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When I stumbled into AI 54 this spring, the first thing I realized was that I didn’t know what I was doing there. I was sure of two things – that I did not know much about Islam and that I should probably learn more about Islam, if not only as a citizen in this United States – but why I wanted to take the class, that eluded me. The first class was interesting, but no extremely memorable. I learned a bit about Allah, the geography of where Muslims lived around the world, and read some quotes from the Qur’an. However, later that week, in our first section, something clicked. Our TF Ceyhun, after introducing himself, asked us to reciprocate and add a sentence or two about why we were interested in the class. I sat there, thinking, “Oh, I’ve got to come up with something witty.” My peers were announcing their inspiring intentions – some studied religion and wanted to deepen their knowledge, one girl’s mother was Jewish and her father Muslim, one girl was from Iran and wanted to learn the Western perspective of the culture she grew up in – and I had no idea what I was going to say.

And then it was my turn.

I started with a nervous laugh.

“My name is Karoline.”

Another nervous laugh.

And then the words just flowed out, as if I had buried them inside of my consciousness for longer than I remembered.

“I’ve tried all kinds of religion. When I was younger, my family went to the local Buddhist temple. When we stopped doing that, I learned the ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’ prayer and prayed every night. In college, I went to church with my friends and really tried to be Christian. And now…well, I don’t know much about Islam but I am interested in finding out?”

I had forgotten all of these experiences. I had forgotten that I, personally, was compelled by religion from any early age and sought to absorb it in the forms that were available to me. And so, I came into AI 54 with an intense need to understand myself and the world I live in; I was choosing to explore how other people have understood themselves and their world.

Firstly, I learned the general tenets of Islam and what being Muslim generally (but not always) involves. It is a monotheistic religion that believes that Allah is the one and only God and Muhammad is His Prophet. Along with Christians and Jews, Muslims are considered to be ahl al-kitab, or “People of the Book.” The Qur’an is the key religious text, verbally revealed by God to the Prophet Muhammad through the angel Gabriel. The hadiths are secondary religious texts, stories about the Prophet Muhammad’s life that inform a Muslim’s everyday conduct. The hadiths include the Five Pillars of Islam. Different communities of interpretation have formed depending on their interpretation of the Qur’an, who they believe in as the rightful successor to the Prophet, and other ideological differences. For all groups, however, recitation and writing (and the writing utensils) are paramount, because these were the methods by which the holy word was delivered. I learned that art forms – painting and calligraphy and architecture – emphasize God’s omnipresence. He is in nature and humanity and every creation. Literature, in particular, emphasizes the believer’s longing to unite with God and the long, trying journey of waiting for this union. Worship is also conducted with music and dance, although both have been contentious among various communities. Even when permitted, both have strict structural requirements and emphasize the desire to be closer to God rather than the act of performance itself. Being Muslim is a way of life, with sounds and tastes and practices that vary by region and by community.

Secondly, I learned to reevaluate my standing in the Western world and how our media affects public perception. This class worked to redefine stereotypes and expand commonly-held, but flawed notions of what sort of Islam is practiced and where it is practice. I learned that, many times, what we understand as “conservative” Islam is what our government has dictated as “conservative Islam.” In reality, “conservative” refers to Islam interpreted by the Sunni scholars in the 9th and 10th century. This differs from the “Islamist” movement, which we perceive to be “extremist” but often conflate with the word “conservative.” The Islamist movement seeks to interpret Islam for a nation state and implement their interpretation of Islamic values in all aspects of society. This is the group al-Qaeda belongs to, and the number of people involved are much less than Western media portrays.

