lies less in the narrowness of those sciences than in expecting each of them to perform the synthetic work of the intellectual tradition as a whole. Tafsīr and hadith commentary establish the meaning, provenance and immediate implications of particular texts; fiqh and kalām draw those texts into larger accounts of normative action and moral reality. Al-Aʿmash’s famous comparison is instructive: when Abū Ḥanīfah showed him how the reports he had transmitted generated answers to particular legal questions, he remarked, “You jurists are the physicians, while we are the pharmacists.”12 The pharmacist preserves and supplies the medicines, while the physician understands their interaction and determines what the patient requires. Fiqh should therefore not be treated merely as the residue left behind once exegesis has concluded. It is itself a site of interpretation, in which the meanings of disparate verses and reports are considered together and situated within a coherent normative order. The fiqh literature thus reveals the systemic understanding within which the particular directive of Q 4:34 was received.

Read through this juristic archive, the first significant feature of wa-ḍribūhunna is not the physical meaning of ḍarb, which the inherited tradition scarcely disputed, but the juridical force assigned to its imperative. Al-Jaṣṣāṣ does not treat the verse as commanding husbands to strike, still less as directing them through an ordained sequence towards violence, but describes Allah as having “permitted striking her in the event of nushūz”.13 The act therefore falls within ibāḥah: it is made legally available, but is neither sought nor commended in itself. This classification is reinforced by the Prophetic pattern, for the Prophet ﷺ neither struck his wives nor praised those who did, and his censure of husbands against whom women complained prevents permission from being mistaken for ethical preference.14 Yet the fiqh literature does not leave this permission as an isolated entitlement. Al-Mawṣilī places the husband’s disciplinary authority within his chapter on taʿzīr, stating directly that “the husband may administer taʿzīr to his wife”.15 The verse was thus understood not merely as an imperative of permission, but as an imperative permitting one possible measure within the broader jurisdiction of discretionary correction.

Al-Kāsānī likewise describes the husband’s disciplinary act as a form of taʿzīr.16 The formulation amr fī al-ibāḥah fī al-taʿzīr is a synthesis of this juristic evidence rather than a sentence quoted from a single manual: the imperative establishes permission, while the substantive law identifies the institutional and purposive category within which that permission was received. This matters because taʿzīr is not simply a euphemism for punishment. It is a discretionary mechanism of correction whose form varies according to the offence, the recipient and the end sought. Once the verse is restored to that legal architecture, its three responses cease to resemble a divine choreography in which admonition and separation are preliminary formalities before the husband reaches the true destination of violence.

The conjunction wa does not, by its grammatical form alone, establish an obligatory succession. The Ḥanafī legal theorists commonly denied that the particle intrinsically imposes sequence, although al-Kāsānī nevertheless requires a progression from gentleness towards severity on the basis of the purpose and circumstances of correction.17 A husband begins by speaking in the gentlest manner because admonition may itself restore the marriage; escalation becomes intelligible only where a lesser measure has failed and a greater one remains capable of achieving the end. The verse identifies possible responses within a discretionary jurisdiction. It does not ordain a mechanical ritual through which every case of nushūz must pass, nor does grammatical flexibility confer a licence to seize whichever option best corresponds to the husband’s temper.

The Prophetic Sunnah supplies the ethical hierarchy within that legally permitted field. ʿĀʾishah reports that the Messenger of Allah ﷺ never struck a woman or servant, while his censure of the husbands whose wives complained demonstrates that legality did not place all available choices upon a single moral plane.18 The mubāḥ is no divine menu whose items become ethically equivalent because each may be selected without invalidating one’s Islam. A man who possesses the ability to restore his marriage through patience, counsel, mediation or temporary withdrawal, yet chooses an action likely to cause pain and humiliation, may remain within the abstract perimeter of permission while becoming blameworthy for the particular choice he makes. Halal is not a synonym for good.

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Discretion, Jurisdiction and Purpose

The classification of marital taʾdīb as taʿzīr is significant because discretion is not synonymous with arbitrariness. The mutability of taʿzīr reflects the fact that correction cannot be abstracted from either the nature of the offence or the person upon whom it is imposed. Ibn al-Humām accordingly explains that “the objective of taʿzīr is deterrence, and the states of people differ”, since one person may be corrected by a rebuke while another requires some more serious intervention.19 A scholar or person of recognised honour might therefore be disciplined merely by being privately informed that reports of his misconduct had reached the authorities; a prince or person of noble station might be summoned before the judge and formally reproached; while those whom the jurists regarded as unmoved by either private censure or public disgrace were subjected to corporal punishment. These differences did not arise because rank conferred an intrinsic privilege, but because the purpose of taʿzīr was correction rather than the equal distribution of suffering: the punishment was to be measured by what could realistically prevent its recipient from repeating the offence. Ibn Nujaym states the same principle negatively: a judge may not impose an unsuitable punishment upon one deserving taʿzīr.20 The husband’s authority must be understood within this purposive framework. He is not granted a sovereign privilege to vindicate his wounded pride, but a limited discretion to select the least harmful measure reasonably capable of restoring the marital order. This is why al-Kāsānī, although he does not derive an obligatory sequence from the conjunction wa, nevertheless requires gentleness before severity: the measure chosen must serve correction and ḥusn al-taʿahhud (the benevolent care and right ordering of what has been entrusted to him), rather than merely bear the outward form of a punishment recognised by law.

The least harmful effective means is therefore internal to the reasoning of taʿzīr. The jurist does not begin with an allotted quantity of suffering and then distribute it according to a tariff; he begins with a disorder and asks what intervention may plausibly correct it. A rebuke which suffices makes a more severe measure purposeless, and purposeless severity has already departed from the end through which punishment acquires its moral character. The Prophetic maxim that there is no harming or reciprocating harm does not abolish every institution capable of producing pain, any more than it abolishes surgery, warfare or criminal punishment. It requires that harm possess a genuine legal and moral justification, remain proportionate to its object, and cease when its claimed end may be attained without it.21

The discretion granted within taʿzīr concerned the means by which a recognised breach might be corrected; it did not permit the husband either to manufacture offences from his own displeasure or to exercise authority for its own sake. The Ḥanafī conception of marital obedience was centred upon tamkīn and those obligations which the jurists understood to arise from the substance of the marriage contract, rather than an unrestricted duty to comply with every command a husband might issue. Mullā ʿAlī al-Qārī accordingly denies that a husband may discipline his wife for neglecting prayer or ritual purification, since the benefit of these obligations returns to her rather than constituting a marital right belonging to him.22 His authority was therefore relational rather than sacerdotal: it concerned serious disruption of the marital order, not the governance of her conscience or independent standing before Allah. Yet even within this limited jurisdiction, authority was not sought for itself. As al-ʿAynī explains through the language of shepherdship, authority exists for ḥusn al-taʿahhud.23 Marital taʿzīr was thus confined twice over: first by jurisdiction, since it concerned only recognised breaches of marital rights; and secondly by purpose, since its exercise had to be reasonably directed towards restoring the proper ordering of the marriage. An intervention motivated by anger, humiliation or the bare assertion of mastery could not acquire the moral character of taʾdīb merely because its outward form had once been recognised by law.

Nushūz, in this juristic structure, cannot be translated simply as “disobedience” and then poured over the whole of a wife’s personality. It concerns a serious disruption of the rights and obligations which arise from marriage, centred upon tamkīn and the juridical incidents through which the contracted marital life is maintained.24 The jurists’ account is unmistakably asymmetrical and may be criticised as such. It still possesses a defined object. A husband does not create nushūz by expressing a preference, issuing an arbitrary command, or discovering that his wife possesses a conscience and temperament independent of his own. This limitation is essential to the moral identity of the act, for a punishment can acquire extrinsic goodness only where there is a genuine wrong to correct, an authority competent to address it and a means fitted to restoration. Remove the wrong, and there is tyranny; remove the jurisdiction, and there is usurpation; remove the corrective purpose, and the outward form of taʾdīb becomes violence wearing the robes of law.

The analogy between the husband and the judge cannot, however, be pressed so far that the husband acquires the immunities of public authority. In their discussions of liability, the Ḥanafīs distinguish between the judge, who administers taʿzīr in fulfilment of an office, and the husband, who exercises a private permission within a relationship from which he himself derives benefit. Ibn ʿĀbidīn consequently explains that “because his disciplining of her is permitted, it is conditioned upon safety”, adding that striking is therefore never obligatory upon him.25 This condition does more than impose liability after the event. Since the husband is free to abstain or employ some gentler means, he must judge beforehand whether his chosen intervention can reasonably accomplish the correction for which it was permitted without producing a greater harm. Good intentions cannot transubstantiate an act foreseeably productive of injury, humiliation or marital ruin into taʾdīb. Once detached from safety and ḥusn al-taʿahhud, its outward resemblance to a punishment recognised by law cannot prevent it from becoming ẓulm.

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The Moral Limits of Permission

The Ḥanafī-Māturīdī account of the mubāḥ prevents permission from becoming an ethical void. The Ḥanafīs accordingly excluded the mubāḥ from the category of that which is commanded, since the Lawgiver leaves its performance and abandonment to the choice of the servant rather than seeking either as such. An imperative of permission therefore establishes the legal availability of an act without transforming its performance into an object of divine demand.26 Al-Kākī goes further, explaining that commands of permissibility are ordained for worldly maṣlaḥah27, implying that permissible choices that betray that maṣlaḥah are ethically suspect.

The permissible is entrusted to an ʿāqil, a rationally sound person capable of choosing between performance and abstention, recognising consequences and discerning the goodness or vileness which external circumstances bring to an act.28 The Lawgiver’s refusal to prohibit a thing in every instance does not confer commendation upon each concrete performance of it. Divorce may be permitted because a marriage has become destructive, yet hated when it needlessly severs the goods of family life.29 Speech is permitted, yet a permitted sentence may humiliate. Silence is permitted, yet silence before injustice may become complicity. Deeds are judged in the company they keep.

Physical discipline illustrates this distinction with unusual sharpness. Causing pain is repulsive to sound nature and becomes morally intelligible only through an exterior purpose capable of transforming the complete act. The surgeon’s incision is not praised because cutting flesh has secretly become beautiful; its goodness belongs to the healing for which the incision is necessary. A punishment detached from justice and correction is merely suffering imposed by power. Likewise, the physical element of marital taʾdīb could acquire goodness only through a genuine capacity to correct a serious breach, protect the marriage and restore its proper order. The exterior purpose performs all the moral work. Where it disappears, the underlying qabāḥah stands exposed.

The ethical judgement of marital taʾdīb necessarily takes account of the cultural world in which the act occurs. Culture leaves the lexical meaning of ḍaraba and the revealed permission intact, while shaping whether a particular measure remains intelligible as bounded correction and whether it can plausibly achieve the end from which it derives its goodness. In societies where corporal discipline formed a recognised language of deterrence across the social hierarchy, a restrained act might conceivably have been understood as correction without destroying the relationship it sought to preserve. Its moral acceptability would remain entirely extrinsic, dependent upon its capacity to restore order and serve ḥusn al-taʿahhud.

That cultural vocabulary has largely disappeared in contemporary Britain and much of the modern world. A husband striking his wife will ordinarily communicate humiliation, domination and the betrayal of bodily trust. Its foreseeable consequences are resentment, alienation and marital ruin, all of which directly frustrate the purpose of taʾdīb. The same physical movement may therefore possess a radically different moral character across different societies, because meaning and consequence form part of the concrete act being judged. Where striking predictably destroys the marital good upon which its justification depends, the circumstances capable of rendering it ethically acceptable are absent and the underlying harm remains. In such circumstances, the act is simply qabīḥ: the extrinsic goodness that might have rendered it taʾdīb is wholly absent. The revealed permission continues to possess an intelligible place within the Sharīʿah, and exceptional cultural circumstances may still exist in which it fulfils its corrective purpose. In our own circumstances, however, its exercise is almost invariably unjust diyānatan, for it ordinarily subverts the very order it claims to restore and thereby passes from taʾdīb into ẓulm.

The prima facie meaning of wa-ḍribūhunna does not need to be rewritten to rescue the moral integrity of the Qur’an. Indeed, well-intentioned apologetics which recast the clear meaning of the word as “to separate” do more harm than good once their manifest infidelity to the Islamic intellectual tradition is revealed. Read through the juristic tradition, the verse instead establishes an amr fī al-ibāḥah fī al-taʿzīr: a permission to employ physical discipline among the possible responses to serious nushūz, within a jurisdiction confined to the rights arising from marriage. That discretion was never arbitrary. It was governed by suitability, safety, the least harmful effective means, and the directive of ḥusn al-taʿahhud. The act could acquire goodness only through this external purpose. Where striking predictably humiliates, alienates and destroys the bodily trust upon which marriage depends, that extrinsic goodness is absent; the act remains simply qabīḥ and passes from taʾdīb into ẓulm. The revealed permission therefore remains intelligible without becoming an eternal commendation of violence. In cultural circumstances where corporal correction retained a bounded and genuinely corrective meaning, its exercise might conceivably have been just. In our own circumstances, it is almost invariably unjust diyānatan.

The letter and spirit of the Sharīʿah are reconciled neither by mutilating the text nor by pretending that every legally recognised option remains morally available in every age. If we believe that the Lawgiver is Wise, then His Law must be approached with wisdom, trusting that the God-given gift of the human intellect can allow us to navigate the complexities of life and choose from the permitted options in accordance with the responsibilities conferred upon us. Traditional Islam, as Sh. Abdal Hakum Murad, is not the replication of the positions of the ancients; it is to seek what they sought.30

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This is part II of Law and Ethics Derailed, an edited adaptation of my 2023 undergraduate thesis A Synthesis of Letter and Spirit. The first part can be read here.

This light and darkness in our chaos join’d
What shall divide? The God within the mind.1

Discussions of ethics and morality are forever marred by ambiguities. As Alasdair MacIntyre has observed, the term ‘moral’ has itself wandered considerably from its origins: the Latin moralis, coined to translate the Greek ēthikos, first concerned a person’s character or disposition, before ‘morality’ emerged as the name of a distinct realm of duties, values and prohibitions.2 The Arabic vocabulary of ethics is no clearer. The term akhlāq is most commonly invoked in discussions of Islamic ethics by classical and contemporary scholars alike, yet is usually better translated as ‘character’, while its analogue, adab, may be understood as ‘comportment’.3 Neither term quite encompasses the modern philosophical discipline of ethics, still less the attempt to determine whether actions are objectively good or vile, how such qualities are known, and what relationship they bear to the commands of God.

A. Kevin Reinhart accordingly argued that an Islamic ethical theory is most clearly articulated not within works bearing titles such as Kitāb al-Akhlāq, but within uṣūl al-fiqh and theology, disciplines which explore the precise relationship between knowledge, action and moral judgement.4 While uṣūl al-fiqh is often translated as ‘legal theory’, a return to its lexical meaning of ‘the principles of understanding’ is perhaps more prudent in this regard. Its authors were not merely writing abstract theorisations of how one legal issue may relate to another, nor constructing an ornate machine for the production of courtroom rules, but sought to instruct Muslims how to understand and respond to the call of revelation. Abū Ḥanīfah himself defined fiqh in an unquestionably ethical manner, describing it as ‘knowledge of the self: what is for it, and what is against it’.5 The purpose of fiqh is not exhausted by rules and regulations facilitating the effective operation of a judiciary, but extends to the moral guidance required to answer the question, ‘How does God want me to act?’, throughout the entirety of human life. Thus, to construct a moral map of Islamic law and grasp the ethical underpinnings of the Sharīʿah, one must necessarily enter the conceptual discussions of jurists and theologians, whose disciplines, however separate they became upon the shelves of later libraries, remained inextricably intertwined.

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Māturīdī Moral Realism

The ethical landscape envisioned by the jurists reflected broader theological debates concerning the ontological underpinnings of reality, which in some respects resembled the struggle between Scotistic realism and Ockhamian nominalism within the Western philosophical tradition. The fundamental question facing Muslim discussions of taḥsīn and taqbīḥ, the determination of goodness and vileness, was whether actions possessed moral qualities in themselves or whether morality could only be externally posited by the Lawgiver.6 Was adultery vile because there was something within the act contrary to the proper order of human life, or did the divine prohibition itself render an otherwise neutral movement of bodies morally repulsive? Is beauty truly beauty, or is there merely a chain of subjective preferences that ends with the irresistible preference of God?

Two broad positions eventually emerged, although the untidy reality of theological history resists their reduction into entirely uniform camps. The mature Ashʿarī school denied that the intellect could independently establish those moral judgements to which divine praise, blame, reward and punishment are attached. Acts might accord with human purposes, repel sound nature or conduce to worldly benefit, but no act was ḥasan or qabīḥ in the properly theological sense prior to the judgement of God. Drawing upon scripturalist tendencies already apparent in al-Shāfiʿī’s account of divine guidance, the Ashʿarīs conceived of moral obligation as beginning with revelation rather than arising from an order independently accessible to reason.7 For the strongest voluntarist formulation of this position, had God commanded promiscuity, it would, by virtue of that command, become morally praiseworthy in the sense relevant to divine judgement.

The Muʿtazilah and the early Māturīdiyyah, by contrast, affirmed that actions possess objective moral qualities. Truthfulness is not good merely because it is commanded, nor is wanton cruelty vile only after a prophet arrives bearing news of its prohibition. Salacity is necessarily a vice, gratitude fitting, and injustice repugnant; Allah, the Most Wise, does not transform darkness into light through the arbitrary application of a name.8

The common affirmation of moral realism did not, however, efface the considerable distance between Muʿtazilī and Māturīdī accounts. Certain Muʿtazilī formulations appeared to place moral judgement above God Himself, as though goodness constituted an eternal constitution to which even the Sovereign of creation was subject. Abū al-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī, author of the widely influential al-Muʿtamad fī Uṣūl al-Fiqh, argued that the intellect recognises certain actions as good or vile and that God, no less than any other moral agent, does only what is good.9 In connection with the doctrine of al-aṣlaḥ, some Muʿtazilīs further maintained that divine wisdom required God to act in the manner most beneficial to His servants, making the best possible act necessary rather than freely chosen.10

The Māturīdiyyah rejected the dilemma in which moral values must either be arbitrary expressions of divine power or authorities suspended above the divine throne. Just as Allah created fire with heat and the human eye with sight, He created the world with an intelligible moral order reflecting His Wisdom. Goodness does not exist independently of Him, as an ancient law to which He reluctantly submits, but neither is it an empty sound given substance only by the force of command. The forms, purposes and relations of created things bear moral qualities because the Wise Creator made them so.11

Ṣadr al-Sharīʿah accordingly cautions that, notwithstanding the moral realism of the school, Allah alone is the ḥākim, the true moral determiner, and not the limited intellect of man.12 The intellect may perceive goodness and vileness, but it does not thereby become a second Lawgiver. Nor does the existence of goodness within an act necessitate that God command it. An action may be good in itself while its obligation is suspended by circumstance; another may possess some repulsive quality while remaining within the territory of permission because the Lawgiver, in mercy, has declined to prohibit everything in which the intellect perceives harm or deficiency. The moral quality of an act, the human ability to recognise that quality, and the divine attachment of legal obligation to it are related questions, but they are not identical ones.

The Māturīdī affirmation of divine freedom is therefore no retreat into Ashʿarī voluntarism. God chooses, but His choice is Wise; He commands, but His commands do not issue from a void; He forbids, but His prohibitions correspond to a moral order fashioned by Him. The divine attribute of Wisdom, as Ramon Harvey observes, grounds God’s promises, His address to humanity and the normative relationships established through His speech.13

This position gives a fuller implication to the famous opening words of the creed of Abū Ḥafṣ al-Nasafī: ‘The people of truth say: the inner realities of things are established, and knowledge of them is verified’.14 Both Ashʿarīs and Māturīdīs affirm the reality of the created world against sophists who reduce knowledge to fantasy, yet the Māturīdī insistence upon the objective moral character of acts extends that affirmation into the realm of value. The inner reality of a thing is not exhausted by its physical composition or its capacity to serve a chosen purpose. A deed can possess a moral texture that is neither invented by the observer nor conjured from nothing by a command.

The Ashʿarī position sought, in its own fashion, to preserve the unity of law and ethics by identifying moral judgement entirely with the divine address. Whatever God commands is good, and whatever He prohibits is vile; no fissure can therefore arise between the Law and the moral order because the Law itself constitutes that order. Yet, as Sherman Jackson has shown, such voluntarism risks an Ungerian dilemma in which the common language of reason is displaced by the inscrutability of sovereign desire.15 The familiar criticism that Ashʿarī Divine Command Theory renders morality arbitrary may often be carelessly expressed, particularly when it ignores Ashʿarī doctrines of divine Wisdom, custom and the purposes recognised within jurisprudence, but the difficulty cannot be banished by pretending it was never there. A theory in which cruelty would become good upon command has little capacity to answer the modern Muslim whose crisis begins precisely in the fear that revelation has commanded cruelty.

The Muʿtazilī answer avoids arbitrariness by making the moral order rationally necessary, yet does so at the apparent cost of divine freedom. The Māturīdī position occupies a middle ground, not in the dreary modern sense of compromising halfway between two coherent extremes, but by refusing the premise that gave rise to the opposition. Moral reality is neither external to God nor reducible to an unreasoned fiat. It proceeds from His Wisdom, is embedded within His creation, and is recognised, however imperfectly, by the rational creature upon whom His commands descend.

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The Moral Intellect

Such a moral realism would be of little consequence if objective moral qualities were forever veiled from man and he remained suspended in neutrality until the arrival of revelation. Ḥanafī-Māturīdī scholars instead conceived of the intellect as playing a decidedly intuitive role in discerning good and evil. Interpreting the Qur’anic description of human maturation into moral accountability, Abū Manṣūr al-Māturīdī speaks of the developed intellect as ‘discerning between good and bad, and knowing the good and bad consequences of affairs’. He immediately qualifies the scope of that discernment: ‘The good and evil of some things are at once known intuitively by the intellect, but not everything good or bad is known to the intellect by an immediate indication to it; as such, things are known through the tongues of the prophets or the exertion of thought’.16

The limitation is as important as the affirmation. Human reason does not look upon every action and perceive its complete moral reality with the clarity of the eye beholding colour. Some truths are immediate, others require reflection, and still others remain inaccessible without revelation. The intellect is neither blind nor omniscient. Al-Māturīdī’s Kitāb al-Tawḥīd presents a world rendered rationally intelligible by divine Wisdom, yet rational intelligibility does not entail that every wisdom is transparent to every rational observer.17 The moral intellect is a faculty by which revelation may be recognised and understood, not an alternative revelation by which the prophetic message is judged unnecessary.

Ṣadr al-Sharīʿah illustrates the necessity of this faculty through the question of prophecy itself. Were the goodness of truthfulness and the vileness of lying entirely unknowable before revelation, no prophet could establish the credibility of his message. The claimant to prophecy would announce that God commands belief in him, but the hearer would possess no prior rational basis for preferring the speech of a truthful man over that of a liar. Revelation would require an authority that could only be established after revelation, leaving prophecy trapped within a circle from which it could never emerge.18

The Qur’an similarly addresses its first hearers as creatures already capable of recognising some moral truths. Its censure of those who buried their daughters and its condemnation of merchants who defrauded their customers do not introduce the concepts of cruelty and dishonesty into a morally vacant universe. The buried girl is asked for what sin she was killed, and those who give short measure are threatened precisely because the horror and injustice of their deeds are intelligible even before the full architecture of the Sharīʿah is revealed (Q 81:8–9; 83:1–3). Revelation awakens, orders and corrects the moral intellect, but does not create it from nothing.

Māturīdī authors described the rational apprehension of goodness and vileness through several overlapping senses. An act may be good because it accords with sound nature and vile because it repels it; it may be good insofar as its agent merits praise and vile insofar as he merits blame; or it may be described as good through completeness and perfection, and vile through deficiency.19 The latter sense was sufficiently broad to be accepted by Ashʿarīs, for a sharp blade may be called ‘good’ because it cuts well without any moral judgement being made concerning the hand that wields it. Praiseworthiness and blameworthiness, meanwhile, can appear circular if nothing beyond the judgement of the praiser explains why praise is deserved.

Natural correspondence appears to offer a firmer ground, provided that ‘nature’ is not reduced to appetite, social habit or the immediate emotional preferences of the observer. Al-Ghazālī’s critique of rational moral judgement was directed in part against the tendency to universalise what merely accords with one’s own purposes: the condemned man calls execution evil while the victim’s family calls it justice; the sick man calls medicine bitter while the physician calls it beneficial.20 The Māturīdī response cannot therefore consist in enthroning every inward recoil as the voice of objective morality. The nature with which an act accords is the ordered constitution and proper end of the creature, not whatever the creature happens presently to desire. Reason itself must distinguish between a sound nature and one distorted by appetite, anger, custom or ignorance.

This restriction is particularly important in the modern ethical crisis. To affirm that the intellect can discern moral truth is not to announce that every moral intuition furnished by the twenty-first century is an oracle before which the Tradition must bow. Modernity has its own appetites, superstitions and inherited blindness, no less than the societies it condemns. The Māturīdī moral intellect offers neither the traditionalist the comfort of dismissing all moral disturbance as foreign corruption, nor the reformist the right to canonise contemporary sentiment as self-authenticating truth. It places the burden of discernment upon a rational creature whose faculties are real, whose perceptions matter, and whose judgement remains vulnerable to correction by prophecy.

Notwithstanding their moral realism, the Māturīdiyyah therefore maintained a clear boundary between rational recognition and divine legislation. The intellect may recognise that gratitude to the Bestower is fitting, that injustice is vile and that truth is good, but Allah alone attaches the particular consequences of taklīf, determines the forms of worship and establishes those duties whose wisdom may not be independently discovered. Reason may lead man to the threshold of prophecy, affirm the truthfulness of the messenger and perceive much of the wisdom within the Law; it must not mistake the fact that it recognises the house for proof that it designed it.

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Intrinsic and Extrinsic Morality

The question of rational moral knowledge was most famously debated in relation to accountability before revelation. Ashʿarīs generally maintained that praise, blame and punishment could only follow the divine address, while the Māturīdiyyah held that certain obligations could be rationally apprehended even in the absence of a prophet, above all the obligation to recognise the One and offer shukr al-munʿim, gratitude to the Bestower.21 Yet, in connection with the crisis of letter and spirit, the greater significance of the Māturīdī position lies elsewhere: it permits a meaningful distinction between actions good or vile in themselves and those that acquire goodness or vileness through an external reason.

Sayf al-Dīn al-Āmidī expresses the Ashʿarī position with characteristic clarity: ‘There is no judgement except what He judged. Actions are not described as intrinsically good or bad, nor does the intellect determine goodness or vileness’.22 Ashʿarī-Shāfiʿī jurists nevertheless recognised jurisprudential analogues of intrinsic and extrinsic prohibition, distinguishing, for example, between an act defective in its essence and one prohibited because of an accompanying circumstance. Their rejection of theological moral realism did not prevent them from analysing the internal and external features upon which legal consequences depended. Nevertheless, within the theological system itself, one cannot finally speak of moral ‘reasons’ governing divine commands in the same manner as a Māturīdī. The command is Wise because it is God’s, although the intellect may not possess an independently perceptible moral order through which that Wisdom becomes intelligible.23

The Ashʿarī position thus reflects the same desire to unify ethics and law that animates the present enquiry, yet its severe circumscription of the moral intellect offers little relief to those whose disquiet has given rise to reformism. ‘Because God said so’ is an intelligible answer only to one already convinced that God has indeed said so, and that the inherited formulation accurately conveys His speech. It cannot, unaided, answer the modern Muslim whose anguish begins precisely in doubt concerning the relationship between the two.

The Māturīdī system classifies actions into those that are intrinsically good and those that become good through something beyond themselves. Intrinsic goodness is itself divided according to whether the obligation attached to it may be suspended. Faith in God is intrinsically good in a manner that can never cease to be so, while the outward profession of faith, though likewise good, may be excused under compulsion without unbelief becoming virtuous.24 The distinction preserves the moral reality of the act while accounting for circumstances that alter what may justly be demanded of its performer.

Extrinsic goodness assumes several forms. An act may be good because it serves an objective beyond itself, so that if the objective were already secured, the act would lose the reason for which it was required. The uṣūl works commonly illustrate this through jihad, whose goodness lies not in bloodshed or the seizure of property, acts which considered alone are vile, but in the supremacy of God’s word which lawful jihad was understood to secure. Were that objective already realised, the means would possess no independent sanctity. An act may instead serve an external purpose while remaining sought in itself, as fasting disciplines the soul but is not reducible to the experience of hunger. Finally, an act may be good solely as a condition of something else, as hastening to the Friday prayer is required because without the journey the prayer cannot be attended.25

The corresponding classifications of vileness distinguish acts vile in themselves from those rendered vile by an external conjunction or attribute.26 Falsehood, injustice and unbelief possess an intrinsic repulsiveness; other acts become vile because of the circumstances in which they occur, the purposes they serve or the obligations they displace. A sale is not wicked merely because property changes hands, yet a sale conjoined with fraud acquires the vileness of deception. Prayer is good, yet prayer performed when one is obliged to prevent an immediate harm becomes blameworthy because its performance entails abandoning the more immediate duty. The moral judgement does not float above the concrete act as a label attached to an abstract noun, but attends to the act in its complete web of purpose, circumstance and consequence.

These classifications served obvious technical functions within uṣūl al-fiqh. They allowed jurists to determine whether a command survived the failure of one of its conditions, whether a prohibition invalidated the act to which it attached, and whether an obligation might be suspended by compulsion or incapacity. Yet their significance extends beyond the legal consequences for which they were formulated. They disclose a Law whose moral intelligibility depends upon relations, purposes and ordered ends, rather than a heap of commands united only by the identity of their Commander.

They also prevent the moral quality of a complex act from being reduced to the qualities of its isolated physical components. The killing of a human being is vile; the lawful defence of the innocent may be good even when killing becomes its unavoidable instrument. Hunger is ordinarily a deficiency; fasting becomes good because hunger is assumed within an act of worship ordered towards discipline and obedience. The intellect does not deny the repulsiveness of bloodshed or pain, but neither does it pretend that an act remains morally identical after its object, intention, authority and circumstances have changed.

Most significantly, the perceptibility of intrinsic and extrinsic moral qualities gives rise to a system in which matters neither commanded nor prohibited, the mubāḥāt, cannot be dismissed as an extra-moral wilderness.

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An Ethical Ibāḥah

Despite their differing ethical ontologies, moral realists and voluntarists agreed that whatever is commanded must be good and whatever is prohibited must be vile, whether those qualities exist within the act or arise through the divine command itself. The greater difficulty concerns the mubāḥ, the permitted act concerning which the Lawgiver neither demands performance nor demands abstention.

For the Ashʿarī, whose properly moral categories arise through divine praise and blame, permissibility appears to occupy a neutral territory between obedience and disobedience. The Muʿtazilī position could more readily ascribe goodness to the permitted, understanding God’s allowance of an act to proceed from His knowledge that it contained no decisive evil.27 Neither account, however, fully resolves the difficulty faced by a Māturīdī who simultaneously affirms objective moral qualities and divine freedom in legislation. If reason perceives ugliness, harm or deficiency within an act that God has left unprohibited, must the act be called good because it is permitted, vile because the intellect recoils from it, or morally neutral because the Law has attached neither command nor prohibition?

The first point is that the mubāḥāt do not fall within the category of the maʾmūr bih, that which is commanded. Even where the imperative form appears to establish a permission, its function cannot be a literal demand for performance. ʿAlā al-Dīn al-Bukhārī explains that this follows from rational necessity: a command seeks the performance of what is commanded, while permission leaves the agent free to choose between performance and non-performance. The imperative in such a context indicates the removal of restraint, not divine desire that the act be done.28 An act does not become beloved merely because a command form was employed to announce that it is allowed.

Yet freedom to choose does not entail the moral equivalence of every available choice. Al-Samarqandī rejects both the definition of the mubāḥ as that whose performance and abandonment are equal and the definition that severs it entirely from reward and punishment. He defines it instead through the choice of the ʿāqil, the rationally sound person, between performance and non-performance.29 The wording does not by itself establish an elaborate theory of morally graduated permissions, but it is difficult to regard the presence of the ʿāqil as accidental. The choice is entrusted not to a creature emptied of judgement, but to one distinguished precisely by the faculty through which benefit, harm, goodness and vileness may be discerned.

Qiwām al-Dīn al-Kākī similarly contends that commands establishing permissibility are given for the sake of worldly maṣlaḥah.30 Permission is itself a mercy because human flourishing requires an area in which the Law does not convert every good into an obligation or every harm into a prohibition. Were every benefit commanded and every deficiency forbidden, morally responsible life would become an unbearable field of ceaseless liability. Divine silence leaves room for circumstance, temperament, custom, intention and prudence, but it does not empty the creature to whom the choice is given of moral judgement.

Further discussions of the mubāḥāt reveal that external moral determinations may influence permitted matters to the extent that their original legal status is modified. Abū al-Yusr al-Bazdawī discusses this through the prohibition of certain conditional sales. The exchange of goods is not intrinsically immoral, nor is the imposition of conditions in every context, yet the conjunction of the two may produce uncertainty, conflict or exploitation sufficient to render the transaction impermissible.31 The moral and legal character of a deed is determined neither by its name nor by its physical movements considered in isolation, but through its connections with every relevant purpose, condition and consequence.

Thus, even acts good in themselves, such as prayer and fasting, may become blameworthy when their performance entails abandoning an obligation, indirectly committing a prohibition or causing undue harm. Conversely, an act whose basic classification is permissible may become recommended, obligatory, disliked or prohibited through the circumstances surrounding it. The category of khilāf al-awlā, leaving that which is worthier, reflects precisely this refusal to regard the permissible as a plateau upon which all choices stand at one moral height.32 One course remains lawful, yet another better accords with the purposes of the Law, the demands of generosity, the claims of kinship, the avoidance of harm or the perfection of character.

The Shāfiʿī-Ashʿarī Badr al-Dīn al-Zarkashī likewise rejected the crude definition of the mubāḥ as that whose performance and abandonment are simply equal.33 The insight is therefore not the exclusive property of the Ḥanafī-Māturīdī school. It nevertheless assumes particular force within a system that affirms both the objective moral qualities of acts and the intellect’s limited capacity to perceive them. If the permitted is not automatically good merely because God declined to prohibit it, then legal permission cannot close ethical enquiry. A man may possess a lawful choice while the concrete exercise of that choice remains unwise, dishonourable, cruel or contrary to the maṣlaḥah for which the wider institution was established.

This does not transform maṣlaḥah into an independent legislature licensed to dissolve any rule that offends modern sentiment. The external moral consideration must be established through the recognised language and purposes of the Law, not summoned as a pious synonym for whatever the interpreter already prefers. Nor does every perceived harm remove the underlying permission. At times, the external factor may merely render one lawful course blameworthy or inferior; at others, it is sufficiently grave to move the act into another legal category altogether. The task is not to erase ibāḥah, but to understand what kind of freedom it grants and what sort of creature has been entrusted with it.

The performer of a mubāḥ act is not released from the moral order. He remains an ʿāqil, capable of discerning consequences and charged with acting within a world whose inner realities are established. Divine permission protects him from the claim that the act is prohibited merely because another dislikes it, but it does not furnish every exercise of liberty with the halo of divine approval. One can rationally discern harm and consequences contrary to sound nature within permitted matters, prefer one lawful course above another, and argue against a particular exercise of permission from the perspective of maṣlaḥah, without pretending that the intellect has become sovereign over revelation.

It is within this ethically populated territory of ibāḥah that the juristic controversies of marriage, divorce and taʾdīb must be examined.

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His supreme anguish was the loss of all certainty. He felt that he was uprooted.
The code was now but a stump in his hand. He had to do with scruples of an
unknown species. There was in him a revelation of feeling entirely distinct from
the declarations of the law, his only standard hitherto. To retain his old virtue,
that no longer sufficed. An entire order of unexpected facts arose and subjugated
him. An entire new world appeared to his soul; favour accepted and returned,
devotion, compassion, indulgence, acts of violence committed by pity upon
austerity, respect of persons, no more final condemnation, no more damnation,
the possibility of a tear in the eye of the law, a mysterious justice according to
God going counter to justice according to men. He perceived in the darkness the
fearful rising of an unknown moral sun; he was horrified and blinded by it – an
owl compelled to an eagle’s gaze.1

The misalignment of ethics and law is nearly absolute in the modern world: the chivalric knight of the medieval world is a distant memory, since replaced by the anti-hero of the twenty-first century. Superman, and the ethical-legal idealism he represents, has been supplanted by Batman, Han Solo and Star-Lord, figures whose virtuous deeds are so often a result of their defiance of the law. Beyond the mirror-image of society presented by popular culture, contemporary judicial realities reflect this great divorce: Gary Plauché, whose televised killing of his son’s molester fulfilled the textbook definition of murder, was so widely praised for following his extrajudicial moral convictions that even the bureaucratic rigidity of the American legal system allowed him to live the rest of his life without spending a single day in prison.2 Thoreau’s dream of a ‘free and enlightened state’ acknowledging ‘the individual as a higher and independent power’ has been realised, and in the moral free-for-all of the twenty-first century, what law dictates and what is truly good have become entirely separate affairs.3

Although the divorce between ethics and law is taken for granted as an unchanging reality of human societies, it is the result of a gradual, inexorable process of derailment that took over two millennia to accomplish. The modern conception of law divorced from ethics is the unwanted child of Christendom, a civilisation founded in opposition to Judaic legalism out of the conviction that ‘the letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life’ (2 Corinthians 3:6). However much this sentiment was tempered by echoes of James’s protest that ‘faith without works is dead’ (James 2:26), the Crucifixion itself symbolically represented the unjust triumph of law over ethics until its miraculous reversal, giving rise to a civilisation that, consciously or unconsciously, saw law in opposition to ethics. European history accordingly provides plentiful examples of what is good standing in opposition to what is legal. The author of The Gest of Robyn Hode writes of the archetypal paragon of the ‘noble thief’ that ‘he was a good outlawe / and dyde pore men moch god’.4 The trope was by no means entirely absent from Muslim societies, whose bandits and rebels were no less capable of gathering legends around themselves than their European counterparts, yet the moral contradiction of the good outlaw remained far less at home in an Islamic civilisation that understood the ethical and the legal as emanations from a single divine Law.

Such a figure would, at the level of principle, sit uneasily within an Islamic cultural system that ‘made no real distinction between the legal and the moral on the grounds that morality and ethics were never perceived as anything less than integral to the law’.5 The spirit and the letter of the Law could never be disentangled. For the Muslim, Allah had made the property of others inviolable to the degree that it mattered not if a man was a ruffian or a wrongdoer: his wealth remained sacred to such an extent that, for most jurists, while the sovereign could flog him, imprison him or execute him, not even God’s khalīfah could forcibly reappropriate his wealth as a discretionary punishment.6 Robbing the wicked to give to the poor does not become good through the alchemy of benevolent intention, for the wicked man’s property remains protected by the same Law that commands charity to the destitute.

Yet it was precisely because the ethical underpinnings of ḥalāl and ḥarām were understood to be so absolute that the jurists of classical Islamic civilisation could, at first glance, nonchalantly describe apparent atrocities: the manual inspection of concubines prior to their purchase, the physical discipline of wives for failing to beautify themselves, and the power of husbands to compel intimacy when refused, without feeling the slightest need to append an ethical apology to every ruling.7 The modern reader, finding no tremor of unease in the jurist’s hand, concludes that there was none in his soul.

Some of this disquiet undoubtedly arises from reading juristic manuals as though they were comprehensive descriptions of the moral life, rather than works written within particular disciplinary genres to answer particular kinds of questions. A chapter determining whether a judge may compel an act is not necessarily attempting to exhaust everything God may demand of the conscience; the absence of a judicial remedy does not imply the absence of a substantive right, just as the possession of a legally effective power does not transform its exercise into a virtue. Classical jurists distinguished between what could be adjudicated in the courthouse and what remained a matter of diyānah before God, even if the modern reader, accustomed to the nation-state’s pretension to swallow the entirety of moral life into positive law, often does not. Nevertheless, the distinction cannot be employed as a solvent into which every troubling legal conclusion disappears. The texts do say what they say, and any serious defence of the tradition must first withstand the indignity of reading them honestly.

Modern readers of fiqh literature, shaped by their post-Christian and postcolonial context, are therefore taken aback by such texts and, overwhelmed by an inability to reconcile them with the ethical spirit of Islam, call upon Muslims to ‘refuse to see medieval interpretations as coextensive with revelation’ or to demythologise the Islamic Tradition ‘so that Muslims can articulate and advocate for their creative interpretations with authority’.8 This reaction is not limited to Islamic feminists and other open critics of orthodoxy: Tariq Ramadan, as Andrew March has pointed out, may not have outwardly called for an exhaustive Esackian overhaul of jurisprudence, yet his response to the ethical disquiet stirred by rulings such as the death penalty led him beyond the moderate reformism of his earlier work, recasting concepts drawn from mainstream Islamic legal theory until the Law itself became, in March’s phrase, a vanishing mediator for a post-legal Islamic ethics.9 Other champions of the neo-maqāṣidī school, such as Jasser Auda and Mohammad Hashim Kamali, appropriate the terminology of uṣūl al-fiqh to argue for a hermeneutic revolution in which the objectives of the Law may efface its particular rulings, employing the maqāṣid al-sharīʿah in a manner opposite to that of classical jurists, whose maqāṣidī discourse largely served to explain and defend the juristic status quo rather than revise it.10 Whatever the method, all are united by a profoundly emotional unease regarding the divorce between ethics and law.

In the predicament of these Muslim reformists, there is something of a reflection of Hugo’s tragic antagonist Inspector Javert, who, after a lifetime of loyalty to legal codes he perceived to be the ultimate moral authority, was shaken by Jean Valjean’s saintly conduct in spite of his status as a convict. Unable to make sense of this confusing moral landscape, Javert meets a noble yet ignominious death: he could not live virtuously within the Law, nor could he live without it, and so chose a third option. The divisions between modern Muslim responses to the Sharīʿah reflect this difficult impasse. Some ignore the moral turbulence within their hearts entirely, clinging to the Law no matter what sorrow it brings; others seek to discard the legal tradition and virtuously reinterpret revelation, yet inevitably asphyxiate in irrelevance once the umbilical cord of the sanad is snipped away. In this situation, is there a third option for the Ummah other than the slow death inflicted by cognitive dissonance?