I appreciated the focus on less mainstream topics, such as Sufism and the Islamic practices in South Asia. This was the first time that I realized that 80% of the world’s Muslims are Sunni while only 20% are Shia, that what I knew has been shaped heavily by Western perception and ideology. From this, grew my specific interest in the anti-Western observation and analysis of Islam. From my English junior tutorial last fall, I was growing increasingly aware of Western influence on everything we read, especially non-Western works. I was aware of literary colonization, which manifests when white authors assume Western views as the standard for measuring worth or opinion or experience, but didn’t realize the extent to which this affected Islam. In hindsight, I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised, since the West has a history of taking advantage of non-white cultures. However, there are still terms like “Orientalism” which refers to the scholarly study of the Middle East that seem like the anachronistic and problematic word. No one has brought up this fact, though. Perhaps it is because the term has been circulated so heavily, and without repercussion, but “Orientalism” refers to a patronizing Western view on Eastern societies often used to justify, subtly or not, Western imperialism.

Too often is the Western gaze applied to the global understanding of non-Western cultures. Too often is Western gaze the starting point for dialogue, the measuring stick for all other cultures, the final and most powerful voice of approval. I appreciated the selection of course material that fought to remove Islam from that gaze. We read pieces authored by South Asians and radical feminists and cultural icons. For example, I was quite struck by the incisiveness of “Unveiling Scheherazade” by Charlotte Weber, which not only outlined rising feminist perspectives of Islam but how those critiques were also skewed. The course fought the Western gaze when we studied the Iranian Revolution, which emphasized the collective spirit of Iranians turning away from Western modernization and turning to more traditional codes of conduct. Their efforts to do this reflected their need to reclaim their Muslim identity amidst the influx of Western influences.

I was drawn to the multimedia use, which I felt added a visceral component to the lecture experience. Immersion via videos and paintings and photos, like those practicing Muslims are exposed to and venerate, made me feel more invested in the culture. I felt like a teenager growing up, surrounded by the sounds and sights of living in a Muslim community. It helped bridge the otherwise vast distance, both geographically and personally, between my life and theirs. I was especially intrigued by “Muhammad Walks” by Lupe Fiasco, an artist I like. Whilst a commercially popular rapper, his religious background is rarely mentioned, even though it is clearly a vital part of his life. My exposure to and subsequent enjoyment of this song was a surprising moment of connection to the course material.

Each of my blog posts was written with the above concepts in mind. I focused on the weeks in the course I was most interested in and honed in one aspect of the course. In fact, you can think of each blog post as a funnel. The start of each post highlights the overarching topic of the week, the middle of the post discusses what I am specifically examining, and the creative portion is an extension of both, looking at the same topic through a different lens. Thematically, the posts feature less mainstream topics in literature, visual art, and performance (recitation or otherwise) and are connected in more ways than one. Post 1 and 5 both feature illustrations, but Post 5 also relates to Post 4 and Post 3 with their emphasis on less mainstream topics Post 2 and Post 4 focus on theater, a communal activity, but they relate to the oral tradition and the communal energy of recitation in Post 1. Post 2 and Post 5 focus on Iran in two different ways, just as Post 3 and Post 6 focus on worship through literature in two different ways.

The art forms in each of my posts are deliberately chosen. I am attracted to art that follows a logical line of thought (in this case, adherence to the themes of the blog post) but also creates tension or unexpectedness in some way. I believe the best art, and the best means of reflection, involves a distance between meaning and representation. In this regard, I chose forms that would respond to the blog’s topic (like composing a ginan for Blog Post 3) but would surprise the reader as well.

Blog Post 4 is a special one for me. As an actor, I find theater a very compelling medium. It is thrillingly ephemeral, but there, in its brevity and “liveness,” lie its true power. On the page, the theatrical takes a different form, albeit just as lively. I am intrigued by the spaces between the words and the lack of stage directions, because these are the places that rivet the reader’s imagination. Because a play is meant to be performed, the reader is even more compelling to “play” their version of the play whilst reading. It is an intimate experience that is at once more and less than enough. When it came to merging my love for theater and writing a blog post, I decided on writing a short scene. It would have been too literal to write my own ta’ziyeh (and besides, we did that in section), so I pondered where else I could explore the dramatics of the performance. We have often seen court cases dramatized on TV or religious stories narrated in children’s books so I wondered what the combination of the two would be like. I wanted to bring the rationale to life in a way people could connect to.