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Potential Solutions

Perhaps an answer may be found in a question: why is it that, until the high-speed collision of Islamic civilisation and modernity, we find no record of Muslim analogues to Javert, despite the remarkable intellectual openness of classical Islamic societies, which tolerated not only heterodoxy, but outright opposition towards Islam and indeed all revealed religions?11 The Comtean interpretation of history professed by some reformists asserts that medieval Muslims were simply savages unable to perceive injustices apparent to a people of progress, yet such a reading is impossibly incommensurable with the longstanding Islamic impression of a prophetic golden age stemming from the widespread narration that ‘the best people are my generation, then those that follow them, then those that follow them’, and with ongoing revelations of the sophistication and comprehensive sweep of medieval Muslim thought.12

A more realistic assessment has been posited by Thomas Bauer, who contends that medieval Muslims were insulated from Javert’s dilemma by the comforting blanket of a ‘culture of ambiguity’, in which the sword of the Law was blunted by differences of opinion and practical societal impediments to realising the written vision of fiqh.13 Legal doctrines that appear startlingly severe when extracted from a manual did not operate within the centralised machinery of the modern state, nor did they necessarily preclude societies from tolerating conduct their jurists condemned. Thus, same-sex intercourse could be assigned severe punishments within legal texts while romantic and quasi-erotic relationships between men were openly described within mujūn poetry.14 The jurist, the mufti, the judge, the ruler and the moral agent did not collapse into a single bureaucratic instrument, and the plurality of juristic opinion itself frustrated the modern fantasy of a uniform law applied without remainder.

One might therefore suggest that a return to a traditionalist vision of law tempered by ambiguity would allay both the harshness of fundamentalism and the inauthenticity of reformism. The Law need not be mutilated to make it merciful; it need only be returned to the social and interpretive ecology in which it once lived.

Yet the blanket of ambiguity, once blown away by the howling maelstrom of modernity, can never be fully returned to the Ummah. Try as we might to mimic our ancestors, the spirit of modernity has settled within our lungs, and we cannot deny that it constitutes an essential part of who we are. Islamic history is testament to the fact that genies, once freed, return not to their lamps: no matter how hard early figures such as al-Shāfiʿī and Ibn Qutaybah tried to shut the door on the emerging discipline of kalām, once people began to speak in terms of atoms and accidents, they could not be made to return to the simpler state of earlier generations.15 A question cannot be unasked, and it is a dangerous thing to leave important questions unanswered. Just as the discourse of kalām became an obligation when orthodoxy was confronted by the challenges of iʿtizāl and Jahmī negationism, so too must a new discourse of Sharīʿah emerge in response to the modern derailment of law and ethics.16

The rising tide of reformist scholarship has accelerated since Fazlur Rahman’s historic suggestion that one must distinguish the universal precepts of Islamic law from their particular historical contexts, giving rise to more sophisticated reformist hermeneutics such as that of Abdullah Saeed and, perhaps more significantly, a formidable corpus of feminist scholarship that views the misogyny of classical jurisprudence as a casus belli justifying a hermeneutic revolution.17 Gender issues are by no means the only matters relevant to the ethical-legal crisis of modernity, but they represent a locus for discussion in which the apparent gap between the Sharīʿah and the ethical spirit of Islam yawns widest, and as such warrant particular attention.

One response has been the stubborn, unapologetic dismissal of such critiques by the ‘akh-right, whose champions are content to dismiss every moral concern as a weapon of a purposefully insidious ‘liberalism’ pitted against ‘traditional Islam’.18 This is less a defence of the Tradition than a refusal to explain it, a swaggering retreat from the prophetic task of rendering divine guidance intelligible to those bewildered by it. The Law is proclaimed in a language calculated to repel; the resulting repulsion is then cited as evidence that the hearer was never worthy of guidance. Such tanfīr does not preserve the work of the prophets, but, as Abdal Hakim Murad has observed, directly undoes it.19

A more respectful response was articulated by Murad himself, inspired by Sachiko Murata’s Akbarian theory of a gendered duality within the divine unity, and treats the pain perceived in response to apparent disparities between ethics and Islamic law with metaphysical medicine.20 His response is sophisticated and well intentioned, and no doubt beneficial within the field of theology, yet an attempt to parry a fiqhī matter through metaphysical discourse will, like treating a viral infection with antibiotics, produce a placebo effect at best, soothing the soul while failing to cure the underlying ailment. Tell the teenaged Muslimah questioning why a wife’s brief excursion from the home is considered by jurists to be an act of rebellion that she need not worry because the Sufis call upon the God who transcends gender by the name ‘Laylā’, and the expression on her face will reveal the efficacy of such an approach.21

No: a criticism of traditional fiqh warrants a neo-traditional fiqhī response, one that not only addresses the ethical dilemma to which it is reacting, but does so from the perspective of a traditional school within the intra-ijmāʿ paradigm of acceptability. Such a response cannot merely discover a few merciful quotations scattered across the tradition and arrange them as an apologetic bouquet, nor can it evade the distinction between what the jurists deemed morally obligatory and what they were willing to enforce by judicial compulsion. It must recover the conceptual architecture beneath the rulings themselves and demonstrate that the distinction between law and ethics, now perceived as an abyss, was never absolute within the juristic mind.

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A Ḥanafī-Māturīdī Synthesis

Such a response to the crisis of letter and spirit may be found neither within the unfeeling scripturalism of contemporary tanfīrism, nor in the aforementioned reformist ghuluww, but within the conceptual framework of the Ḥanafī-Māturīdī school, although the unique conditions of modernity necessitate a novel articulation of its traditional positions.

The Māturīdī account of taḥsīn and taqbīḥ, the moral determination of actions as good or vile, allows the intellect a genuine if limited role in discerning moral reality. Goodness and vileness are not arbitrary labels fastened to morally neutral acts by the naked force of divine command, nor does the human intellect become a second Lawgiver enthroned above revelation. Allah alone obligates and prohibits, yet He created a world in which moral qualities possess an intelligible reality, and endowed man with a faculty capable of perceiving at least some of them. The sharp dissonance between what the heart recognises as good and what the Law appears to command cannot therefore be dismissed as intrinsically meaningless, even if the heart remains fallible and its perceptions require correction by revelation.

Ḥanafī legal theory further distinguishes between actions that are good or vile in themselves and those that become so through an external purpose, condition, consequence or association. This distinction allows the Law to be understood not as a field of disconnected commands, but as a rationally ordered moral system in which the value of an act may arise from what it secures, prevents, preserves or destroys. Male authority within marriage, for example, cannot be defended merely because authority is possessed; its moral value arises from the protection and ordering of the family it is intended to accomplish. Divorce may remain legally effective while being hated when exercised without need. A permitted act may become blameworthy because it causes harm, frustrates the purpose for which permission was granted, or entails the abandonment of something worthier.

The category of ibāḥah, permissibility, is therefore not a moral wasteland in which every unprohibited act becomes equally pleasing to God. The legally permissible may be unwise, dishonourable, cruel or hateful without thereby becoming judicially void. Conversely, the refusal of the court to compel an ethical duty does not erase that duty before Allah. The juristic distinction between qaḍāʾ and diyānah, between what may be imposed through adjudication and what binds the conscience religiously, frustrates the modern expectation that every right must possess an immediate coercive remedy, yet it also frustrates the libertine assumption that whatever cannot be judicially compelled is therefore morally optional.

This does not provide a convenient device by which every troubling ruling can be declared technically lawful but spiritually forbidden, leaving the inherited school intact only because all its embarrassments have been evacuated into an invisible ethical realm. The judicial opinions of the school must still be read, defended or criticised with precision; no amount of Māturīdī moral realism can render a weak argument strong or a mistranslation sound. What it does provide is a coherent framework through which the ethical life surrounding the ruling may be recovered, and through which the question facing the believer ceases to be exhausted by the impoverished inquiry of whether a court could compel, prohibit, dissolve or punish.

The controversies of marriage, divorce and the physical discipline of wives in Qur’an 4:34 provide particularly difficult tests for this framework, not because gender is the only fissure through which the modern crisis of legal ethics has erupted, but because it is among the most visible. It is here that the language of ownership, obedience, sexual access and male authority appears most violently to contradict Qur’anic descriptions of affection, mercy and living together in goodness; and it is here that pious invocations of complementarity most readily appear as perfume sprayed upon a corpse.

If the Ḥanafī-Māturīdī synthesis is capable of explaining how the jurists could preserve the letter of the Law without abandoning its ethical spirit, it must do so here, where the disparity appears greatest. It must demonstrate how the Law may grant powers without praising every use of them, recognise rights that exceed the remedies available to a judge, and entrust morally responsible human beings with choices that remain subject to rational discernment, divine judgement and the consequences they visit upon those placed beneath their care.

That inquiry begins not with the reformist division of revelation from tradition, nor with the silencing of moral discomfort beneath the weight of inherited authority, but with the ethical ontology of the school itself: the Māturīdī conviction that the inner realities of things are established, that man is not blind to goodness and vileness, and that the perfectly Wise Lawgiver does not command within a universe bereft of moral order.

This essay is an adaptation of the first section of my undergraduate essay, “A Synthesis of Letter and Spirit”, which was written in 2023. The dissertation was the product of original research and writing, but AI was used to remove in-text citations and meta-references to the dissertation. Although it is a reflection of my more formative years, recent discussions have prompted me to publish it. I hope to publish the remaining parts soon, in sha Allah.

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“So you figured out you’re not a businessman after all.”

“Just a man.”

“An ancient race. Other Mortons’ll be along, and they’ll kill it off.”

The frontiers of the world have closed. Every river has been bridged in the imagination before the engineers arrive; every mountain surveyed, every forest photographed from above, every rough and inaccessible place drawn within the anticipated dominion of the road, the satellite and the machine. More than a century ago, the railway crossed the vastness of the American West and reached the blue immensities of the Pacific; now airliners inscribe white lines even above North Sentinel Island and its uncontacted people. There remain deserts, oceans and unmapped depths, but nowhere which modernity does not already regard as provisionally conquered, awaiting only investment, technology and administrative will.

Towers still rise, but there are no cathedrals left to build; cities expand, but there is no city upon a hill. Stone is raised as an asset, glass as a declaration of capital, and the great visions of the imagination are realised chiefly as products, attractions and technical demonstrations whose magnitude can be measured without anyone asking what vision of man they embody. The modern male is permitted one serious function: to keep the globe-spanning machinery of production and consumption in motion, and then to consume enough of its fruits to justify returning to work. The heroic and chivalric archetypes have become embarrassing survivals from a world in which courage, honour and personal judgement still appeared capable of answering realities no institution had absorbed. The cowboy—not the historical cattle-hand, but the mythical knight into whom the Western transformed him—once carried a justice which claimed precedence over statute, procedure and official authority. In the administered world, such a figure is absurdly redundant.

Hollywood once glimpsed this, before it learned to offer identities where it had once offered myths. Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West depicts the sun setting upon the individualistic anarchy of the cowboy as another kind of man steps from the ever-advancing railway carriage: the businessman. Morton, the crippled magnate, need not cross the desert through courage, endurance or bodily mastery; he advances through maps, timetables, contracts, purchased violence and iron laid across the earth. His weakness as a man is irrelevant because his power no longer belongs to the person. The gunman may kill whoever stands before him, but the businessman alters the fate of men he will never meet, and when one Morton dies another may occupy his seat without the machine changing course.

Frank, the amoral outlaw Morton employs, sees that the old order is passing and attempts to enter the new one. He will no longer shoot for vengeance, honour or the terrible glory of being feared, but for ownership; he imagines that the violence which clears the railway’s path may entitle him to a place within its carriage. Yet capital has use for the outlaw only while the frontier remains untamed. The same railway which hires him is building the world in which personal violence, personal honour and personal vengeance become intolerable inefficiencies. Frank may adopt the businessman’s ambitions and execute his cruelties, but he cannot become Morton. He belongs to the desert, the revolver and the forgotten deed which binds one man to another long after profit has moved elsewhere.

As the film approaches its end, Frank turns away from the world of cold calculation and returns to face the man known only as Harmonica, whose music has pursued him like the echo of a crime he no longer remembers. To Morton, the duel must appear pointless: no property will be gained, no competitor removed, no investment secured. Yet the old world, for all its savagery, still demands that a deed remain attached to the man who performed it. Harmonica shoots Frank and, as he lies dying, returns the instrument to his mouth, restoring in the final instant the memory of the brother he murdered and the reason this stranger crossed the desert to find him.

Frank fails to become a businessman because some remnant of the man survives within him. He returns to the direct encounter and accepts the judgement of an act whose consequences money could not dissolve, dying within the old order at the moment the railway completes its conquest of it. Harmonica’s victory changes nothing. Other Mortons will come, their machines will cross the wilderness, and the world will no longer require men whose deeds bear their names.

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The Great Inversion

Some inhabitants of the so-called “manosphere,” perceiving their impotence before the contemporary girlboss who thrives within consumer capitalism, mistake the mythical cowboy for man in his integral form, and imagine the crisis of masculinity as a simple imbalance to be corrected by throwing more weight upon the opposite side of the scale. Yet their railing against feminism restores nothing; the young disciples of Andrew Tate’s Hustler’s University emerge from their education less masculine than before, interpreting every frustration as an injustice committed against them and protesting with the injured indignation of children, whining and whinging at the world, shouting “It’s not fair!” Their insults hurled at the the financially astute girlfluencers who deftly navigate consumerism only betray a mean and pathetic envy.

What eludes them is that the cowboy was never the complete masculine archetype, but its last damaged descendant: the warrior after the temple had vanished, still courageous enough to confront the world directly, yet severed from the sacred order that might have transformed courage into service and strength into trust. After him came the businessman, who purchased the gunman’s remaining powers and absorbed them into the machinery of profit; and after the businessman came Eliot’s hollow men, who might succeed according to every measure known to accountants and financial advisers, yet remain afflicted by a spiritual sterility that leaves them:

The pasty redpiller and the daʿwah bro who can scarcely speak of another man without calling him dayyūth fail for the same reason: they imagine that masculinity may be restored merely by exaggerating its outward signs. Yet both masculinity and femininity have been profoundly inverted, so that their recognisable forms remain while the ends towards which they move have been reversed. Guénon understood that the most dangerous subversions do not destroy the ancient symbols, but retain their appearance while quietly turning their meaning against itself:

The most skilful and dangerous subversion is certainly that which does not betray itself through peculiarities so obvious that anyone may easily perceive them, but which deforms the meaning of symbols or reverses their value without changing anything in their outward appearance. More diabolical still, perhaps, is the device by which the reversed interpretation proper to “counter-initiation” is attributed to orthodox symbolism itself, as it exists within genuinely traditional organisations.1

The world does not suffer from an abundance of femininity and a shortage of masculinity, but from the corruption of both. Feminine inwardness has overflowed into public moral sovereignty, while masculine outwardness has been fettered, confined to production, spectatorship, private fantasy and impotent grievance. The man who despises femininity therefore despises something essential to manhood itself, for no man becomes whole by mutilating his capacity to receive, cherish and protect the feminine. Radical feminism and red-pill reaction are nourished by the same disorder: each absolutises one pole of existence and declares war upon the other. The beginning of a cure lies in recognising masculinity and femininity in their proper relation, and then perceiving how modernity has preserved their silhouettes while turning their motions against their natural ends.

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Yin and Yang; Jalāl and Jamāl

Before masculinity and femininity can be recognised in their present distortions, they must first be remembered as something more than social conventions. The modern imagination usually offers two unsatisfactory possibilities: either sexual difference is reduced to the body and treated as irrelevant to the higher life of the person, or men and women are divided into rigid provinces, each furnished with its allotted virtues and forbidden to trespass upon the territory of the other. Traditional cosmology begins from neither sameness nor rivalry. It perceives throughout creation a pattern of polarity in which realities become intelligible through relation: heaven and earth, light and receptacle, seed and soil, majesty and beauty, the word which descends and the breath through which it becomes audible. Such relations are not contests for supremacy, since neither pole contains its meaning entirely within itself; they are the movements through which the Divine Names and Attributes are disclosed.

Sachiko Murata, drawing the Chinese language of yin and yang into conversation with the metaphysics of Ibn ʿArabī, insists that masculinity and femininity cannot be understood as two sealed substances, one always active and the other permanently passive. A being which gives in one relation receives in another: the earth receives the rain, yet brings forth the garden; the teacher gives knowledge which he first received from his own teachers; the father transmits a life whose first breath he could neither command nor comprehend. A man may stand before his family as provider, protector or judge, yet before God he remains poor and dependent at every instant upon a mercy which precedes his action and sustains it. The most outwardly commanding man therefore carries within his masculinity a relation of submission more fundamental than any authority he may exercise over others, and the refusal of that submission does not make him more fully masculine, but severs his action from the source which might have rendered it beneficial to the rest of creation.

Masculinity in its proper order is thus not mere activity, but the passage from reception into action. The man receives a law he did not invent, a craft whose measures were discovered before his birth, a language already shaped by the dead, obligations imposed by the needs of those entrusted to him, and a world whose resistance reveals whether his strength possesses any substance. He then bears these things outwardly through judgement, provision, construction, protection and transmission. His freedom is not found in independence from all external forces, as if a man becomes himself only when no voice stood above him, but in inhabiting what he has received with such fidelity and intelligence that it becomes living once again through his deeds. The craftsman does not invent the nature of wood, but learns to move with and against it until it becomes an instrument; the father does not invent the needs of the child, but spends his strength so that the child may one day surpass those needs; the ruler does not create justice, but is judged by the degree to which justice acquires a human face beneath his authority.

The Qur’anic description of Moses as al-qawī al-amīn, the strong and trustworthy, contains the two movements upon which masculine worth depends. Strength alone may serve any master and become an instrument of oppression, while trustworthiness without capacity leaves good intention standing helpless before realities which require force, endurance or decision. Joined together, they suggest that power is not a private possession but an entrusted capacity whose meaning emerges only in service. The strong man is not vindicated by the mere fact that he can impose himself; his strength becomes worthy when another person may rest beneath it without being diminished by it. Authority, in this understanding, does not draw life endlessly towards the one who holds it, but passes something through him which must eventually reach those beyond him: knowledge into the student, confidence into the child, order into the community, and protection into the vulnerable.

The feminine movement is no less active, though its action takes place through reception, gathering and inward formation. It takes what is scattered and makes it habitable: food becomes a meal, shelter becomes a home, descent becomes kinship, passing events become memory, and neighbouring lives are woven into a household whose members no longer stand beside one another as strangers. Its power lies not merely in possessing an interior, but in creating one, a chamber in which what is fragile, unfinished or dispersed may acquire coherence before returning to the outer world. This is why the womb remains so powerful a symbol: it receives what is scarcely visible, nourishes it in concealment, gives it form from its own substance and protects it from a world it is not yet prepared to meet; yet the darkness of the womb is ordered towards appearance, and its enclosure has meaning only because it is not intended to become permanent.

Healthy femininity therefore reaches fulfilment not in possession but in bringing forth. Maryam receives a word from Allah in hiddenness, but what she bears becomes a sign for the worlds; the mother shelters the child, but the success of her shelter appears when the child can stand beyond it; the home gathers those who belong to it, yet gives them an inward centre from which they may depart without becoming rootless and to which they may return without becoming children again. Mercy does not preserve weakness as an everlasting claim over them, but tends the weak until strength can awaken within them. The feminine power to receive is fruitful because it does not merely absorb what comes to it; it transforms what it receives into something capable of a destiny beyond the one who nurtures it.

The Sufi language of jalāl and jamāl, majesty and beauty, guards these principles against the crudeness of imagining that every man belongs simply to majesty and every woman to beauty. Majesty without beauty becomes terror, while beauty without majesty dissolves into sentiment and appetite. True strength creates a space in which vulnerability may live without fear; true beauty possesses an authority which silences the impulse to consume it. The desert may disclose beauty through severity, and the garden majesty through an abundance whose order exceeds the gardener. Neither principle remains pure by excluding the other. The beauty of Yūsuf subtracts nothing from his masculinity; the majesty of ʿĀ’ishah is ʿĀ’ishah does not injure her femininity.

The complete man must therefore remain receptive enough to be corrected, tender enough to know what his strength exists to preserve, and poor enough before Allah that authority does not intoxicate him into imagining himself its source. The complete woman must possess enough firmness to distinguish nurture from indulgence, enough inward strength to survive the separation of those she loves, and enough trust in God to accept that what passes through her care was never given into her absolute possession. Their embodied difference does not make either an incomplete human being awaiting completion by another, but reveals in a particularly vivid form a pattern which belongs to every created thing: giving presupposes reception, while reception tends towards manifestation and release. Masculine and feminine life begin to decay when these movements are arrested, when action forgets the dependence from which its authority arose, or when nurture ceases to prepare what it contains for a life beyond itself. It is from these arrested motions, rather than from an excess of masculinity or femininity properly understood, that their modern malignancies emerge.

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Descent

A myopic reading of history presents the crisis of masculinity as the consequence of women’s economic and social liberation, as though the lives of men could possess weight only while women remained dependent upon them. Yet the Best of Creation ﷺ was not diminished by the wealth of Khadījah, nor did her strength of character make his own less luminous. To provide, in the spiritual meaning of the word, cannot be reduced to serving as a wallet, for provision includes the giving of form, direction, protection and continuity to a world shared with others. The history of masculine degeneration must therefore be understood as a gradual waning rather than a sudden overthrow: masculinity began its descent when action lost its vertical relation to God, revelation and a sacred order, not when man encountered an equal upon the horizontal plane.

A precise history of the decline of man is beyond the scope of this essay, but it may be generally simplified into four stages. The first is the detachment of embodied masculinity from its spiritual anchor. The holy warrior, once fighting without regard for his own life or property, ceases to kneel before the altar of righteousness and chases instead after the riches of conquest. The artisan engraves a masterful work of calligraphy, but does so seeking the prestige and patronage that come with his art. The caliph governs in the name of God, but within his heart seeks the majesty of an earthly Caesar. The axis around which the world revolves is increasingly that of the ego, and God’s name becomes a repeated formula deprived of inward meaning. Nevertheless, the outward forms of initiation into sacred archetypes remain, and with them linger traces of the spirituality once inherent in those forms, so that society may still outwardly resemble a more virtuous age. The external shapes the internal, but like a river cut off from its source, these external forms are doomed to degenerate unless kept alive by the waters of sincerity.

The second phase concerns the gradual waning of the social forms of initiation. Masculinity and femininity, from a traditional perspective, are not simply extensions of biology. A man may have rujūlah without futuwwah, maleness without the realised virtues of manhood; likewise, a woman may possess biological womanhood without having been formed into the fullness of feminine vocation. Nor is gender a performance in a Butlerian sense, though the moderns are not entirely wrong to say that a person must become a man or a woman. There are natural potencies latent within every boy and girl, but one does not enter mature sexual personhood by biological maturation alone. In the strict sense, initiation belongs to spiritual transmission, but societies shaped by initiation once possessed wider forms of human formation: fathers, mothers, elders, teachers, guilds, households, women’s circles, scholarly lineages, Sufi companionship, marriage customs, rites of modesty, hospitality, service, apprenticeship and pilgrimage.

Through these forms, the latent powers of boys and girls were awakened, disciplined and directed towards the human purpose of being vicegerents of God upon earth. For men, this often took the form of Sufi and scholarly orders, martial and warrior traditions, guilds of artists and craftsmen, and the burdens of provision and public responsibility; for women, it took the form of maternal and auntly transmission, domestic arts understood not as servitude but as civilisation-making, adab, modesty, embodied dignity, care for kin, the preservation of memory, and the formation of inner spaces from which life could emerge ordered and beloved. The history of the decline of these institutions is immense, but it generally followed what the contemporary imagination terms progress: the movement from sacred office to procedural legitimacy, the rise of individualistic rereadings of scripture divorced from traditional structures of authority, the replacement of guilds and artisans with depersonalised and alienated modes of production, and the transition from chivalric and honour-based martial traditions to professional militaries.

The third stage is the birth of the machine-god. We know him first not as theory but as torment: the nameless power of market, bureaucracy, industry, media and administration joined into an order utterly indifferent to the miracle of the human soul. He is the reduction of meaningful quality to quantity, of wisdom to information, of art to content, of music from an evocation of the soul’s deepest mysteries into an algorithmically distributed stimulus, and of human beings into economic units whose assigned functions keep the wheels of production and consumption revolving. Artists have often recognised in this order the face of Moloch, the devouring idol before whom the living are offered so that the system may continue. Fritz Lang gave him cinematic body in Metropolis, where the machine rises before the exhausted worker as a monstrous temple into which human life disappears; Allen Ginsberg heard him in the machinery, money, armies, factories and blind urban immensity of modern America.

Yet Moloch required an architect, a Sāmirī capable of fashioning the golden calf before which modern man would bow. Behind the devouring god stands William Blake’s Urizen, the cold lawgiver of fallen reason, measuring, dividing and enclosing the radiant world of sign and mystery within the prison of quantity. The machine is capable of consuming us as fuel for its furnaces of production only because we have first imagined the world as a machine: a clockwork thing interminably turning its cogs in pure indifference to the miracles of the spirit. To build Moloch, to worship him, to sacrifice our children to him, we must relinquish the vertical order and replace sacred law with its inverted parody: not law received from above, but universal abstraction imposed from below, speaking at first in the language of mankind’s highest aspirations while chaining him to a singular and uncompromising measure of life. Thus Blake’s Urizen binds the living world beneath:

Laws of peace, of love, of unity:
Of pity, compassion, forgiveness.
Let each chuse one habitation:
His ancient infinite mansion:
One command, one joy, one desire,
One curse, one weight, one measure
One King, one God, one Law.2

The terror of the machine-god lies not in its hatred of peace, love or forgiveness, but in its revelation of what these words become when severed from the living source of mercy and hardened into system. The machine speaks compassionately, administers universally, measures equally, and devours without malice. It is the condescending smile of the clerk at the licensing office, the suspicious concern of the schoolteacher, the procedural indifference of the parking warden, each enlarged to a civilisational scale: the polite face of an order that does not need to hate the soul in order to crush it. Over decades within the belly of the beast, the masculine and feminine powers of human life do not disappear, but return in malignant form; and it is within this late, exhausted theatre of severed archetypes that the gender wars of our time unfold.

Malignancy

The end of the ancient race culminates in the birth of a new breed of humankind, those who display a counterfeit masculinity and femininity. Half-digested in the fiery gut of Moloch, there yet remains something of the august nobility of Adam, yet modernity has disfigured them by warping the spiritual realities underneath the surface of masculinity and femininity alike. The machine does not destroy the masculine and feminine powers of the soul, for powers so deeply woven into creation cannot be abolished by administration; rather, it deranges them, deprives them of their proper circulation, and sends them back into the world as wounds bearing the memory of virtues.

Malignant masculinity and malignant femininity have myriad manifestations, but the masculine soul and its feminine counterpart tend to respond to the corrupting influence of Moloch in one of three ways. The first response entails the replacement of the Divine Source with the individual ego. In men, this results in the psychology of Pharaoh, who declares “I am thy Lord, the Most High!”3 Pharaonic man, whether subscribing to the “hustler” culture of the Tate brothers or a more outwardly pious form of religion that reduces women to domestic servants, forgets his place as vicegerent and crowns himself over the little kingdom of his reach. The abusive husband, the merciless father, and the brother who mistakes guardianship for ownership are all manifestations of the same archetype that forgets that the source of authority lies in servanthood. Most tragically, Pharaoh often imagines himself as Orc, the spirit of rebellion against the clerk-world of the machine-god; yet divorced from spiritual purpose and the ethos of futuwwa, that flame of rebellion does not liberate him from Moloch, but merely teaches him to demand a throne within Moloch’s world.

I well remember how I stole thy light & it became fire.

Consuming.4

In women, the same enthronement of the ego assumes a subtler but no less destructive form. Because the feminine often works through inward formation, atmosphere, implication and relational perception, both its gifts and its corruptions are easily misread by a world trained to notice only outward force. The female Pharaoh therefore does not usually announce herself by command, but by interpretation. She appears wherever therapeutic speech is enthroned as a substitute for judgement, wherever pain becomes proof, preference becomes identity, and the wounded self becomes the court before which all others must stand accused. This is the sovereign mirror: the self-defining, all-determining judge whose moral axis is centred upon herself, and whose demand is not merely that others satisfy her desires, but that reality itself conform to her interpretation of harm, virtue and guilt. Pharaoh enthrones the will; the sovereign mirror enthrones the wound. Both rebel against God by refusing to receive a truth that comes from beyond the self.

The second response, and the path chosen by the majority of humanity, is surrender to the machine-god: laying down the burden of moral authorship so that one’s soul may be used as a cog in its ever-turning wheels. In men, this produces the outward veneer of success, the “decent” everyman whose virtues have been diverted from service to God and to those entrusted to him towards the institutions of dehumanisation that dominate and shape society. He may outwardly resemble man proper, earning a salary, paying the bills and taking his family on holiday, but stripped of the vertical meaning of khilāfah, his provision narrows into financial supply and his fatherhood into household maintenance. He no longer initiates, forms or transmits; he funds. He is praised for sacrificing himself to the very order that consumes the home his sacrifice was meant to protect. Hence the functionary is so often portrayed in popular culture as the clueless, out-of-touch father whose only remaining value is to submit himself to his clued-up wife and children: a man still needed as income, but no longer recognised as a bearer of direction.

In women, this surrender does not primarily take the form of becoming a cog, but of becoming a display cabinet for the treasures of the machine. The feminine genius for reception, adornment, arrangement and the creation of inward worlds is not destroyed, but redirected from the formation of a home, a family, a memory and a people towards the endless composition of a purchasable self. She is handed interiors, garments, bodies, therapies, causes, holidays, spiritualities, parenting styles and carefully lit images of “intentional living,” and told that freedom lies in choosing among them. Reduced to a consumer-curator, she therefore mistakes selection for generation: she receives without truly conceiving, gathers without making habitable, beautifies without blessing, and arranges signs of meaning where meaning itself has withered. Her tragedy is not that she loves beauty, but that Moloch has taught her to seek beauty as a reflection of herself rather than as a sign of Divine Beauty. She stands before the infinite shop window of modern life, believing she is choosing the world, while the glass quietly teaches her which version of herself she is meant to desire. Degenerate man often looks upon her with envy and resentment, imagining the “girlboss” to have outdone him in the arena of modernity; yet there is little to envy. Her success is not escape from Moloch, but fluency in its grammar. Beneath all her self-promotions, curated rooms, careful images, therapeutic slogans and rituals of purchased freedom, she is often as spiritually hollowed out as he is, another soul taught to mistake market-legibility for victory.

The third response is harder to recognise because its masculine and feminine forms appear at first to move in opposite directions. In man it appears as the refusal of responsibility and consequence: the boy who reaches biological adulthood while remaining unborn, a perpetual manchild lacking the steadiness and wisdom required to bear the weight of a life. We may see him walking in the streets, however much a recluse he may be, but spiritually he remains in the womb, which has ceased to be a place of nurture and protection and has become a prison. Like an infant closing his eyes when overwhelmed by the light of the outside world, he cannot bear reality as it is, and so immerses himself in simulations of masculine virtue: conquest without courage, eros without covenant, conflict without cost, mastery without service. His career and ambitions, if he possesses them at all, may be arranged by the women in his life, who become forever-mothers directing his affairs while quietly confirming the incapacity they claim to lament. Unable to separate from this prolonged incubation, he has surrendered the outward movement of masculinity, its passage into deed, burden and truthful encounter, and has become an eternal weight upon those obliged to carry him.

Women, by contrast, respond to the machine-world through an inversion of the maternal instinct: not the refusal to emerge, but the refusal to release. The archetype of the “devouring mother” has been treated extensively within Jungian literature, but the truer image is that of a womb that refuses to give birth. The benevolence of motherhood, whether real or metaphoric, is twisted into a subjugating force in which sacrifice becomes title-deed and care becomes jurisdiction. The malignant feminine centralises her own suffering and comes to view those she has nurtured as permanently indebted to her vision of the world. This is especially visible in certain South Asian family systems which appear outwardly patriarchal, yet whose inner architecture is often governed by a motherhood that never truly ends: a woman once subordinated within the household stores power in the son, then later exercises that power over his wife, his conscience and his capacity to depart. The manchild and the womb that refuses birth therefore sustain one another. He points to her control as the reason he never stood upright; she points to his uselessness as proof that he must never be released.

Restoring Mankind Proper

If the ancient race has not vanished entirely, it is because Adamic nobility cannot be fully burned out of the human soul, however long it remains in the belly of Moloch. What survives now appears wounded, inverted and half-forgotten: authority without servanthood, receptivity without truth, labour without authorship, beauty without radiance, nurture without release, desire without passage into deed. The task of restoration cannot therefore consist in nostalgic theatre, nor in the purchase of masculine and feminine costumes from the same machine that deformed us. Part II of this series will examine these malignant archetypes more closely, not as curiosities of the gender wars, but as corruptions of real spiritual powers, before turning to the question of reform, examining how the soul may be reconnected to the vertical order, such that men and women might once more be formed through worship, discipline, kinship, craft, mercy and sacred obligation, and how cultures of true masculinity and true femininity might be rebuilt from the ruins of their counterfeit forms.

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لا يفقد المغلوب أرضه أول ما يفقد؛ بل يفقد براءته تجاه عاداته.

يضحك الأجنبي من ردائه، فلا يلبث أن يراه هو نفسه فاقعاً؛ ويستنكر المبشّر بيته، فإذا به يسارع إلى تبريره؛ ويصف القاضي زواجه بالهمجية، فلا يمضي طويل وقت حتى يكتشف أن زواج القاضي هو الذي قصده القرآن منذ البداية. ولا يكتمل سلطان الإمبراطورية حين يطيع ابن البلاد الغريب—فالطاعة قد تستر الحقد—بل حين يتعلم أن ينظر إلى نفسه بعين الغريب، ثم يخلط بين ما ينشأ في نفسه من ضيق وبين صوت الضمير.

نظر الأوروبي في القرن التاسع عشر نحو الشرق فرأى إفراطاً في الحياة. كان للتركي أكثر مما ينبغي من الثياب والألوان والزوجات والعطور، وكان طلاقه أيسر مما ينبغي، وشهوته أظهر مما ينبغي. جلس ملوكه في الديباج، وتحدث شعراؤه بلا حرج عن الخدود والذوائب والخصور والخمر والشوق واستبداد العيون الجميلة؛ بل استعار أولياؤه لغة العشاق، كأن الطريق إلى السماء يمر عبر حيرة الجسد. أما أوروبا، التي جعلت من الياقة الصلبة فضيلة، وأخذت تتعلم كيف تجعل دوام البيت شبه سر مقدس، فقد شخصت هذا الاتساع كله بوصفه مرضاً.

عاش التشخيص بعد موت الطبيب. فأخذ الرجل المسلم المحترم يشبه شيئاً فشيئاً الموظف البروتستانتي: قاتم الثياب، نافعاً في الاقتصاد، معتذراً عن جنسه، محصوراً في وحدة منزلية صغيرة، ومدرَّباً على أن يرى في كل رغبة لا تجيب عنها زوجته علامة اضطراب باطني. قد يستشهد بالشريعة، ولكن أثاث خياله الأخلاقي كان كثيراً ما يأتيه من موضع آخر؛ ظل صالونه فيكتورياً وإن استقر مصحف على الرف.

ومع ذلك فمن السخف أن يقال إن المسلمين صاروا مسيحيين فحسب. فالعقائد لا تنتقل بهذه النظافة، وقد يظل المسلم الذي ينفر من تعدد الزوجات أو يعد الطلاق كارثة شخصية صحيح الاعتقاد والعبادة. الذي انتقل كان أدق من ذلك: نحوٌ أخلاقي في فهم الجسد والروح، والباطن والقانون، والزواج والدوام، والحصرية العاطفية والرجولة المحترمة. تَكَوَّن هذا النحو بعضه في اللاهوت المسيحي، وبعضه في البيت البرجوازي الذي خلفه، وبعضه في الفردانية العلاجية للغرب ما بعد المسيحي. ثم دخل المجتمعات المسلمة عبر نقد المبشرين والمدارس الاستعمارية والروايات المترجمة والمحاكم الحديثة والكاميرا والمحامين والبيروقراطيين، حتى انتهى إلى الشاشات المضيئة التي تعلم فيها الدين أن يتكلم على هيئة مقاطع قصيرة.

واكتسب الزواج الناشئ عن ذلك أسطورة تكاد تكون سرّاً مقدساً. صار يتخيل اندماجاً دائماً وحصرياً بين ذاتين باطنيتين: الحجرة الوحيدة التي يصير فيها الحب مشروعاً، والرغبة نبيلة، والوحدة مجابة. وعلى الزوجين أن يكونا حبيبين ورفيقين وأميني سر ومعالجين نفسيين وشريكين في التربية والاقتصاد وصديقين روحيين وشاهدين على صيرورة كل منهما. ويُطلب منهما أن يجدا في شخص واحد ما كانت المجتمعات الأقدم توزعه بين القرابة والبيت والجوار والصداقة والمسجد والطائفة والعشيرة.

لقد اتسع الزواج حتى صار حضارة كاملة، في اللحظة نفسها التي انكمشت فيها الأسرة إلى زوجين.

ومواطن هذه الحضارة المثالي هو «توأم الروح»: الكائن الوحيد المكتوب خصيصاً لآخر، والنصف المفقود، والجواب الأرضي الوحيد الذي أعدته العناية. إنها عقيدة لطيفة، وكثير من الباطل يأتي في صورة مجاملة. فإذا كانت روح واحدة هي الإكمال الحصري لروح أخرى، صار التعلق الثاني لا مجرد تهور بل خيانة ميتافيزيقية؛ وصار الطلاق دليلاً على أن القدر أخفق، أو أننا أخفقنا في القدر؛ وصارت المدة معيار الحقيقة، فيمدح زواج دام خمسين سنة وإن أبقاه الخوف، ويُحكم بالفشل على زواج دام خمساً وإن أثمر مودة وصحبة حلالاً وأطفالاً وفراقاً بمعروف.

أما القرآن فلا يعرف هذه العاطفية. إنه يتحدث عن المودة والرحمة، ولكنه يتحدث أيضاً عن الشقاق والتحكيم والعدة والفراق والزواج بعده، وعن إمكان أن يغني الله كلاً من الزوجين من سعته إذا افترقا. واقعيته أوسع من الرومانسية الحديثة: «فإمساك بمعروف أو تسريح بإحسان». في هذه الجملة من المدنية ما ليس في ألف موعظة زفاف عن روحين تصيران روحاً واحدة.

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ابن هاجر وحجرات التركي

لم يبدأ اتهام أوروبا للإسلام بالجسدانية عند رسامي الاستشراق. قبل حريم إنغر كانت خيمة هاجر.

في رسالة بولس إلى أهل غلاطية ينقسم بيت إبراهيم إلى نسبين. إسماعيل، المولود من هاجر الأمة، هو ابن «حسب الجسد»؛ وإسحاق، المولود من سارة، هو ابن «حسب الموعد». تقابل هاجر سيناء والعبودية وأورشليم الحاضرة، بينما ترمز سارة إلى الحرية وأورشليم العليا. لم يكن بولس يكتب عن المسلمين، الذين لم يدخلوا التاريخ إلا بعد ستة قرون، لكنه أنشأ نحوًا لاهوتياً أمكن أن يوضعوا فيه لاحقاً.

وحين سمى الكتّاب المسيحيون العرب والمسلمين إسماعيليين أو هاجريين، تحول النسب إلى لاهوت. صار المسلم إبراهيمياً من جهة الولادة الطبيعية، لكنه مستبعد من الميراث الروحي: قريباً من التاريخ المقدس بما يكفي ليحاكم به، وبعيداً عن تمامه بما يكفي ليُحرم منه. وبدا وحيه رجوعاً من النعمة إلى الشريعة؛ ووضوؤه وختانه وصيامه وسجوده عبادات جسدية؛ وقوته العسكرية انتصاراً لمدينة أرضية؛ وخصوبة بيوته نسلاً بلا اصطفاء؛ وجنته الاعتراف الأخير لدين لا يستطيع أن يتصور النعيم بلا شهوة.

وكان القانون والحسية، وهما متناقضان في الذهن الحديث، متحدين في هذا الجدل. فكلاهما علامة الإنسان الجسداني. يطيع المسلم بجسده وينتظر الجزاء بجسده؛ يغسل أعضاءه، ويجتنب أطعمة، ويتزوج النساء، وينجب، ويتجه إلى حرم أرضي، ويتخيل جنات وظلالاً وفاكهة وشراباً وأزواجاً حسنة. احتكرت المسيحية الروح والوعد والباطن وأورشليم السماوية؛ وورث الإسلام الجسد والحرف والنسل والتراب.

وكان الاتهام نافذاً لأنه وضع كل فضيلة إسلامية تحت وصف غريب عنها. صارت دقة العبادة حرفية، والخصوبة شهوانية، والزواج انغماساً، ورفض الرهبانية عجزاً روحياً، والبعث الجسدي ولذات الجنة دليلاً على أن المسلم لا يفلت من الجسد حتى في الآخرة. ولم تكن الحور العين زينة عارضة في هذه الدعوى؛ بل كانت البرهان على أن محمداً لا يَعِد أتباعه إلا بما يشتهيه الرجال الجسدانيون أصلاً.

غير أن هذا الحكم قد يكشف عن المحكمة التي استُدعي إليها الإسلام أكثر مما يكشف عن أنثروبولوجيته. وعبارة زئيف ماغن «فضائل الجسد» تسمي بالضبط ما عجز ذلك الجدل عن فهمه. لم ير الفقه الإسلامي المبكر القداسة هرباً من التجسد. يغتسل الجسد لأن الطهارة مهمة، ويصوم لأن الشهوة تحتاج إلى تهذيب، ويتزوج لأن الرغبة والنسل داخلان في النظام الإلهي للحياة، ويسجد لأن اللحم نفسه يمكن أن يطيع. لم تلغ الشريعة الجسد؛ بل علمته الذكر.