I encourage the reader to peruse with an open mind. That is, read with the knowledge that what you know may not be the full story and that even if you are familiar with the topic, your conceptions might be altered. Read carefully, but not daintily; try to be okay wandering in the unknown and try to resist translation. Don’t try to compare what you’re reading to a Western standard; rather, wallow in the awkwardness of not knowing. If something is striking or odd or unfitting, question it and then question how you are questioning it. What are your own biases? Are they coming into play at this moment? Delve into alternative routes of thinking, routes that are not the white-male-dominated scholarly field. All this and more have I learned from the cultural studies approach in this class, and I hope you will embark on your own fruitful journey.

In Week 9, we focused on sufi piety through ghazal, also known as the lyrical love poem, and mathnawi, also known as the narrative epic. There was particular focus on works by the 13th century poet Jalaluddin Rumi, Hafiz, and Farid ud-Din Attar’s The Conference of the Birds (which we read for section in a different week but is an example of mathnawi). For my ghazal/mathnawi project, I focused on the ghazal “Andak Andak” by Rumi, so I thought this would be a good chance to focus on a mathnawi.

The Mathnawi is a long poem (and technically, they can be never-ending), usually detailing a moral lesson and composed with a specific structure. John Renard, in Seven Doors to Islam, writes that “religiously oriented mathnawis have three kinds of content: romantic, ethical, and mystical” (117). All three kinds are less passionate and personal than ghazals as they focus more on themes than on interpersonal relationships. In A Two-Colored Brocade by Annemarie Schimmel, the author describes the poem’s formal requirements. The overarching metric system is called arud and it dictates the length of syllables. Each poem consists of bayt, or sections of two-lined verses, which rhyme. These are further divided into hemistichs and then divided again to form four sections, called musammaj. Poets vary in their fluency of the form, with some like Rumi writing so fluently that one cannot read or hear its constraints. Additionally, as with ghazals, mathnawi are often ambiguous and harbor wordplay.

The Mathnawi began in Iran, with San’ai penning a poem about Sufi traditions and stories from India. Attar came next, but it was Rumi who truly shined with The Mathnawi, commonly referred to as “The Persian Qu’ran” for its magnificence and stellar use of the form. This 50,000 line epic flows in and out of hadith quotes, local stories, and commonly told fables. It ends with the lesson that one must be less earthly and physically-concerned to connect fully with God, a message similar to that of The Conference of the Birds, when the birds, who began the arduous journey self-centered, reach a lake and see their own reflection rather than Simorgh.

With the inspiration of themes from A Two-Colored Brocade, I have composed my own mathnawi below. Common themes include people from the Qur’an, the concept of “amana” – the burden of love earthly beings had to carry instead of being in heaven – the names and beauty of the beloved, nature and natural elements, and the story of Joseph. The best stories are ones that detail a lover’s patience or the triumph of love over evil forces.

I have decided to write about the moment the Zulaykha and her women saw Joseph and were immediately entranced by his beauty. This story was one of the first stories we read (in the Renard readings) so not only is this a compelling story about a follower enveloped in love for his beloved, but as my last blog post, it brings the lessons of this class full-circle.


The capable leader invited them, the ladies sat composed

Around the ornate rug they waited, this was only supposed


“Ladies, I have a wish,” she exclaimed, and they listened eagerly

For each woman gathered, to see more than chief’s wife hopefully


A hush falls like a heavy footfall, as she explains her urges,

She spills the secrets of her inner source, and the tension among them falls and surges


Fruits like precious jewels glisten, their hands begin to peel

Each woman whispering to herself, what exactly is his appeal?


“A treat,” she says, “and a lesson for you all”

She calls out to Joseph, who waits down in the hall


His light tread, just one foot placed

A sudden rush, their eyes make haste


His pupils touch the floor, his breath a light breeze

Stately calm stature, the most perfect knees


Light upon light, beauty upon beauty!

His innocence and radiance, his serenity and purity


Truly a prince, enveloped in the ethereal!