ولا يجوز اختزال المسيحية في كراهية المادة، فهي تؤمن بالتجسد والقيامة الجسدية؛ كما أن الإسلام لا يخلو من الزهد والصيام ومجاهدة النفس. إنما الفرق في مواضع التوكيد المتكررة. كثيراً ما رفعت المسيحية البتولية والعزوبة والولادة الروحية فوق التناسل الطبيعي. ولم ينشئ الإسلام كهنوتاً تتوقف طهارته على الامتناع الجنسي الدائم، ولا سراً يجعل الزواج غير قابل للحل. يستطيع وليه أن يصوم من غير أن يعبد الجوع، وأن يتزوج من غير أن يسقط عن الولاية، وأن يلتذ بالحلال من غير أن يجعل اللذة حاكمة، وأن يغسل جسده من غير أن يعتذر عن امتلاكه.

ولم تحتج الاستعارة القديمة إلا إلى عالم منظور كي تتجسد. كان الهاجري في الجدال الوسيط جسدانياً لأن دينه بقي متعلقاً بالشريعة والنسل والوعد الأرضي؛ ثم اكتسبت هذه المعاني في الخيال الأوروبي الحديث المبكر ستائر وخصياناً ووسائد وزوجات وجواري. أعطى اللاهوت التهمة، وأعطاها الحريم مسرحها.

جعلت «الرسائل الفارسية» لمونتسكيو هذا المسرح سياسياً. يدير أوزبك زوجاته بالخصيان والمنع والرسائل والخوف، فيصير البيت استبداداً مصغراً: فالطاغية الذي يطلب الطاعة من الرعية يطلب امتلاك النساء أيضاً، ثم يكتشف في المجالين أن القهر قد ينتج نظاماً ظاهراً لكنه لا يصنع الوفاء. يصير السراي حجة في الحكم، ويصير الحكم حجة في الجنس.

ثم صار الحريم إحدى الحجرات المحببة في أوروبا، مع أن قلة من الرسامين الأوروبيين دخلوه. تقدم لوحة دولاكروا «نساء الجزائر في مسكنهن»، المرسومة بعد رحلته إلى شمال أفريقيا سنة 1832، فضاء من السجاد والحرير والوسائد والحلي والدخان. وهي أدق من كثير مما جاء بعدها، ومع ذلك فقد نُقلت الحجرة المسلمة المستورة إلى ملكية العين الأوروبية: صارت الخصوصية متاحة للنظر الأجنبي.

أما إنغر فلم يحتج إلى سفر. تجمع «الحمام التركي» دويرة من النساء العاريات في داخل مستحيل استُخلص من كتب الرحلات ومخزون الخيال. ولا يظهر رجل مسلم لأن المشاهد الأوروبي احتل مكانه. ثم أتقن جان ليون جيروم الصيغة في حماماته وأسواق رقيقه ومشاهده المنزلية، حيث ادعت الأسطح المصقولة صدق الإثنوغرافيا بينما رتبت الأجساد المسلمة للمتعة الأوروبية. عُرِّيت المرأة المسلمة لتصير موضوعاً جنسياً، ثم استُدعيت عُرياً دليلاً على فساد المسلم الجنسي. نزعت أوروبا ثوبها كي تتهم التركي بالشهوة.

إنهم في الشرق بالغو التشدد،

والزواج والقفل عندهم سواء؛

غير أن القفل إذا فُتح مرة

لم يعد إلى إطاره كما كان؛

كالخمر إذا ثُقب إناؤها ففسدت،

لكن اللوم على تعددهم؛

فلِمَ لا يعجنون روحين فاضلتين مدى الحياة

في ذلك القنطور الأخلاقي: الرجل وزوجه؟

— لورد بايرون، «دون جوان»، النشيد الخامس، المقطع 158

وفي أوج الإمبراطورية تحولت اللوحة المتخيلة إلى حكم إداري. جعل اللورد كرومر حال المرأة المصرية دليلاً على عجز الإسلام الحضاري، مع أنه عارض الحركة النسوية المنظمة في بريطانيا. وجمعت كتابات التبشير والاستعمار الرق والتسري وتعدد الزوجات والحجاب والطلاق وما سمي انحطاط المرأة في لائحة اتهام واحدة. ولم يعد البيت المسلم مؤسسة تاريخية مركبة، بل صار معروضاً أخلاقياً في متحف الإمبراطورية.

ولم يكن أنفذ إنجاز للإمبراطورية أن تدين ذلك البيت من الخارج، بل أن تعلم المسلمين أن يدخلوا الصورة ويحاكموا أنفسهم من موضع المتفرج. لما صار الحريم شعاراً للفشل الحضاري، لم يعد الإصلاح تصحيحاً للظلم فحسب، بل صار تغييراً لهيئة المسلم أمام العين الأوروبية. وجب أن يقل تعدد البيت، وأن تختفي الرغبة، وأن تفقد الرجولة زينتها.

جعل قاسم أمين الأسرة المصرية امتحاناً للتقدم الوطني. وشدد تفسير محمد عبده المؤثر لآيات التعدد على مشقة العدل، وأسهم في تحويل إباحة فقهية عادية إلى مؤسسة مطالبة دائماً بالدفاع عن وجودها. ثم قدم الحداثيون التعدد على أنه تدبير استثنائي لأرامل الحروب أو العقم أو المرض أو الاختلال السكاني. ولم يعد انجذاب الرجل العادي إلى امرأة أخرى حقيقة بشرية تكفي في نفسها؛ بل صار على الرغبة أن تحمل عذراً إنسانياً قبل أن تسكن إباحة إلهية.

واجه هؤلاء المصلحون مظالم حقيقية. أساء رجال استعمال الرخص من غير أن يقوموا بالواجبات، فتأذت النساء والأطفال. لكن أوروبا كانت قد رتبت الأسئلة نفسها. وبدلاً من رفض الأنثروبولوجيا الكامنة خلف الاتهام، أخذ المصلحون يثبتون أن الإسلام سبق إلى نتائج الأخلاق المنزلية الأوروبية المستنيرة.

بُرِّئ العالم الإسلامي بشرط أن يشبه المدعي عليه.

المعطف الأسود والحديقة الصامتة

لا يمكن لحضارة أن تُعلَّم الحرج من شهواتها من غير أن تستحي في النهاية من علاماتها الظاهرة. صار اللون والعطر والنعومة والزينة والثوب المنساب عرضة للريبة نفسها التي أحاطت بالبيت الواسع. لم يكن إصلاح الزواج وإصلاح لباس الرجال مساراً واحداً، لكنهما أجابا طلباً واحداً جديداً: أن يبدو الرجل المسلم منضبطاً ونافعاً وقابلاً للإدارة.

انظر إلى لوحة بيشتر «جهانغير يفضل شيخاً صوفياً على الملوك». يجلس الإمبراطور المغولي فوق ساعة رملية، تحيط به الشمس والهلال، وعليه رداء دقيق النقوش تتدلى فوق صدره عقود اللؤلؤ. يقف أمامه سلطان عثماني والملك جيمس الأول والرسام نفسه، لكنه يميل إلى الصوفي. لا ينقض البذخ القداسة. جواهر الإمبراطور لا تمنعه من توقير الولي، ومنزلة الولي لا تستلزم أن يُطلى الكون بالرماد.

لا تعرف المنمنمة المغولية خرافة الحداثة القائلة إن الجدية لا لون لها. وكذلك صورة فتح علي شاه القاجاري التي رسمها مهر علي: يجلس السلطان تحت تاج وريشة مرصعين، ورداؤه مكتظ باللؤلؤ والتطريز والوفرة الاحتفالية. قد تبدو الصورة للعين الحديثة مسرحية، بل حسية، لكنها أعلنت للمتلقين الأوائل سيادة رجولية. لم يخلط أحد بين الزينة والضعف.

وتكشف مشاهد جان باتيست فان مور للبلاط العثماني الثقة نفسها. ففي مجلس سفير هولندا كورنيليس كالكوين مع السلطان أحمد الثالث يظهر البلاط بالأحمر والأخضر والزعفراني والأبيض والذهب والفراء؛ ترتفع العمائم كأنها عمارة، وتنحدر الأثواب في مساحات مضيئة. ويبدو الأوروبيون إلى جانبهم كأنهم محبوسون داخل مكاتب قاتمة لبسوها على أجسادهم.

وبعد قرن تتيح صور «الأخوين عبد الله» أن نشاهد انكماش الهيئة: يصير الرداء معطفاً، والعمامة طربوشاً، والطبقات زياً موحداً. يضيق جسد النظام القديم بينما تتسع البيروقراطية.

وسمى جون كارل فلوغل لاحقاً تخلي الرجال الأوروبيين عن الزينة «التنازل الذكوري الكبير». ترك الرجل البرجوازي اللون والجمال والاستعراض واختار المنفعة والوقار. صار القماش الأسود قضية أخلاقية؛ وكان المعطف يعظ بالانضباط قبل أن يفتح لابسه فمه. وانتقل هذا التنازل عبر المدارس الاستعمارية والثكنات والمحاكم والسكك الحديدية والجامعات والبرلمانات وجمعيات الإصلاح. واتخذ رجال مسلمون قاوموا أوروبا سياسياً هيئتها، إذ لا تُقلَّد حضارة بكفاءة أكبر من أولئك الذين يظنون أنهم استعاروا أدواتها فقط.

يظهر محمد علي جناح أمام الكاميرا بوقفة المحامي الإمبراطوري ونحوله المعماري تقريباً. ويبدو أبو الأعلى المودودي، مع لباسه الجنوب آسيوي، محاطاً بالقماش القاتم والياقة المغلقة والوجه الممسك. ومن السخف استنباط العقائد من الخياطة، لكن الثياب اعترافات بلا كلام.

بين رداء جهانغير ومعطف المصلح المزّرر ثورة في المعاملة الأخلاقية للجسد. والمناخ الذي علّم الرجال أن يشكوا في اللون علّمهم أن يشكوا في الشهوة. المعطف الأسود وتوأم الروح ابنا طقس واحد.

لكن الرداء لم يكن إلا أول ما تُرك. الأخطر كان انحسار الصراحة من اللغة التي تكلم بها المسلمون عن الحب والجمال واللحم. لما لبست الرجولة المحترمة ثوب التحفظ، بدت الكتب القديمة قليلة الأدب—لا لأن حكمها تغير، بل لأن أحفادها غيروا تصورهم لما ينبغي أن تبدو عليه حضارة دينية.

لم تخلط الثقافة الإسلامية القديمة بين العفة والحرج. يبدأ ابن حزم «طوق الحمامة» من أصل تنساه الوقارة الحديثة: «الحب—أعزك الله—أوله هزل وآخره جد، دقت معانيه لجلالتها عن أن توصف، فلا تدرك حقيقتها إلا بالمعاناة». ويذكر عشاقاً أحبوا بالنظر والوصف والحلم والمكاتبة وطول الصحبة. قد يكون الحب نبيلاً أو أحمق، وفياً أو خائناً، متبادلاً أو يائساً؛ وقد يقود إلى الزواج أو يبعد عن الرشد أو لا يفضي إلى شيء. يراقب الفقيه من غير أن يجمّل، ويحكم من غير أن يكذب.

أما الوعظ الحديث فكثيراً ما يعد الناس بأن الحب الحقيقي يبدأ بعد الزواج، كأن العقد يولد المودة وليلة الزفاف تركبها كما يركب الأثاث. يعرف ابن حزم أن الزواج قد يهذب الحب أو يجيبه أو يخيب ظنه أو ينجو بعده أو يأتي متأخراً. لكنه لا يخلق قابلية الإنسان للشوق

ويقدم «ليلى والمجنون» لنظامي شاهداً أشد إحراجاً. يحب قيس ليلى قبل أن تصير زوجة لرجل آخر، فلا يشفيه زواجها ولا ينقل تعلقه إلى غيرها. يصير مجنوناً، يهيم خارج القبيلة والعرف حتى تظهر المحبوبة في كل أفق. أعظم قصة حب في الحضارة الإسلامية ليست احتفالاً بزواج ناجح. إن فشلها في الانتهاء إلى بيت هو شرط عظمتها، لأن الرغبة المحرومة من نهايتها العادية تتسع حتى تصير ميتافيزيقا.

ولج الصوفية هذه القصة لأنهم لم يطلبوا من كل رمز عشقي أن يقدم عقد زواجه. صار إخلاص المجنون صورة لفناء السالك، وصارت غيبة ليلى حجاب المحبوب. والاستعارة لا تقوم إلا على عالم حرفي تستعير منه، ولا تستخرج حضارة أرفع لغتها الروحية من خبرة تعدها نجسة فقط.

ويمضي «سوانح» لأحمد الغزالي في الأرض الخطرة نفسها، حيث يقلب الحب التملك، وتزيد الغيبة الحضور، ولا يختزل المحبوب في الزوج. في الغزل الفارسي تصير الذؤابة شركاً، والخال نقطة سر، واللحظ سيفاً. لا يتوقف حافظ ليثبت صلاح كل محبوب للزواج. وتزدحم حدائق سعدي بالجمال والذكاء والعظة والخطر. ويجعل الرومي أنين الناي أنطولوجيا للفراق.

ويطمئن القارئ الحديث نفسه كثيراً بأن هؤلاء الشعراء كانوا «في الحقيقة» لا يتحدثون إلا عن الله. وهذا الورع كثيراً ما يكون عنفاً لغوياً. فقوتهم الميتافيزيقية تتوقف على بقاء جمال الجسد والشوق الإنساني حقيقيين بما يكفي ليحملا القياس. أمكن لجرح العاشق أن يكون صورة لغربة الروح لأن الثقافة المسلمة لم تمح كرامة الشوق.

ولم تقتصر الصراحة على الشعر. يناقش الغزالي في «كتاب آداب النكاح» النسل ونظام البيت والفتنة والحاجة الجنسية والاستمتاع الحلال من غير أن يجعل الجسد ملحقاً محرجاً بالحياة الروحية. قد تشغل الشهوة العابد، لكن الشهوة المحبوسة قد تشغله أيضاً؛ والحكمة ليست في افتراض طبع واحد للجميع، بل في رد كل طبع إلى قدر عادل.

وتكشف كتب الأدب والطب التي درستها برنيلا ميرن عن ثقافة علمية كانت اللذة والمزاج الجسدي وفنون المباشرة ورغبة المرأة فيها موضوعات مشروعة للمعرفة. لم تكن هذه الكتب بيانات إباحية؛ بقي عالمها الأخلاقي منضبطاً بالقانون والتراتبية والمؤسسات غير المتساوية. لكن كثرتها نفسها تدل على أن الجدية الأخلاقية لم تستلزم الصمت عن الجسد.

وهذا هو المعنى المنسي من عنوان ماغن. قد يكون للجسد فضائل، لا لأن الشهوة سيدة، بل لأن التجسد نفسه يمكن أن يكون ميداناً للتطهر والشكر والحنان والطاعة. العفة حكم الشهوة؛ أما التحفظ المرضي فتزييفها.

وما سماه توماس باور «ثقافة الالتباس» ظهر هنا في القدرة على إبقاء الفروق من غير أن تلغي إمكانيةٌ كل الإمكانات الأخرى: يمكن للحب أن يكون قهرياً من غير أن يبيح الفعل، وللزواج أن يكون جليلاً من غير أن يكون غير قابل للحل، وللذة أن تكون خيراً من غير أن تصير سيدة، وللقصيدة أن تكون غزلية من غير أن تفقد معناها الميتافيزيقي. وضيقت الحداثة هذا الاتساع حين طلبت قراءة واحدة وبيتاً واحداً ونفساً أخلاقية واحدة تصلح للوعظ والتقنين والإدارة.

والتراث الذي يعترف بأن الحب قد يسبق الزواج أو يتجاوزه أو لا يظهر فيه لن يغريه أن يجعل العقد اندماجاً أبدياً بين روحين. وكانت صراحة القدماء في الإيروس مصحوبة بواقعية موازية في الزواج: قد تعمق المودة أو تتيه أو تضعف أو تنتهي، ويبقى القانون ليحكم ما لم يعد الشعور قادراً على حمله.

البيت القابل للحل

لا يصير العقد تافهاً لأنه قابل للحل، كما لا تصير الحياة بلا معنى لأنها تنتهي. عد الإسلام الكلاسيكي الزواج جليلاً من غير أن يتخيله غير قابل للكسر. يثبت النكاح حل الاستمتاع والنسب والنفقة والإرث والحقوق المتبادلة؛ وهو مقدس في التكليف لكنه عقد في صورته، ينعقد بالإيجاب والقبول وينتهي بالموت أو الطلاق أو المخالعة أو التفريق القضائي.

وطورت لاهوتيات الزواج المسيحية خيالاً آخر، يصير فيه الزوجان جسداً واحداً، ويعكس عدم الانحلال وفاء الله. ولم ينشئ الإسلام أنطولوجيا مقابلة. فالقرآن لا يخفي الطلاق في ملحق معيب، بل يفصله: السكن والعدة والشهادة والتحكيم والمتاع وحدود الرجعة وإمكان الزواج بعده. يعرف الوحي أن العاطفة تفشل، فيضع القانون حيث غادر الشعور.

وكثيراً ما يقلب المسلم الحديث هذه الحكمة. يصبح الشعور جوهر الزواج، والدوام برهانه، والطلاق وصمة. لكن القرآن يقول: «وإن يتفرقا يغن الله كلاً من سعته». لا يحمل النص شيئاً من رعب الحداثة من أن ينتهي المعنى والهوية والقيمة الأخلاقية بانتهاء البيت.

ويؤكد التاريخ الاجتماعي بنية القانون. وصف يوسف رابوبورت الطلاق في المجتمع الإسلامي الوسيط بأنه «سهل ومعياري». ولاحظ رونالد جيننغز في سجلات المحاكم العثمانية أن المطلقات والأرامل كن يتزوجن مرة أخرى بانتظام، حتى قال غويتين إن الزواج من جديد كان في بعض الجماعات «شبه تلقائي». لا يجوز تعميم هذه النتائج على كل عصر وبلد، لكنها تكفي لزعزعة أسطورة أن الحضارة المسلمة رأت كل زواج منحل سرّاً محطماً.

وتسجل كتب التراجم زيجات متعددة بالهدوء الذي تسجل به الرحلات والشيوخ. تزوج عالم وطلق وتزوج ثانية وأنجب من أكثر من امرأة أو عاش داخل شبكات قرابة متداخلة، ولم يقطع المؤرخ سيرته ليشخص عجزاً عن الالتزام. ولا يعني هذا أن الطلاق لم يؤلم؛ فالمألوف قد يجرح، وكان الموت شائعاً من غير أن يصير الحزن هيناً. إنما الفرق في رفض تحويل المصيبة إلى إخفاق ميتافيزيقي. كان الزواج يستطيع أن يكون حقيقياً من غير أن يكون أخيراً، وكان الإنسان ينتمي بكرامة إلى أكثر من بيت خلال عمر واحد.

ولم يكن الطلاق الحقيقة الوحيدة التي حجبتها أسطورة الزوج الواحد الدائم. فالبيت قبل الحديث عرف صوراً من الألفة والنسب والانتماء المنزلي لا تلائم هندسة الرومانسية: رجل واحد وامرأة واحدة وعالم عاطفي حصري.

ومن هنا فالجارية شبح في العرس المسلم الحديث. أُخرجت من الذاكرة الأخلاقية حتى صارت دعاوى كاذبة تاريخياً تمر في هيئة مبادئ إسلامية أزلية: أن الجنس الحلال لم يوجد إلا في الزواج، وأن الزوجين الحصريين كانا دائماً مركز الألفة المسلمة الوحيد، وأن كل بيت مشروع اتخذ البنية نفسها.

اعترف الفقه الكلاسيكي بالنكاح وملك اليمين معاً. وإلغاء الرق حقيقة لا رجعة فيها في العالم الأخلاقي الحديث، ولا ينبغي لاستعادة الذاكرة الحضارية أن تصبح غزلاً في ملك الإنسان. لكن الإلغاء لا يبيح النسيان. وكما تقول كيشيا علي بوضوح، كانت الأمة غير المتزوجة حلالاً جنسياً لمالكها. وأياً كان حكم القارئ الحديث على المؤسسة، فلا يمكن حذف مركزيتها التاريخية من غير إعادة كتابة التراث.

ولم تكن الجارية في البيوت القديمة صورة جنسية فحسب، بل خادمة ومغنية وشاعرة وأماً وموضع ثقة وفاعلة في البلاط وواسطة سياسية. وكانت أم الولد تلد أولاداً أحراراً يلحقون بأبيهم. وقد تبلغ القيان درجة عالية من الموسيقى والشعر والظرف والحفظ الأدبي. ولا تمحو مواهبهن عبوديتهن، كما لا تبرر عبوديتهن اختزالهن في أجساد صامتة.

سطح الحريم الاستشراقي هذا العالم فجعل منه لوحة لشهوة الرجل. وكثيراً ما قبل الاعتذار الإسلامي الحديث هذا الاختزال ثم قلب حكمه: بدلاً من استعادة تعقيد البيت أنكر أن البيت المتعدد كان له شأن أصلاً.

وليست الجارية مهمة لأن مؤسستها ينبغي أن تعود، بل لأن اعتياد وجودها قديماً يجعل إسقاط مطلقية الزواج على الماضي مستحيلاً. الماضي ليس أمراً. إنه توبيخ للذاكرة الكاذبة.

ويثير تعدد الزوجات حرجاً مشابهاً ولكنه أقرب، لأنه بخلاف التسري ما زال مباحاً بنص وممكناً في القانون. أباحه الله في نص لا يستطيع مصلح حذفه، ومارسه النبي في تاريخ لا يستطيع مؤمن إنكاره، ونظمه الفقهاء في تراث أوسع من أن يعد هامشاً. ومع ذلك كثيراً ما ينظر إليه الخيال الأخلاقي الحديث بنفور غريزي أشد من نفوره من معاص واضحة.

وكان الحل إبقاء الإباحة مع تفريغها من الشرعية الأخلاقية. يقال إن التعدد لا يحل إلا في الطوارئ: أرامل الحروب أو العقم أو المرض الشديد أو الاختلال السكاني. أما انجذاب الرجل العادي إلى امرأة أخرى فيعد دافعاً أدنى من أن يعتد به. تبقى المؤسسة في الوحي لكنها تحرم من موضع في الطبيعة البشرية، ويؤدي المدافع عن الشريعة الفعل الغريب: يدافع عن إباحة الله بتأكيده أن الرجل المحترم لا يريد استعمالها.

وكان الفقه يسأل غالباً هل يستطيع الزوج النفقة والسكن والقسم والعدل فيما يقدر عليه. ولم يطالبه بإقناع محكمة بأن رغبته نشأت من برنامج إنساني، ولا جعل رضا الزوجة الأولى شرطاً عاماً في صحة العقد الثاني.

ولم يكن ذلك لأن الفقهاء تخيلوا نساء بلا مشاعر. فالغيرة حاضرة في الأدب الإسلامي وفي بيت النبوة. تألمت النساء وفاوضن واشترطن واعترضن وغفرن وطلبن الفراق. لكن الفقيه لم يسلم عادة بأن الألم العاطفي يحول الحلال حراماً.

وتقترب أخلاق الرومانسية الحديثة من المسألة على وجه آخر. لأن الزوجة الأولى قد تعيش الزواج الثاني خيانة، يكتسب التعدد الجو الأخلاقي للزنا. تختلط التعددية الحلال بالخيانة السرية تحت لفظ «الغش»، لأن كليهما ينقض الوصية العليا في الاقتران الحصري. لقد نسخ الضمير الرومانسي حكم الفقيه بصمت.

ويعيد الوعظ الشعبي إنتاج هذا التحول بلغة ألطف. ومن السوقية أن نسمي الدعاة المعاصرين واحداً واحداً، وكثير منهم يقدم نصحاً إنسانياً ضد القسوة والإهمال والبلادة العاطفية. لكن أكثر المقاطع تداولاً تتحدث عن أن «يُرى» المرء، وأن يجد «أفضل أصدقائه»، وأن يكمل كل من الزوجين سكينة الآخر، وأن يكتشف الشخص «المكتوب له» من الله.

قد يرفض توأم الروح عقدياً ويبقى اجتماعياً. الله وحده يكمل المؤمن، لكن زوجاً واحداً دائماً وحصرياً يظل الجواب المتوقع لكل حاجة أرضية تقريباً. لا يخترع الواعظ هذه البنية؛ بل يعمّد بنية يعيش فيها جمهوره أصلاً.

ومتى صارت الإباحة محرجة أخلاقياً، لم تحتج الدولة إلى إلغائها فوراً. تستطيع أن تحيطها بالأسباب والنماذج والتصاريح والجلسات والمخاطر المالية حتى يصير ما تركه الوحي مفتوحاً استثناءً اجتماعياً. يتصلب القلق الأخلاقي في صورة إجراء.

البيت المُدار

يعرّف قانون الزواج الإندونيسي الزواج بأنه رابطة يراد بها إنشاء «أسرة سعيدة ودائمة»، ويجعل الأحادية أصلاً، ويلزم الرجل الذي يريد زوجة أخرى بالحصول على إذن المحكمة وإثبات أسباب محددة وقدرة مالية وضمان العدل، والحصول عادة على «موافقة الزوجة أو الزوجات». وهكذا يصبح رضا الزوجة القائمة—وهو ليس شرطاً عاماً لصحة العقد في الفقه—بوابة يمر بها الزواج قبل أن تعترف به الدولة.

ويعرّف «مدونة الأسرة» المغربية الزواج بأنه «ميثاق تراض وترابط شرعي بين رجل وامرأة على وجه الدوام»، ويخضع التعدد لتقدير القضاء والقدرة المالية و«مبرر موضوعي استثنائي»؛ وإذا طلبت الزوجة القائمة الطلاق فقد يلزم الزوج بإيداع حقوق مالية كبيرة قبل المضي. وتحيل باكستان الزواج الإضافي إلى مجلس تحكيم وتربط المخالفة بعقوبات وتبعات مالية، بينما جرّمت تونس التعدد كلياً. وكما يبين وائل حلاق، لم تكتف الدولة الحديثة بتقنين الشريعة، بل غيرتها حين امتصت قانون الفقيه المتعدد والمتجذر أخلاقياً في نظام موحد من التشريع السيادي والإدارة البيروقراطية.

لا تكتفي الدولة هنا بتسجيل البيت؛ بل تحكم أي رغبة تستحق وجوداً قانونياً. على الزوج أن يشرح دوافع لم يطالبه الفقه بشرحها، وأن يكشف ماله، وأن يسمح للموظفين بالتنبؤ بعدله المقبل، وأن يقدم عقداً بينه وبين امرأة أخرى إلى موافقة أو تحكم من ليس طرفاً فيه. يدخل السلطان البيت لا شاهداً بل وصياً: أبويّة جديدة بلا أب.

وتحول الطلاق بالطريقة نفسها. تزيد النظم الحديثة التسجيل وجلسات الصلح والإشراف القضائي والتعويض والضرر عن الطلاق التعسفي أو قسمة الأموال. وكثير من هذه التدابير يحمي الناس من ظلم حقيقي؛ فلا ينبغي أن يُجمّل الرجل الذي يترك من يعول، أو يخفي زواجاً، أو يمنع المهر، بوصفه حامل التقليد. فرض الفقه واجبات، وكانت المحاكم تنفذها.

لكن القانون الحديث لا يضمن الواجبات فقط. إنه يرتب الحوافز حتى يكون دوام الزواج الأحادي أيسر إدارياً ومالياً من التعدد الحلال أو الفراق. يبدأ الأمر حماية وينتهي تربية. يعلم القانون المواطنين أي زواج ينبغي للناس المحترمين أن يريدوه.

وتتجاوز الدلالة السياسية الزواج. فالبيت الممتد فوضوي في عين الدولة: تتوزع واجباته، ويرعى الأطفالَ الأجداد والعمات والإخوة الأكبر والأقارب والجيران والخدم، ويسكن العاطل عند ذويه، ويبقى الشيخ داخل اقتصاد الأسرة، ويصلح النزاعَ أشخاص لهم سلطة لم تعينها الدولة.

يصعب اختزال هذا البيت في عنوان واحد ودخل واحد وفردين مستقلين وحكاية عاطفية معترف بها رسمياً. أما الأسرة النووية فمقروءة: يمكن عدها وفرض الضرائب عليها وتعليمها وتأمينها ورهنها وإرشادها ومراقبتها ونقلها وحلها.

وحين تضعف القرابة لا تختفي وظائفها بل تنتقل. تصير رعاية الطفل خدمة مشتراة أو مرفقاً عاماً، ورعاية الشيخ مؤسسة، والبطالة طلب إعانة، والنزاع الزوجي مهنة، والتعليم احتكاراً بيروقراطياً، والسكن ديناً فردياً، وحل الخصومة شأن محاكم. تفقد الأسرة قدرتها وتكسب الدولة ولاية. ولا يلزم من ذلك مؤامرة، فالسلطة كثيراً ما تتسع بنتائج لم تخطط لها لجنة.

وما زال يقال للرجل المسلم إنه قوام، مع أن كثيراً من البنى التي كان يمارس فيها القوامة قد أزيلت. عليه أن يعول من أجر تحدده مؤسسات لا يملكها، وأن يشتري مأوى في سوق لم يصممه، وأن يقدم زواجه وطلاقه لقوانين تكتبها مجالس بعيدة، وأن يمثل رموز السلطة الأبوية داخل وحدة اجتماعية أصغر من أن تستقل حقاً.

وكانت الأسرة الممتدة تقيد الرجال كما تعينهم. يستطيع الآباء والإخوة والأعمام والشيوخ والأصهار أن يتدخلوا ويلوموا ويتفاوضوا ويلزموا ويساعدوا. ولا يحرر انحسارها الزوجين من التدخل فحسب، بل يتركهما وحدهما تحت الدولة. يسهل حكم الزوجين المعزولين لأن لا ملجأ لهما سواها.

ولا تضبط الدولة الحديثة الألفة بقوانين الزواج وحدها. قد تمتد الريبة نفسها من التعدد المجسد إلى الموسيقى والرسم واللباس والصوت والجمال العام. وهنا تصبح مفارقة «طالبان القرون الوسطى» كاشفة: فالحركة التي تتخيلها المخيلة بقايا الإسلام القديم تجسد خوفاً حديثاً من الالتباس الجمالي أكثر بكثير من الحضارة الوسيطة التي تحكم مدنها.

تسمى طالبان في العادة «وسطية»، وهذا يكشف جهل من يستعمل الكلمة أكثر مما يكشف الحركة. صار «الوسيط» وعاء يسكب فيه الإنسان الحديث كل ما يراه قاسياً أو شديداً أو غير ليبرالي. ولو دخل وفد من بلاط السلطان حسين بايقرا هرات المعاصرة، لوجد طالبان غريبة ثقافياً بقدر ما نجدها نحن.

لم تكن هرات المتأخرة وسيطة مجتمعاً ليبرالياً، ولم تخل من التراتب والعنف والقانون الديني. لكنها كانت حضارة واثقة بما يكفي لتمنح الجمال معجماً واسعاً. كتب جامي «يوسف وزليخا»، فجعل الجاذبية الجسدية حاملة لمعنى ميتافيزيقي من غير أن تفقد إيروتيتها. ونُسخت قصص نظامي وصُورت، ورعى علي شير نوائي الشعر والموسيقى، وملأ مرسم بهزاد المخطوطات بالحدائق والعشاق والموسيقيين والعمال والأولياء والملوك في ألوان البساتين.

وتقدم لوحة بهزاد «إغواء يوسف» صورة يصعب تخيلها في الحس التطهري الحديث. تقود زليخا يوسف خلال قصر بُني للفتنة، وتغلق الأبواب واحداً بعد آخر حتى تصير العمارة تشريحاً للرغبة. لا تجيز اللوحة فعلها؛ تبقى عفة يوسف مركزها الأخلاقي. لكنها لا تهزم الخطيئة بإنكار قوة الجمال. يصور الرسام الفتنة في غاية الروعة لأن الفضيلة بلا فتنة فراغ لا فضيلة.

أما التطهري فتصير الصورة نفسها عنده موضع ريبة. يبدو تمثيل الجمال إجازة لتملكه، وتصوير الخطر خطراً، ويحتاج الأمان الأخلاقي إلى محو الالتباس. حيث رسم بهزاد القصر الذي تمر فيه العفة، يفضل الرقيب الحديث حائطاً فارغاً.

تنتمي طالبان أقل إلى هرات الوسيطة وأكثر إلى عصر الوزارة والمرسوم والحاجز والهوية والقانون الموحد. ينفذ نظامها بيروقراطياً عبر مؤسسات مركزية تنظم اللباس والحركة والموسيقى والصورة والصوت العام. يصل «الوسيط» المزعوم مع الأوراق.

ولشدتها أنساب كثيرة: تقاليد فقهية بعينها، ومحافظة ريفية، وحرب وتهجير وإحيائية القرن العشرين. ومن الخطأ أن تسمى فيكتورية ببساطة. لكن ريبتها من اللذة الجمالية، ووحدتها القاتمة، وثقتها بأن الفضيلة تحمى بجعل الحياة بلا لون، كلها سمات حديثة. الرجال الذين يُدانون بوصفهم بقايا القرن الخامس عشر كانوا غرباء ثقافياً عن واحدة من أجل مدن العالم الإسلامي في القرن نفسه.

ولا ينبغي الدفاع عن هذه الشدة لأن منتقديها غربيون. أحياناً يرى الناقد الحديث حقاً: قد تخاف مجتمعات مسلمة من الرغبة والجمال والجسد. لكنه يخطئ في الأصل؛ فكثير من هذا التحفظ ليس جوهر الإسلام الثابت، بل ندبة خلّفها اتهام أقدم بالجسدانية.

الاتهام المزدوج والصراط المستقيم

حُوكم المسلم مرتين بجريمتين متناقضتين. اتهمته أوروبا المسيحية القديمة بالشره الجنسي: كثرة الزوجات، وسهولة الطلاق، والصراحة في اللذة، والوعد بالجنات والأزواج الجميلة، ورفض اعتبار العزوبة أعلى مقام. كان ابن هاجر، مولوداً حسب الجسد، قوياً في النسل محروماً من الميراث الروحي.

ويقلب الغرب الحديث التهمة: المسلم يكبت الجنس. يستر الجمال، ويحرس حدود الجنسين، ويحرم الزنا، وينظم الرغبة، ويرفض أن يجعل كل ميل هوية تطالب بالاعتراف العلني.

ولا تناقض في الحقيقة، لأن التهمتين تصدران عن لاهوتين غربيين للرغبة. قاست المسيحية القديمة القداسة بمقدار خضوع الشهوة للعفة والعزوبة والروح. أما الحداثة ما بعد المسيحية فتقيس الحرية بمقدار قدرة الرغبة على أن تحكي نفسها وتحققها بلا قيد موروث. تشك الأولى في الجسد لأنه أدنى من الروح، وتتوجه الثانية لأنه لا يجوز لسلطة أعلى أن تحكمه.

لا يرضي الإسلام أياً من المحكمتين.

لكن من السهل أكثر مما ينبغي أن يقال إن التهمتين باطلتان تماماً. فالناقد الحديث يصيب أحياناً حين يرى كبتاً جنسياً في مجتمعات مسلمة: تعليماً جنسياً مراوغاً، وهلَعاً من الانجذاب، وريبة من الزواج الثاني، وخجلاً من رغبة المرأة، وتشخيصاً أخلاقياً لرغبة الرجل في التعدد. لكنه يخطئ في نسبه. كثير من هذا التحفظ ليس بقايا الوحي كما هي، بل أثر الاتهام القديم بالجسدانية. أُدين المسلم أولاً لأنه مطمئن أكثر مما ينبغي إلى الجسد، فتعلم الحرج منه، ثم أُدين أحفاده على ذلك الحرج نفسه.

ثم يكاد التاريخ يصير جدلياً: تصنف المسيحية الإسلام جسدانياً وحرفياً وهاجرياً؛ فيستبطن المسلمون التهمة ويحاولون إثبات الوقار الروحي؛ فتخفت الإيروس، ويتروحَن الزواج، ويُمرَّض التعدد، ويصير التسري مما لا يذكر، وتؤول الجنة الجسدية؛ ثم تلقى الحداثة ما بعد المسيحية هذه الثقافة فتدينها بالكبت؛ فيجيب المسلم مرة أخرى بترجمة العفة إلى عافية نفسية، والزواج إلى تحقيق للذات، والقانون إلى لغة الرضا العلاجي. في كل مرحلة تحركه التهمة بدلاً من أن يقف آمناً في رؤيته للإنسان والعالم.

ومن ثم لا ينبغي الخلط بين الصراط المستقيم وبين كل موقف يسمى اليوم إسلامياً. المجتمعات المسلمة كائنات تاريخية قد تنحرف إلى الكبت كما تنحرف إلى الانفلات. والصراط ليس متوسطاً حسابياً بين الدير والسوق؛ بل يصدر عن تصور آخر للإنسان.

الجسد مخلوق مكرم مطهر مهذب. والرغبة ليست ذنباً ولا وحياً. إنها قوة ائتمن عليها الإنسان، قادرة على الحنان والنسل والشكر، وقادرة أيضاً على الظلم والهوس والهلاك. لا يثبت المسلم ولايته بانعدام الرغبة، ولا صدقه بطاعة كل رغبة.

ومن هنا ما يبدو تناقضات تحير الناقدين. يمدح الإسلام الصيام ويرفض الرهبانية؛ يحث على الزواج ويجيز الطلاق؛ يكرم العفة من غير أن ينجس الجنس؛ يبيح اللذة من غير أن يجعلها غاية الحياة؛ يعترف بالغيرة من غير أن يجعلها مصدراً للحكم؛ يبيح التعدد من غير أن يأمر به؛ ويعد بنعيم جسدي في الجنة من غير أن يختزل السعادة في الاستهلاك. يتكلم بصراحة عن الرغبة لأنه لا يخافها، ويقيدها لأنه لا يعبدها.

لم يكن الجواب الصحيح للاتهام الوسيط أن الإسلام بلا جسد، ولا الجواب الصحيح للاتهام الحديث أن الإسلام بلا ضبط. الجواب لكليهما أن الإنسان روح متجسدة تكتسب شهواتها الكرامة بالطاعة، لا بالإنكار ولا بالتحرر من كل حد. رأى الجدلي القديم حدائق المسلم فقال إنه لا يعرف إلا التراب. ويرى الناقد الحديث حدوده فيقول إنه يخاف الحياة. وكلاهما يسيء فهم الحديقة: سورها ليس كراهية للزهور، وزهورها ليست تمرداً على السور.

العودة إلى الحديقة

انظر مرة أخرى إلى جهانغير فوق الساعة الرملية: يفرغ الزمن تحته، ويقف الملوك في الانتظار، ويضع الرسام نفسه في الهامش، ويختار الإمبراطور الصوفي. تعرف الصورة أن الدنيا زائلة، لكنها لا تنزع عنها الزينة لذلك؛ لا تبطل الفناء أزهارها، ولا يبطل حضور الولي لآلئها. الجمال ليس سيداً ولا مشتبهاً به؛ يأخذ مرتبته من وقوفه داخل نظام أكبر منه.

لعل هذه هي الحكمة التي فقدناها حين ظننا أن التعالي يحتاج حرباً على اللون، وأن العفة تحتاج صمتاً عن الرغبة، وأن الوفاء يحتاج إنكار التعدد الإنساني، وأن الجدية لا تثبت إلا بجعل كل زواج أبدياً وكل شهوة حلال معتذرة. لم يخلق الله الإنسان ملاكاً فيكتورياً يعاني أحياناً إزعاج الجسد، بل خلقه تراباً قادراً على الذكر: جوعه قد يصير صياماً، وجنسه عفة أو حناناً حلالاً، وغسله عبادة، وفرحه بجمال الخلق شكراً لا امتلاكاً.

تبدأ أخلاق العلاقات الإسلامية من هذه الثنائية، وتمتلك ثقة تكفي لحفظ الفروق من غير حلها في نفي. تكرم الزواج من غير أن تعبد الدوام، وتجيز الطلاق من غير أن تحتفل بالطيش، وتعترف بالغيرة من غير أن تمنحها السيادة التشريعية، وتعترف بالتعدد من غير أن تزعم قدرة كل رجل على العدل، وتتذكر التسري من غير أن ترغب في عودة الرق، وتقر بأن الحب قد يظهر قبل الزواج أو فيه أو بعده أو حيث لا يأتي الزواج أصلاً. وتفهم، مع ثقافة الالتباس القديمة، أن الإباحة ليست أمراً، وأن الشعور ليس حقاً بالضرورة، وأن الحزن لا يثبت ظلماً بالضرورة، وأن النهاية لا تجعل ما انتهى غير حقيقي.

ولا تعيد هذه الأخلاق بناء كل مؤسسة في الماضي، فقد جاور بهاءه القسوة والاستغلال والتراتبية والحماقة؛ لكنها لا تخلط بين النسيان والتقدم الأخلاقي. لا نحتاج إلى العودة إلى البلاط القاجاري أو الحريم العثماني أو القصر المغولي لنتعلم من رفضهم أن ترتدي الفضيلة السواد. نستطيع أن نقرأ ابن حزم من غير أن ندخله قسراً في دورة زواج، ونقرأ نظامي من غير أن نجعل المجنون حالة نفسية، والغزالي من غير أن نخفي صراحته، وماغن من غير أن نفترض العداوة بين الجسد والفضيلة، وباور من غير أن نحول الالتباس نسبية، والقرآن من غير أن نجعل شريعته تعتذر لرومانسيتنا.

وليس واضحاً أن المسلم وحده محتاج إلى هذه الاستعادة. فالحضارة التي حاكمت الإسلام يوماً بوصفه دين الجسد لم تحل نزاعها هي مع التجسد، بل تتأرجح بين ميراثين ناقصين: مسيحية تبقى ذاكرتها الزهدية بعد أن تخفت عقيدتها، وثقافة استهلاك تسوّق الشهوات التي تزعم تحريرها. ويظهر النزاع حتى في الثقافة الشعبية: لا يزال فيلم روبن هاردي «رجل الخوص» (1973) حاضراً بعد أكثر من نصف قرن لأن الرقيب هاوي واللورد سمرآيل ليسا شخصيتين فقط، بل احتمالين روحيين لا تستطيع أوروبا الحديثة أن تسكن أياً منهما كاملاً. يمثل هاوي إيماناً تصلب ضد العالم الحسي، ويمثل سمرآيل شيئاً أقرب إلى حضارة شبنغلر الأبولونية المحدودة والمنظورة والطقسية. لكن شدة هاوي صارت غير مفهومة ثقافياً، ولا يحتفظ دين الخصوبة عند سمرآيل بسحره إلا بالخداع والذبح، تحت شك متزايد في أن أياً منهما سيعيد الحصاد. وبينهما حضارة فقدت الثقة في الزهد والفرح معاً.