Truly a prince, there can be nothing more real!


Astounded were the ladies, as they looked down

The flesh of their hands cut, and red dew drops on their gown


“Oh, this is not a man!” the cries echoed around them

“This is an angel,” the whispers swirled around them


She stood in her place, and looked with longing and need

Like Bilqis and Solomon, a union not yet complete


“Now you understand,” she announced quite boldly

“What I mean when I say, I love that man dearly.”


Not a sound in the room, for the women believed it so

That the fault was not their queen’s, it was the way, too, their hearts would go


I took care to rhyme the couplets and honor the hemistich structure. I tried to use words that had more complex meanings like “suppose” and “surges” as well as metaphors like “a hush falls like a heavy footfall” and variation in phrase lengths to add ambiguity to the poem. The eighth couplet features “Light upon light,” a favorite line of poets to describe the beloved’s radiance and so here, I have employed it to describe Joseph’s overwhelming radiance. The Bilqis and Solomon line references the story of the Queen of Sheba, who is summoned by Solomon, recognizes the throne he disguised, and accepts his faith. Theirs is a love story, based on Sura 27, about a lover submitted to her beloved, so I thought it fit aptly here when Zulaykha admits she is overwhelmed.

In Week 8, we discussed the music and dance of Sufis, who believe in the inner mysticism of Islam. One such manifestation of their worship is Sama, which means “listening,” and one specific form of Sama is whirling by the dervishes of Turkey.

In Sama, as its name indicates, listening is paramount. The performance is a mode for which listening is made possible. The voice is very powerful, and can affect life and death in its listeners. When music is involved, it must be evaluated for its ethical content, based on who, when, and where it is performed. One should perform music very seriously and listen to music not for pleasure, but out of longing for God. This way, true ecstasy can be achieved. The preservation of these measures is important, because it allows the worshipper to channel all of his/her joy into the revelation of God.

Dancing in Sama is specific to the Mevlevi order, founded by Jalal al-Din Rumi’s son Sultan Walad. He created a system for his dancers, by first creating poetry for them to learning and recite, and then training them to spin around “a large nail placed between the big toe of the left foot and the toe next to it” for 1001 days (Ernst 192). The dance became a tourist attraction performed on the hill of Galata on the Golden Horn, but has also, at times, been banned. Even now, the question is still: are they performers or are they worshippers?

In fact, one of the heavily debated aspects of dancing is its legality. The British Journal of Ethnomusicology details several arguments in its favor. For example, all Sufis who dance have legally justified their activity with material from hadith, including one particular story where Zayd ibn Haritha, Muhammad’s adopted son, and ‘All and his brother Ja’far begin leaping with joy in front of the Prophet. Since leaping is part of dancing and the Prophet bore witness to it but did not stop it, then all dancing must be considered legal. Nevertheless, there are additional rules that keep dancing worship-related rather than entertainment or indulgence-related. The dancing must be genuine and follow constraints of the ritual. The dancer’s limbs must be still before dancing to show the separation between non-ritual and ritual. The dancer must be attentive to the speaker and when they launch into motion, the person must be in his/her own world, not influenced by others estatic states. And finally, only when one is overcome with religious desire, should one dance.

I decided to present one aspect of the “Is dancing legal or not?” argument with a fictional scene between two characters, Ali and Aydin. I chose this medium because legal accounts and hadiths often have narrative arcs that mimics the narrative arcs of plays. In the context of the legality of dancing, I thought it would dramatize the issues in an effective way. I won’t provide more explanation because I think the scene will explain everything.

Enter ALI and AYDIN. Both are 14 years of age, early puberty.



Hey Aydin!





They share a secret handshake.



How was basketball?


Oh it was great! Jeremy and I tied with Raquel and Jacob.


That’s intense. I hear Raquel is getting really good. Wonder if I could beat her?



I doubt it.


They laugh.



What’d you do?



My dad and I went to a whirling dance at our mosque. I’d been once before, but this one was especially cool, because my uncle was in it. And he wasn’t too bad.