فماذا يمكن أن تعني استعادة المسلم لحياة دينية متجسدة خارج العالم الإسلامي؟ وهل يحفظ الدين الذي أُدين يوماً بالجسدانية فرقاً عجزت أوروبا مراراً عن حفظه: أن يكرم الجسد من غير أن يعرش، وأن تعترف الرغبة من غير أن تسود، وأن تهذب اللذة من غير أن تحتقر؟ لا يطلب الإسلام من الإنسان أن يقل تجسده، ولا يعلمه أن يساوي نفسه بالشهوة. بالوضوء والصيام والزواج والعفة والسجود لا يُهرب من الجسد ولا يُعبد، بل يُربى على الذكر. وهل يستطيع الإنسان الحديث أن يرى في هذا حرية لا قمعاً، وهل يستطيع المسلمون استعادته من غير أن يترجموه مرة أخرى إلى لغة خصومهم، سؤالان مفتوحان.

لم يكن الصالون الفيكتوري بيتنا الأول. وراء ستائره ميراث آخر: حديقة يحدها القانون لكنها حية بالألوان، تعرف الشوق والفقد، واقعية في الشهوة، لا تخاف الزواج بعد الطلاق، وقادرة على التمييز بين الذنب والحزن، والإباحة والحكمة، والضبط والعار، والوحدة والتشابه. لا يلزم أن نصير تلك الحديقة كما كانت تماماً؛ يكفينا أن نستعيد من ثقتها ما يسمح لنا بدخول مصادرنا من غير أن نتعلم رؤية هاجر بعين من أخرجها من العهد، وأن ندرك أن السور لم يُبن قط لأن الله يكره الزهور.

The conquered man does not first lose his land. He loses the innocence of his own customs.

A foreigner laughs at his robe, and presently he finds it gaudy; a missionary condemns his household, and soon he is explaining it; a magistrate calls his marriage barbarous, and before long he has discovered that the magistrate’s marriage was intended by the Qurʾān all along. Empire is perfected not when the native obeys the foreigner—for obedience may conceal resentment—but when he learns to inspect himself with foreign eyes and mistakes the resulting discomfort for conscience.

The nineteenth-century European looked eastward and saw an excess of life. The Turk had too many garments, too many colours, too many wives, too many perfumes, too ready a divorce, too visible an appetite. His rulers sat in brocade; his poets spoke without embarrassment of cheeks, curls, waists, wine, longing and the tyranny of beautiful eyes; even his saints borrowed the language of lovers, as though the road to heaven passed through the bewilderments of the flesh. Europe, which had made a virtue of the stiff collar and was learning to make a sacrament of domestic permanence, diagnosed all this amplitude as disease.

The diagnosis outlived the doctor. The respectable Muslim man came gradually to resemble the Protestant clerk: soberly dressed, economically useful, sexually apologetic, enclosed within a small domestic unit, and trained to regard every desire not answered by his wife as evidence of inward disorder. He might cite the Sharīʿah, but his moral imagination had often been furnished elsewhere; his parlour was Victorian even when a muṣḥaf rested upon the shelf.

It would nevertheless be foolish to say that Muslims simply became Christians. Theology does not travel so neatly, and the Muslim who recoils from polygyny or considers divorce a personal catastrophe may remain perfectly orthodox in creed and worship. What travelled was subtler: a moral grammar concerning flesh and spirit, inwardness and law, marriage and permanence, romantic exclusivity and respectable manhood. This grammar was formed partly within Christian theology, partly within the bourgeois household that succeeded it, and partly within the therapeutic individualism of the post-Christian West. It entered Muslim societies through missionary criticism, colonial schools, translated novels, modern courts, cameras, barristers, bureaucrats and, eventually, the luminous screens upon which religion now learns to speak in captions.

The resulting marriage has acquired an almost sacramental mythology. It is imagined as a permanent and exclusive fusion of two inward selves: the one chamber in which love becomes legitimate, desire becomes noble and loneliness finally receives its answer. Husband and wife must be lovers, companions, confidants, therapists, co-parents, economic partners, spiritual friends and witnesses to one another’s private becoming. They must discover in a single person what an older society distributed among kin, household, neighbourhood, friendship, mosque, guild and clan.

Marriage has expanded into a civilisation precisely as the family has contracted into a couple.

Its ideal citizen is the soulmate: the one creature written uniquely for another, the missing half, the singular earthly answer prepared by Providence. It is a pleasant doctrine, and many falsehoods arrive as compliments. For if one soul is the exclusive completion of another, then a second attachment becomes not merely imprudent but metaphysically treacherous; divorce becomes evidence that destiny has failed, or that we have failed destiny; and duration becomes the measure of truth, so that a marriage lasting fifty years is praised even when sustained by fear, while one lasting five may be judged a failure despite having produced tenderness, lawful companionship, children and an honourable release.

The Qurʾān possesses no such sentimentality. It speaks of affection and mercy, but also of discord, arbitration, waiting periods, separation, remarriage and the possibility that God may enrich both parties after they part. Its realism is too spacious for the modern romance. “Either retain them honourably or release them graciously”: there is more civilisation in that sentence than in a thousand wedding sermons about two souls becoming one.

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The child of Hagar and the chambers of the Turk

The European accusation of Muslim carnality did not begin with the Orientalist painter. Before there was the harem of Ingres, there was the tent of Hagar.

In the Epistle to the Galatians, Abraham’s household is divided into two genealogies. Ishmael, born to the enslaved Hagar, is the child “according to the flesh”; Isaac, born to Sarah, is the child “through the promise.” Hagar corresponds to Sinai, bondage and the present Jerusalem, while Sarah signifies freedom and the Jerusalem above. Paul was not writing of Muslims, who would not enter history for six centuries, but he had fashioned a grammar into which they could later be placed.

When Christian writers identified Arabs and Muslims as Ishmaelites or Hagarenes, genealogy became theology. The Muslim was Abrahamic according to natural descent but excluded from spiritual inheritance: near enough to sacred history to be judged by it, yet denied its fulfilment. His revelation appeared as a return from grace to law; his ablutions, circumcision, fasting and prostrations as bodily observances; his military power as the triumph of an earthly city; his prolific households as fertility without election; his Paradise as the final confession of a religion unable to imagine blessedness without appetite.

Law and sensuality, which appear contradictory to the modern mind, belonged together in this polemic. Both were signs of the carnal man. The Muslim obeyed through the body and expected reward through the body; he washed limbs, avoided foods, married women, fathered children, bowed towards a terrestrial sanctuary and imagined gardens, shade, fruit, drink and beautiful companions. Christianity claimed spirit, promise, inwardness and heavenly Jerusalem; Islam inherited flesh, letter, generation and earth.

The accusation was powerful because it placed every Islamic virtue beneath an alien description. Ritual exactitude became literalism; fertility became concupiscence; marriage became indulgence; the refusal of monasticism became spiritual incapacity; bodily resurrection and the delights of Paradise became evidence that the Muslim could not escape flesh even in heaven. The ḥūr al-ʿayn were not incidental ornaments in this indictment. They were proof that Muḥammad could promise his followers only what carnal men already desired.

Yet this judgement may reveal less about Islamic anthropology than about the tribunal before which Islam was summoned. Zeʾev Maghen’s phrase, “the virtues of the flesh,” names precisely what the polemic could not comprehend. Early Muslim jurisprudence did not generally regard holiness as an escape from embodiment. The body washed because purity mattered, fasted because appetite required discipline, married because desire and generation belonged to the divine ordering of life, and prostrated because flesh itself could become obedient. The law did not abolish the body. It taught the body remembrance.

Christianity itself cannot be reduced to hatred of matter, for it proclaims Incarnation and bodily resurrection; nor is Islam without asceticism, fasting or struggle against the lower self. The difference lies in recurrent emphases. Christian perfection often granted a higher rank to virginity, celibacy and spiritual rebirth over natural generation. Islam created no priesthood whose purity depended upon permanent sexual abstinence, and no sacrament by which marriage became indissoluble. Its saint might fast without worshipping hunger, marry without falling from sanctity, take lawful pleasure without making pleasure sovereign, and wash the body without apologising for possessing one.

The old allegory required only a visible world in which to appear. In the medieval disputation the Hagarene was carnal because his religion remained bound to law, generation and earthly promise; in the early modern European imagination these abstractions acquired curtains, eunuchs, cushions, wives and concubines. Theology furnished the accusation, and the harem supplied its scenery.

Montesquieu’s Persian Letters made that scenery political. Usbek governs his wives through eunuchs, prohibitions, letters and fear, and the household becomes a miniature despotism: the tyrant who demands obedience from subjects also demands possession of women, discovering in both realms that domination may compel outward order but cannot manufacture fidelity. The seraglio becomes an argument about government, while government becomes an argument about sex.

The harem thereafter became one of Europe’s favourite rooms, though few European painters had entered one. Eugène Delacroix’s Women of Algiers in Their Apartment, painted after his North African journey of 1832, offers an interior of carpets, silk, cushions, jewellery and smoke. The work is subtler than many fantasies that followed it, yet the secluded Muslim room has already been transferred into European possession: privacy made available to the foreign eye.

Ingres needed no journey. His Turkish Bath, completed in 1862, gathers a circular multitude of nude women into an impossible interior distilled from travel accounts and the inexhaustible resources of fantasy. No Muslim man appears because the European spectator has occupied his place. Jean-Léon Gérôme perfected the arrangement in repeated bathhouses, slave markets and domestic scenes whose polished surfaces announced ethnographic truth while arranging Muslim bodies for European pleasure. The Muslim woman was painted as a sexual object and then invoked as evidence of Muslim sexual degeneracy. Europe undressed her in order to accuse the Turk of lust.

By the high age of empire, the painted fantasy had hardened into administrative judgement. Lord Cromer treated the condition of Egyptian women as evidence of Islam’s civilisational failure, even while opposing organised feminism in Britain. Missionary literature gathered slavery, concubinage, polygyny, seclusion, divorce and women’s supposed degradation into a single indictment. The Muslim household ceased to be a complex historical institution and became a moral exhibit in the imperial museum.

Empire’s most lasting achievement was not to condemn this household from outside, but to teach Muslims to enter the painted room and judge themselves from the spectator’s position. Once the harem had become an emblem of civilisational failure, reform required more than correcting cruelty; it required altering the Muslim’s appearance before the European eye. The household had to become less plural, desire less visible and manhood less ornate.

Qāsim Amīn made the Egyptian family a test of national progress. Muḥammad ʿAbduh’s influential treatment of the polygyny verses emphasised the difficulty of justice and helped transform an ordinary juristic permission into an institution that must continually defend its existence. Later modernists presented plural marriage as an emergency arrangement for war widows, infertility or social crisis. The ordinary man’s ordinary attraction to another woman could no longer be admitted as a sufficient human reality; desire required a humanitarian alibi before it might inhabit a divine permission.

These reformers confronted genuine injustice. Legal permissions were abused by men unwilling to bear legal responsibilities, and women and children often suffered. Yet the questions themselves had been arranged by Europe. Rather than reject the anthropology behind the accusation, reformers increasingly argued that Islam had anticipated the conclusions of enlightened European domestic morality.

The Muslim world was acquitted on condition that it resembled its prosecutor.

The black coat and the silenced garden

A civilisation cannot be taught embarrassment before its appetites without eventually becoming embarrassed by their outward signs. Colour, perfume, softness, ornament and flowing cloth all became vulnerable to the same suspicion now directed at the expansive household. The reform of marriage and the reform of masculine dress were not identical processes, but they answered to the same new demand: the Muslim man must appear disciplined, useful and governable.

Consider Bichitr’s Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Shaikh to Kings. The Mughal emperor sits upon an hourglass, framed by sun and crescent, clothed in a delicately patterned robe, ropes of pearls descending across his breast. Before him stand an Ottoman ruler, King James I and the painter himself; yet Jahangir inclines towards the Sufi. Splendour does not refute sanctity. The emperor’s jewels do not prevent him from honouring the saint, and the saint’s rank does not require the universe to be painted grey.

The Mughal miniature does not know the modern superstition that seriousness must be colourless. Nor does Mihr ʿAlī’s great portrait of Fatḥ ʿAlī Shah Qajar, in which the sovereign sits beneath a crown and aigrette blazing with gems, his robe dense with pearls, embroidery and ceremonial abundance. To the modern eye the image may appear theatrical, almost sensual; to its first viewers it announced masculine sovereignty. No one mistook ornament for weakness.

Jean-Baptiste Vanmour’s scenes of Ottoman diplomatic ceremony reveal the same confidence. In his depiction of Cornelis Calkoen’s audience with Sultan Ahmed III, the court appears in crimson, green, saffron, white, gold and fur; turbans rise like architecture and robes descend in luminous planes. The Europeans beside them seem trapped inside dark offices worn upon the body.

A century later, the photographs of the Abdullah Frères allow us to watch the silhouette contract. Robe becomes coat, turban becomes fez, layered cloth becomes uniform. The body of the old order grows narrower while the bureaucracy grows wider.

John Carl Flügel later named Europe’s abandonment of male ornament the “Great Masculine Renunciation.” The bourgeois man surrendered colour, beauty and display, choosing usefulness and sobriety instead. Black cloth became an ethical proposition; the coat preached discipline before its wearer opened his mouth. This renunciation travelled through colonial schools, barracks, courts, railway offices, universities, parliaments and reform societies. Muslim men who resisted Europe politically adopted its outline, for no civilisation is copied more efficiently than by those who believe they have borrowed only its instruments.

Muhammad Ali Jinnah appears before the camera with the controlled posture and almost architectural thinness of the imperial barrister. Abul Aʿlā Mawdūdī, although dressed in a recognisably South Asian manner, is similarly enclosed: sombre cloth, closed collar, restrained expression. It would be foolish to infer theology from tailoring, yet garments are confessions made without speech.

Between Jahangir’s robe and the reformer’s buttoned coat lies a revolution in the moral treatment of the body. The same climate that taught men to distrust colour taught them to distrust appetite. The black coat and the soulmate belong to the same weather.

Yet the robe was merely the outermost thing surrendered. More consequential was the retreat of candour from the language in which Muslims spoke of love, beauty and flesh. Once masculine dignity had clothed itself in restraint, the old books began to look indecorous—not because their law had changed, but because their descendants had changed their sense of what a religious civilisation ought to sound like.

The premodern Muslim tradition did not mistake chastity for embarrassment. Ibn Ḥazm begins The Ring of the Dove from a premise modern respectability often forgets: “Love is neither disapproved by Religion, nor prohibited by the Law; for every heart is in God’s hands.” His lovers fall in love by sight, by description, by dreams, by correspondence and through long acquaintance. Love may be noble, foolish, faithful, treacherous, reciprocated or hopeless. It may lead towards marriage, away from prudence or nowhere at all. The jurist observes without sentimentalising and judges without falsifying.

Modern preaching frequently promises that love properly begins after marriage, as though the contract produces affection and the wedding night installs it like furniture. Ibn Ḥazm knows that marriage may discipline love, answer it, disappoint it, survive it or arrive too late. It does not create the human capacity for longing.

Niẓāmī’s Laylā and Majnūn offers an even more inconvenient witness. Qays loves Laylā before she becomes another man’s wife; her marriage neither cures him nor transfers his attachment elsewhere. He becomes Majnūn, wandering beyond tribe and convention until the beloved appears in every horizon. The greatest romance of Muslim civilisation is not a celebration of successful marriage. Its failure to culminate in a household is the condition of its magnitude, for desire denied its ordinary conclusion grows vast enough to become metaphysics.

Sufis inhabited this story because they did not require every erotic symbol to submit its marriage certificate. Majnūn’s single-mindedness became an image of the seeker’s annihilation; Laylā’s absence became the veil of the Beloved. Allegory requires a literal world from which to borrow, and no civilisation draws its highest spiritual vocabulary from an experience it considers merely filthy.

Aḥmad al-Ghazālī’s Sawāniḥ moves through the same dangerous territory, where love overturns possession, absence intensifies presence and the beloved cannot be reduced to the spouse. In Persian lyric poetry the curl becomes a snare, the mole a point of mystery, the glance a sword. Ḥāfiẓ does not pause to establish whether every beloved is matrimonially suitable. Saʿdī’s gardens remain crowded with beauty, wit, admonition and danger. Rūmī turns the reed’s lament into an ontology of separation.

The modern reader often reassures himself that these poets were “really” speaking only of God. This piety is frequently philological violence. Their metaphysical power depends upon bodily beauty and human longing remaining real enough to bear the analogy. The lover’s wound could become an image of the soul’s exile because Muslim culture had not abolished the dignity of longing.

Nor was such frankness confined to poetry. Al-Ghazālī’s Book of Marriage discusses procreation, household order, temptation, sexual need and lawful satisfaction without treating the body as an embarrassing appendix to spiritual life. Desire may distract the worshipper, but frustrated desire may also distract him; wisdom lies not in declaring every temperament identical but in bringing each under a just measure.

The Arabic erotic and medical traditions studied by Pernilla Myrne reveal a learned culture in which pleasure, bodily temperament, technique and women’s desire could be legitimate objects of knowledge. These works were not libertine manifestos. Their moral world remained structured by law, hierarchy and unequal institutions. Yet their very abundance demonstrates that moral seriousness did not require silence about the body.

This is the forgotten meaning of Maghen’s title. The flesh may possess virtues, not because appetite is sovereign, but because embodiment itself can become the field of purification, gratitude, tenderness and obedience. Chastity is the government of desire; prudery is its falsification.

What Thomas Bauer calls Islam’s “culture of ambiguity” was visible here as a capacity to preserve distinctions without demanding that one possibility abolish all others: love could be involuntary without licensing conduct, marriage solemn without being indissoluble, pleasure good without becoming sovereign, and a poem erotic without ceasing to bear metaphysical meaning. Modernity’s demand for a single authorised reading, household and moral psychology narrowed this amplitude into systems that could be preached, codified and administered.

A tradition willing to admit that love may precede marriage, exceed it or fail to appear within it will also be less tempted to make the marriage contract an eternal fusion of souls. The older candour about eros was accompanied by a corresponding realism about marriage: affection could deepen, wander, diminish or end, while law remained to govern what sentiment could no longer sustain.

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The dissoluble household

A contract does not become trivial because it can be dissolved, any more than a life becomes meaningless because it will end. Classical Islam regarded marriage as solemn without imagining it as indestructible. Nikāḥ establishes lawful intimacy, lineage, maintenance, inheritance and reciprocal rights; it is sacred in obligation but contractual in form, entered through offer and acceptance and capable of ending through death, repudiation, mutual agreement or judicial dissolution.

Christian sacramental theology developed another imagination, in which husband and wife become one flesh and indissolubility reflects divine fidelity. Islam produced no equivalent ontology. The Qurʾān does not hide divorce in a shameful appendix but legislates it in detail: residence, waiting periods, witnesses, arbitration, provision, restrictions upon return and permission to remarry. Revelation knows that sentiment fails and therefore places law where feeling has departed.

The modern Muslim often reverses this wisdom. Feeling becomes the essence of marriage, duration its proof and divorce a moral stain. Yet the Qurʾān says: “If they separate, God will enrich each of them from His abundance.” The verse contains none of the modern terror that meaning, identity and moral worth must end with the household.

The social history confirms the legal architecture. Yossef Rapoport describes divorce in medieval Islamic society as “easy and normative.” Ronald Jennings observed in Ottoman records that “divorcees and widows regularly remarried”; Goitein could say that remarriage was “almost automatic” in some communities. These conclusions must not be universalised across every century and region, but they are sufficient to disturb the myth that Muslim civilisation always regarded the dissolved marriage as a ruined sacrament.

Biographical dictionaries record several marriages with the composure with which they record journeys or teachers. A scholar married, divorced, remarried, fathered children by more than one woman, or inhabited overlapping networks of kinship, and the chronicler did not invariably interrupt the life to diagnose an incapacity for commitment. This does not mean divorce was painless; ordinary things may wound, and death was common without grief becoming insignificant. The difference lies in the refusal to turn misfortune into metaphysical failure. A marriage could be real without being final. Human beings could belong honourably to more than one household across a lifetime.

Divorce was not the only fact concealed by the modern myth of the singular and permanent pair. The premodern household itself admitted forms of intimacy, descent and domestic belonging that no longer fit the romantic architecture of one man, one woman and one exclusive emotional world.

The jāriyah is therefore the ghost at the modern Muslim wedding. She has been expelled from moral memory so completely that historically false claims now pass as timeless Islamic principle: that lawful sexuality has always existed only within marriage, that the exclusive conjugal pair has always formed the sole centre of Muslim intimacy, and that every legitimate household possessed the same structure.