Aydin laughs.








I just – I dunno. It’s a little confusing. For me, at least.



What do you mean?



You’re talking about a Sama right?





Well…hmm okay. I’ve always thought that – not saying that you’re doing anything wrong, but doesn’t dancing sort of go against everything we know?



Like dancing is banned?






Hmm. My mom told me this story a while back and it’s helped me explain it to myself and some other people. Once when the Prophet complimented his adopted son and his friends, the guys jumped into the air in joy. Since we jump when we dance, technically, they were dancing. But the Prophet didn’t say anything about it or punish them, so technically, it’s okay.



I kind of like that.



Yeah. There’s something nice about the Prophet’s approval. Is it in a hadith?






But I guess I’m still concerned that it’s like entertainment? Like dancing can get out of control pretty quickly?


That’s true. I don’t know all the rules yet, but my uncle says we treat it like a ritual. We make a clear separation between non-dancing and dancing and we only dance when the desire for God becomes too much. And then we release it through movement. And that’s how we show our devotion.



Okay. Okay.



I’m sure we can ask my parents – they know more about it than I do.



I’ll have to think about it on my own first.



Of course.



Thanks for explaining, Aydin. See you in class tomorrow?



Yeah, see you!

In Week 11, one of the central points of discussion was the Iranian Revolution, which lasted from 1977 to 1979 and was a mostly-nonviolent shift that exiled Mohammad Pahlavi and established Ayatollah Khomeini as the head of a new Islamic Republic. It is anti-Western, totalitarian, and uses Shi’ite Islamic law. As noted in Buchman’s “Shi’ite Islam in Contemporary Islam,” Iran experiences a sharp disconnect between its Westernized stores and surroundings and its strict government-mandated code of dress and behavior.

Given how heavily Islam involves symbols and its belief that Allah is manifest in natural and manmade creations, I was interested in the iconography and propaganda that emerged around the Iranian Revolution. In “The Art of Revolution and War,” Chelkowski writes how Shi’ite teachings suffused posters and billboards and became powerful transmitters of a political ideology. These missives streamlined the ruling agenda in a country where most people, pre-Revolution, were illiterate. Artists sought to subvert and oppose the status quo, in more ways than just the “traditional” merged with the “modern” that scholars usually discuss. Their images were complex, specific, and bold. They pursued an “insurgent consciousness,” and from the readings, we see the repetition of symbols such as the face of Khomeini and the clenched, punching fist. Their images do not promote a juxtaposition of issues – rather, symbolism flows naturally and in many layers, like the poster depicting Zeinab, which simultaneously encourages women to oppose the Pahlavi monarchy, and encourages the shattering of the Shah’s crown.


I created a poster to explore this phenomenon for myself and see just how universal these strategies are. I drew the majority of my inspiration from the “Poster with a chained hand” on page 93 of “Multiple Iconographies” by Haggai. The poster advocated the movement “towards a classless tahwidi society,” a kind of unified classlessness for the people. As a racial revolution occurs in America and Harvard debates the validity of its final clubs and the role of its white patriarchy, I thought this was an especially fitting message. Harvard, within the context of the United States, is also grappling with being anti-colonial, like the Shi’ite Muslims were, and being dismantling its pervasive class structure, like “tahwidi” in this context is saying. The fist in my poster, which has its own storied history as a symbol of solidarity, especially with the Black Panther Party in the 1960s, is akin to the “clenched fist freeing itself from the chains of bondage” (93). Both are fighting for a communal right and breaking away from oppression. On the upper right of my poster, I have drawn a picture of Dean Khurana who is leading this movement, like Khomeini in the original illustration. On the lower right, I have drawn black tape, which symbolizes the hate crime against the black professors at the Harvard Law School last year, and on the lower left, I have drawn the façade of a Harvard final club, which is one of the movement’s major problems. And finally, on the top left corner, I have written #BlackLivesMatter, which is the equivalent of “towards a classless tahwidi society.”