Classical law recognised both nikāḥ and milk al-yamīn. The abolition of slavery is an irreversible fact of the modern moral world, and no recovery of civilisational memory should become a romance of human ownership. But abolition does not authorise amnesia. As Kecia Ali states plainly, unmarried slave women were sexually lawful to their male owners. Whatever judgement the modern reader makes of that institution, its historical centrality cannot be removed without rewriting the tradition.

The jāriyah belonged to premodern households not only as an erotic figure but as servant, musician, poet, mother, confidante, courtly performer and political intermediary. The umm walad bore free children acknowledged through their father. Enslaved singing women could possess extraordinary mastery of music, poetry, wit and literary memory. Their accomplishments do not erase their unfreedom, and their unfreedom does not justify reducing them to mute objects.

The Orientalist harem flattened this world into a tableau of male appetite. Modern Muslim apologetics often accepted the simplification while reversing its moral sign: instead of recovering the household’s complexity, it denied that the household had ever mattered.

The jāriyah is important not because her institution should return, but because her former normality makes marriage absolutism impossible to project backwards. The past is not a command. It is a rebuke to false memory.

Polygyny presents a similar but more immediate embarrassment, because unlike concubinage it remains textually permitted and legally imaginable. God permits it in a text no reformer can remove; the Prophet practised it in a history no believer can disown; classical jurists regulate it through traditions too extensive to dismiss as marginal. Yet the modern moral imagination frequently regards it with an instinctive disgust more powerful than its response to many unambiguous sins.

The solution has been to preserve the permission while emptying it of moral legitimacy. Polygyny is said to be lawful only in emergencies: war widows, infertility, grave illness, demographic imbalance. The ordinary man’s ordinary attraction to another woman is judged too base to qualify. The institution remains in revelation but is denied residence in human nature, and the defender of the Sharīʿah performs the strange feat of defending God’s permission by assuring his audience that no decent man would wish to use it.

Classical law generally asked whether the husband could provide maintenance, housing, time and justice in matters within human control. It did not require him to persuade a tribunal that his desire arose from a humanitarian programme. Nor did it make his first wife’s consent a universal condition of the second contract’s validity.

This was not because jurists imagined women without feeling. Jealousy appears throughout Islamic literature and within the Prophetic household itself. Women suffered, negotiated, stipulated, resisted, forgave and sought separation. What the jurist did not generally concede was that emotional pain transforms the lawful into the unlawful.

Modern romantic ethics approaches the matter differently. Because a first wife may experience a second marriage as betrayal, the second marriage acquires the moral atmosphere of adultery. Lawful plurality and illicit secrecy merge within the language of “cheating,” since both violate the higher commandment of exclusive pair-bonding. The romantic conscience has silently overruled the jurist.

Popular preaching often reproduces this development in a gentler idiom. It would be vulgar to arraign contemporary speakers by name, many of whom offer humane counsel against cruelty, neglect and emotional illiteracy. Yet the most shareable fragments of Muslim pastoral discourse increasingly speak of being “seen,” finding one’s “best friend,” completing one another’s peace and discovering the person divinely “written” for oneself.

The soulmate may be rejected as theology while preserved as sociology. God alone completes the believer, yet one permanent and exclusive spouse remains the expected answer to nearly every earthly need. The preacher does not invent this structure; he baptises one his audience already inhabits.

Once a permission has become morally embarrassing, the state need not abolish it immediately. It can surround it with reasons, forms, permissions, hearings and financial hazards until what revelation leaves open becomes socially exceptional. Moral unease hardens into procedure.

The administered household

Indonesia’s Marriage Law defines marriage as a bond intended to form “a happy and lasting family,” declares monogamy the governing principle and requires a man seeking another wife to obtain court approval, prove specified grounds and financial ability, guarantee equitable treatment and ordinarily secure “the approval of the wife or wives.” The existing wife’s consent, absent as a general condition of validity in classical fiqh, becomes one of the gates through which the contract must pass before the state recognises it.

Morocco’s Moudawana defines marriage as a “common and enduring conjugal life.” Polygyny is subjected to judicial assessment, financial scrutiny and an “exceptional and objective justification”; where the existing wife seeks divorce, the husband may be required to deposit substantial financial rights before proceeding. Pakistan routes additional marriage through an Arbitration Council and attaches penal and financial consequences to noncompliance. Tunisia criminalised polygyny altogether. As Wael Hallaq argues, the modern state did not merely codify the Sharīʿah but transformed it, absorbing the jurist’s plural and morally embedded law into a uniform system of sovereign legislation and bureaucratic administration.

The state here does more than record the household. It judges what kind of desire deserves legal existence. The husband must explain motives that classical law did not demand he explain, disclose finances, allow officials to predict his future justice and submit a contract between himself and another woman to the approval or procedural control of someone who is not a party to it. The sovereign enters the household not as witness but as chaperone: a new “paternalism without father”.

Divorce has undergone a parallel transformation. Modern systems increasingly interpose registration, reconciliation sessions, judicial supervision, compensatory awards, damages for arbitrary divorce or marital-property division. Many such measures protect people from genuine injustice; a man who abandons dependants, conceals a marriage or withholds dower should not be romanticised as the bearer of tradition. Classical law imposed obligations and courts enforced them.

Yet modern law does more than secure obligations. It arranges incentives so that monogamous permanence is administratively and financially easier than lawful plurality or separation. What begins as protection becomes pedagogy. The law teaches citizens what kind of marriage respectable people ought to desire.

The political significance exceeds marriage. An extended household is untidy from the state’s point of view: its duties are dispersed, its children may be cared for by grandparents, aunts, elder siblings, cousins, neighbours and servants; its unemployed may be housed by kin; its elderly may remain within the household economy; its quarrels may be mediated by people whose authority exists without appointment.

Such a family is difficult to reduce to one address, one income, two autonomous decision-makers and one state-approved emotional narrative. The nuclear household is comparatively legible. It can be counted, taxed, educated, insured, mortgaged, counselled, monitored, relocated and dissolved.

As kinship structures weaken, their functions do not disappear; they migrate. Childcare becomes a purchased service or state provision, elder care an institution, unemployment a benefit claim, marital conflict a professional discipline, education a bureaucratic monopoly, housing an individual debt and dispute resolution a matter for courts. The family loses capacity while the state gains jurisdiction. This need not imply a secret plan, for power often expands through consequences no committee designed.

The modern Muslim man is still told that he is qawwām, but many of the structures through which responsibility once operated have been removed. He must sustain a household through a wage determined by institutions he does not control, purchase shelter in a market he did not design, submit marriage and divorce to laws written by distant legislatures, and perform the symbolism of patriarchal authority within a social unit too small to possess genuine autonomy.

The extended family restrained men as well as supporting them. Fathers, brothers, uncles, elders and in-laws could intervene, shame, negotiate, compel and assist. Its decline does not merely liberate the couple from interference; it leaves husband and wife alone together beneath the state. The isolated couple is easier to govern because it has nowhere else to go.

Nor does the modern state discipline intimacy only through marriage codes. The same suspicion of embodied plurality may extend towards music, painting, clothing, voice and public beauty. Here the paradox of the “medieval” Taliban becomes instructive, for a movement imagined as the survival of old Islam often embodies a far more modern fear of aesthetic ambiguity than the medieval civilisation whose cities it governs.

The Taliban are habitually called medieval, which tells us less about the Taliban than about the historical education of those who use the word. “Medieval” has become a vessel into which modern people pour whatever appears cruel, severe or insufficiently liberal. Yet if a delegation from the court of Sultan Ḥusayn Bayqara entered contemporary Herat, it might find the Taliban no less culturally bewildering than we do.

Late-medieval Herat was not a liberal society, nor free from hierarchy, violence or religious law. It was nevertheless a civilisation confident enough to permit beauty an extensive vocabulary. Jāmī wrote of Yūsuf and Zulaykhā, allowing bodily attraction to bear metaphysical significance without ceasing to be recognisably erotic. Niẓāmī’s lovers were copied and illuminated. ʿAlī-Shīr Navāʾī patronised poetry and music. Bihzād’s atelier filled manuscripts with gardens, lovers, musicians, labourers, saints and kings clothed in the colours of orchards.

Bihzād’s Seduction of Yūsuf offers an image difficult to imagine within the modern puritan sensibility. Zulaykhā leads Yūsuf through a palace constructed for temptation, its successive doors closing as architecture becomes the anatomy of desire. The painting does not approve her act; Yūsuf’s chastity remains its moral centre. Yet sin is not defeated by pretending beauty has no power. The painter renders temptation magnificently because virtue without temptation is not virtue but vacancy.

For the puritan, representation itself becomes suspect. The image of beauty appears to endorse possession; the depiction of danger becomes dangerous; moral safety requires the disappearance of ambiguity. Where Bihzād painted the palace through which chastity must pass, the modern censor prefers an empty wall.

The Taliban belong less to medieval Herat than to the age of the ministry, decree, checkpoint, identity document and standardised code. Their order is administered bureaucratically through central institutions regulating clothing, movement, music, image and public voice. The supposed medievalism arrives with paperwork.

Their severity has many genealogies: particular legal traditions, rural conservatism, war, displacement and twentieth-century revivalism. It would be false to call it simply Victorian. Yet its suspicion of aesthetic pleasure, its sober uniformity and its confidence that virtue may be protected by making life colourless belong recognisably to modernity. The men condemned as relics of the fifteenth century would have been culturally foreign to one of most venerable cities in the 15^th century Islamicate world.

Yet this severity should not be defended merely because its critics are Western. The modern critic sometimes sees truly: Muslim societies may indeed become afraid of desire, beauty and the body. The error lies in supposing that this fear is the essence of Islam rather than one outcome of Islam’s long effort to escape the older accusation of carnality.

The double accusation and the straight path

The Muslim has been tried twice for opposite crimes. Older Christian Europe accused him of sexual voracity. He possessed too many wives, divorced too easily, spoke too openly of pleasure, promised gardens and beautiful companions, and refused to recognise celibacy as the higher vocation. He was the Hagarene child born according to flesh, powerful in generation but excluded from spiritual inheritance.

The modern West reverses the charge. The Muslim represses sexuality. He veils beauty, guards gender boundaries, condemns fornication, regulates desire and refuses to treat every appetite as an identity demanding public affirmation.

The contradiction is only apparent. The two charges arise from different Western theologies of desire. Premodern Christendom often measured holiness by the extent to which appetite yielded to virginity, celibacy and spirit. Post-Christian modernity increasingly measures freedom by the extent to which desire may narrate and fulfil itself without inherited restraint. The first suspects the body because it is lower than spirit; the second enthrones it because no higher authority may govern it.

Islam satisfies neither tribunal.

Yet it would be too easy to conclude that both accusations are therefore entirely false. The modern critic sometimes correctly perceives sexual repression within Muslim societies: evasive sex education, panic around attraction, suspicion of remarriage, shame surrounding female desire, moral pathologising of male plurality. What he misdiagnoses is its origin. Much of this prudery is not the unchanged residue of revelation but the scar left by the earlier accusation of carnality. The Muslim was first condemned for being too much at home in the body; he learned embarrassment before the body; his descendants are now condemned for that embarrassment.

The history then becomes almost dialectical. Christianity classifies Islam as carnal, literal and Hagarene; Muslims internalise the accusation and attempt to prove spiritual respectability; eros is muted, marriage spiritualised, polygyny pathologised, concubinage rendered unspeakable and bodily Paradise allegorised; post-Christian modernity encounters the resulting culture and condemns it as repressed; Muslims answer again by translating chastity into wellbeing, marriage into romantic self-realisation and law into the language of therapeutic consent. At every stage, the Muslim is moved by the accusation rather than standing securely within his own weltanschauung.

The ṣirāṭ al-mustaqīm must therefore not be confused with every attitude presently labelled Islamic. Muslim societies are historical creatures capable of departing towards repression as readily as towards permissiveness. The straight path is not the arithmetic midpoint between monastery and marketplace. It proceeds from another account of man.

The body is created, honoured, purified and disciplined. Desire is neither guilt nor revelation. It is a power entrusted to the human being, capable of tenderness, generation and gratitude, but also of injustice, obsession and ruin. The Muslim does not prove holiness by ceasing to desire, nor sincerity by acting upon every desire he possesses. The ascetic and the consumer appear opposites, yet both grant desire a strange absoluteness: one must flee it, the other obey it. Islam denies it that majesty. Appetite is neither the devil nor the self. It is a servant that becomes destructive when promoted to master and diseased when punished for existing.

Hence the apparent inconsistencies that bewilder both critics. Islam praises fasting but rejects monasticism; encourages marriage yet permits divorce; honours chastity without declaring sex impure; permits pleasure without making pleasure the purpose of life; acknowledges jealousy without making jealousy a source of law; permits polygyny without commanding it; promises bodily delight in Paradise without reducing blessedness to consumption. It can speak frankly of desire because it is not frightened by desire, and restrain desire because it does not worship desire.

The proper answer to the medieval accusation was not that Islam possessed no flesh. The proper answer to the modern accusation is not that Islam possesses no restraint. The answer to both is that the human being is an embodied soul whose appetites acquire dignity through obedience, not through denial and not through emancipation from every limit. The older polemicist saw the Muslim’s gardens and concluded that he knew only earth. The modern critic sees his boundaries and concludes that he fears life. Both misunderstand the garden. Its wall is not a hatred of flowers, and its flowers are not a rebellion against the wall.

Return to the Garden

Look again at Jahangir upon the hourglass: time empties beneath him, kings stand in attendance, the painter includes himself at the margin, and the Sufi receives the emperor’s preference. The picture knows that the world is passing, yet it does not therefore strip the world of ornament; its flowers are not refuted by mortality, nor its pearls by the presence of the saint. Beauty is neither sovereign nor suspect. It receives its rank by standing within an order larger than itself.

This may be the wisdom we have lost when we imagine that transcendence requires a war upon colour, that chastity requires silence concerning desire, that fidelity requires denial of human plurality, or that seriousness can be demonstrated only by making every marriage permanent and every lawful appetite apologetic. God did not create the human being as a Victorian angel who occasionally suffers the inconvenience of a body, but as earth capable of remembrance: a creature whose hunger may become fasting, whose sexuality may become chastity or lawful tenderness, whose washing may become worship, and whose delight in created beauty may become gratitude rather than possession.

An Islamic ethics of relationship would begin from this doubleness and would possess enough confidence to preserve distinctions without resolving them into denials. It would honour marriage without worshipping duration, permit divorce without celebrating carelessness, recognise jealousy without granting it legislative sovereignty, acknowledge polygyny without pretending every man capable of justice, remember concubinage without desiring the restoration of slavery, and admit that love may appear before marriage, within marriage, after marriage or where marriage never comes. It would understand, with the older culture of ambiguity, that a permission need not be a command, a feeling need not be a right, a sorrow need not prove an injustice, and an ending need not make the thing that ended unreal.

Such an ethic would not reconstruct every institution of the past, whose splendours coexisted with cruelty, exploitation, hierarchy and folly; but neither would it mistake amnesia for moral progress. We need not return to the Qajar court, the Ottoman harem or the Mughal palace in order to learn from their refusal to believe that virtue must wear black. We may read Ibn Ḥazm without forcing him into a marriage seminar, Niẓāmī without reducing Majnūn to a psychiatric case, al-Ghazālī without concealing his frankness, Maghen without assuming flesh and virtue must be enemies, Bauer without converting ambiguity into relativism, and the Qurʾān without making its law apologise to our romance.

Nor is it clear that the Muslim alone stands in need of this recovery. The civilisation that once arraigned Islam as a religion of the flesh has not resolved its own quarrel with embodiment, but seems instead to oscillate between two incomplete inheritances: a Christianity whose ascetic memory often survives after its theology has faded, and a consumer culture that commercialises the very appetites it claims to liberate. The unresolved quarrel appears even in popular culture: Robin Hardy’s 1973 film The Wicker Man retains its cultural relevance over half a century later because Sergeant Howie and Lord Summerisle are not merely two characters but two spiritual possibilities, neither of which modern Europe can fully inhabit. Howie represents a faith hardened against the sensuous world; Summerisle, something closer to Spengler’s Apollonian civilisation of bounded, visible, ritualised life. Yet Howie’s severity has become culturally unintelligible, while Summerisle’s fertility cult preserves its enchantment only through deception and sacrifice, beneath the gathering suspicion that neither will restore the harvest. Between them stands a civilisation that has lost confidence both in renunciation and in delight.

What, then, might the Muslim recovery of an embodied religious life mean beyond the Muslim world? Could the tradition once condemned as carnal preserve a distinction that Europe has repeatedly failed to hold: that the body may be honoured without being enthroned, desire acknowledged without becoming sovereign, and pleasure disciplined without being despised? Islam does not ask the human being to become less embodied, nor does it teach him to identify the self with appetite. Through ablution, fasting, marriage, chastity and prostration, flesh is neither escaped nor worshipped, but educated into remembrance. Whether modern man can still recognise this as freedom rather than repression, and whether Muslims themselves can recover it without again translating it into the language of their accusers, remains an open question.

The Victorian parlour was never our primordial home. Behind its curtains lies another inheritance: a garden bounded by law but alive with colour, acquainted with longing and loss, realistic about appetite, unafraid of remarriage, and capable of distinguishing sin from sorrow, permission from prudence, restraint from shame and unity from uniformity. We need not become that garden exactly as it was; we need only recover enough of its confidence to enter our own sources without learning to see Hagar through the eyes of those who cast her outside the covenant, and to recognise that the wall was never built because God hated flowers.

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Works Cited

Primary and Literary Sources

The Bible. New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition. Washington, DC: National Council of Churches, 2021. See especially Galatians 4:21–31.

Byron, George Gordon, Lord. Don Juan. Edited by T. G. Steffan, E. Steffan, and W. W. Pratt. London: Penguin Books, 2004. See canto 5, stanza 158.

Al-Ghazali, Abu Hamid. Marriage and Sexuality in Islam: A Translation of al-Ghazali’s Book on the Etiquette of Marriage from the Ihyaʾ ʿUlum al-Din. Translated by Madelain Farah. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1984.

Al-Ghazali, Ahmad. Sawanih: Inspirations from the World of Pure Spirits. Translated by Nasrollah Pourjavady. London: KPI, 1986.

Ibn Hazm. The Ring of the Dove: A Treatise on the Art and Practice of Arab Love. Translated by A. J. Arberry. London: Luzac, 1953.

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Nizami Ganjavi. The Story of Layla and Majnun. Translated by Rudolf Gelpke. London: Cassell, 1966.

The Qurʾan. Translated by M. A. S. Abdel Haleem. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. See especially 2:229, 4:3, 4:129–130, and 30:21.

Secondary Works

Ali, Kecia. Marriage and Slavery in Early Islam. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010.

Bauer, Thomas. A Culture of Ambiguity: An Alternative History of Islam. Translated by Hinrich Biesterfeldt and Tricia Tunstall. New York: Columbia University Press, 2021.

Flügel, John Carl. The Psychology of Clothes. London: Hogarth Press, 1930.

Goitein, S. D. A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza. Vol. 3, The Family. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978.

Hallaq, Wael B. Shariʿa: Theory, Practice, Transformations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.

Jennings, Ronald C. “Divorce in the Ottoman Sharia Court of Cyprus, 1580–1640.” Studia Islamica 78 (1993): 155–167.

Maghen, Zeʾev. Virtues of the Flesh: Passion and Purity in Early Islamic Jurisprudence. Leiden: Brill, 2005.

Myrne, Pernilla. Female Sexuality in the Early Medieval Islamic World: Gender and Sex in Arabic Literature. London: I.B. Tauris, 2020.

Rapoport, Yossef. Marriage, Money and Divorce in Medieval Islamic Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005.

Legislation and Family-Law Texts

Indonesia. Compilation of Islamic Law. 1991. See especially articles 55–59.

Indonesia. Law No. 1 of 1974 concerning Marriage. See especially articles 1 and 3–5.

Morocco. The Moroccan Family Code (Moudawana). 2004. See especially articles 4 and 40–46.

Pakistan. Muslim Family Laws Ordinance. 1961. See especially section 6.

Tunisia. Code of Personal Status. 1956. See especially article 18.

Visual Works

Abdullah Frères. Photographic portraits of Ottoman officials and members of the imperial household. Late nineteenth century. Various collections.

Bichitr. Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Shaikh to Kings. Circa 1615–1618. Gouache, gold, and ink on paper. Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian National Museum of Asian Art, Washington, DC.

Bihzad, Kamal al-Din, attributed. The Seduction of Yusuf. Illustration from a manuscript of Saʿdi’s Bustan. Herat, 1488. National Library of Egypt, Cairo.

Delacroix, Eugène. Women of Algiers in Their Apartment. 1834. Oil on canvas. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Gérôme, Jean-Léon. The Terrace of the Seraglio. 1898. Oil on canvas. Private collection.

Ingres, Jean-Auguste-Dominique. The Turkish Bath. 1862. Oil on wood. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Levni, Abdulcelil, attributed. Female Musicians. Early eighteenth century. Topkapı Palace Museum, Istanbul.

Vanmour, Jean-Baptiste. Audience of Cornelis Calkoen with Sultan Ahmed III. 1727. Oil on canvas. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Film

Hardy, Robin, director. The Wicker Man. British Lion Films, 1973.