In doing so, I am engaging both the modern Black American revolution and the Iranian Revolutionary spirit.

In this post, I am continuing my thread of exploring Shia Islam and aspects of Islam that are less present in scholarship and media. Week 7 discussed various forms of Islamic devotion. John Renard, in Seven Doors to Islam, characterizes devotion as temporarily living in “liminality.” Here, the state of liminality is a sacred space, a suspension of earthly life for the sacred, where one can express vulnerability and catharsis. This manifests in both ritual religious practices, such as the Five Pillars of Islam, and communal devotion unregulated by law. Each practice has a reasoning, “draw[ing] its sacralizing power from the custom of the Prophet himself” (Renard 39).

For the Nizari Ismaili, belief in mysticism reigns. Ismailis strive for unity with God, and because the Imam is the link between the earthly world and the spiritual world, a closer relationship with the Imam translates to a closer relationship with God. This relationship is illustrated by a marriage metaphor, where the follower is the bride waiting for his/her union with the divine. It is sung as hymn-like poems called ginans.

The bride metaphor works well in several ways. For one, it shows a bride in longing, much as a person is in longing to be with God. Two, the bride is youthful and can’t wait any longer until her wedding, like a “soul [that] feels it is mature for divine union” (Asani 60). Third, this is something she has been promised, and it is only a matter of time until the fulfillment. This reasoning fuels a follower’s devotion, in which constant prayer and practice will be rewarded.

Liminality is intensified during satadas, period of seven days and seven nights when there is a collective push for unity with the divine. Ginans are sung before the session to set a spiritual mood.

The poem below is my own version of a ginan. Rather than a traditional version, this poem reflects upon the surprising, yet enduring bride metaphor. The first stanza describes a traditional bride, the second stanza expands on her actions, and the third stanza describes the extent of her love and waiting. The fourth stanza is the reveal – she is waiting for her spiritual partner, not a physical husband.

In general, I tried to make the form of the ginan reflect the action or description of the poem in the moment. For example, the word “Down” is deliberately on a different line, dropped down from the word “Streaming,” and the word “Waiting” is deliberately split in two to show how torturous and long the process of waiting for the beloved is. I also chose words specifically to invoke an ethereal, but painful atmosphere. For example, the word “gossamer,” which opens the poem can mean “light, thin, delicate material” or “the fine, filmy substance consisting of cobwebs spun by small spiders” which is an interesting juxtaposition of the beautiful and the creepy in one word. Words like “veil” and “streaming” follow in this vein. The third stanza is unique because it is all direct speech (or direct thoughts, depending on your interpretation) from the bride. I chose to write this part using simple, direct words, because the essence of waiting for the beloved is that simple and if a layman read this poem, this is a part he/she could easily connect to.



Like veil on the bride’s

Forehead. Streaming


Blending with the great white trail

Of her wedding dress.


A young woman

In bloom

Like a fresh rose,





“I think of you

And want nothing else.

You are the match for me,

And I am ready

To be the match for you.

I will give you my all,

Everything to please you.

Where are you?

When will you be here?”


The wait for the divine

Is winding



I was inspired by the ta’ziyeh, which was highlighted in Week 5 along with the divide between the Sunni and Shia communities (effectively called “communities of interpretation”). Firstly, the ta’ziyeh, as an art form and practice, is very moving. It is the dramatic reenactment of the massacre of Hussein and his followers by Yazid, on the plains of Kerbala in 680AD. Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, was the leader of a faction that believed descendants of the Prophet had the divine right to rule, while Yazid was the leader of a faction that believed in religio-political authority, beginning with the election of Abu Bakr. The former became the Shia Muslims and the latter became the Sunni Muslims. Ta’ziyeh uses spare props and costumes, is performed “in the round” (immersing audience in the action), and is performed annually in Iran where there is a large Shia population. In class we watched a clip documenting ta’ziyeh. It showed audience members of all ages are crying, even though they have seen this reenactment many times. It is not surprising that the story is often touted as the greatest act of sacrifice.

I was also inspired by what Ceyhun said in class. The theme of Western scholarship is an undercurrent that runs through this course. I appreciate that we examine how Western notions have colored perception, and in the instance of the ta’ziyeh, it draws onto a larger conversation about how Western studies have placed Sunni beliefs and practice above Shi’a ones. That is why studies in ta’ziyeh are lacking/stalled, why one of the articles was from the 1979 and are both by Peter Chelkowski. Western control on information is more pervasive than we sometimes realize. I noticed this in my personal life as well. As an actor, I have studied the works of Peter Brook and Jerzy Grotowski. In “Time Out of Memory,” Chelkowski writes that these artists were informed by ta’ziyeh’s performer-audience dynamic. Never once had this been mentioned, and I became angry, because these men are renowned theater makers in the Western world, whose works are seen as “original” and do not mention the appropriation of Persian sources.

Thus, the close study of ta’ziyeh enables the preservation of a specific and unifying art form. It allows us to consider the large scope of a cultural studies approach and zoom into the Shiite experience, which is often untouched.

Combining ta’ziyeh and the need to expand beyond scholarship dictated by Westerners, I decided to write a fictional diary entry of a Westerner, who is watching a ta’ziyeh for the first time, at the Lincoln Center in 2002 (as mentioned in “Time Out of Memory”).I chose a Western perspective, because this is a viewpoint one does not ordinarily read about or expect when it comes Shi’ite rituals. I chose a documentary-style approach to emphasize the immersive experience that one would undergo, to allow the reader a pseudo-firsthand experience.

The entry begins with some mundane details, which serve to ground the reader in the story and create a more believable narrator. By the third paragraph, he/she mentions ta’ziyeh and his/her lack of knowledge on the subject. I tried writing this in a conversational tone so as to not seem didactic. The next paragraph describes the drama, but in terse, broad strokes. This is because after watching the ta’ziyeh videos myself, I realized that I didn’t understand much of it. I only remembered particularly vivid moments and the general energy of the production, so instead of describing the event in detail, I recounted it as a person who has just experience something new would. Finally, I end with the writer’s musings, to show that the event sparked something in him/her and hopefully he/she will learn more about it.

Date: July 17, 2002

Today was not different than any other day. In fact, I walked up 9th avenue as I often do each morning. It was brisk day, not unbearably hot. I stopped at 112th street and made my way back to Columbus Circle.

What was extraordinary was my ticket to the ta’ziyeh performance at the Lincoln Center. Mark’s ticket, to be exact, but he had a last-minute conflict so I went in his place.

I admit, I should have looked up ta’ziyeh in a dictionary or on the web, because I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Mark mentioned that it was a Persian drama, but left me wholly unaware of plot and details or language! Would I understand the performance?

I walked into the theater, 15 minutes early as I often am and waited in anticipation. I was expecting a ritual. But the next – oh, I can’t remember how long it is – the show – the drama – flew by. It was the most interesting performance. The performers were intensely physical, dancing, projecting, in a way that was at once presentational and evocative. Their steps were deliberate, controlled; their motions were explosive. At points, it was very graphic. One of the actors wiped his sword back and forth in a menacing manner. 

And the voices. Clear and strong enough to move mountains. If there is one thing I want to remember from the play, it is the strong voices.

I can’t say I understood it – the nuances and all – but it was downright visceral.

I questioned Mark about it later. He knows quite a bit about it. Long time fan, he said. Anyways, it is the specific story of Hussein and his entourage in Kerbala. His massacre by an opponent (I forget his name) is what marked the split between Sunni and Shia Muslims. And supposedly, performed every year in villages and large public spaces. I realize now, too, that this is the form Peter Brook was raving about – “extraordinary theater,” he called it – and I am glad to have seen it.

The theme of Week 3’s readings was the practice and significance of Qur’an recitation. Qu’ran recitation has special rhythms and pitches, which is designated by the rules of tajwid, and separated into two distinct sounds: murattal and mujawwad. Murattal is used in pedagogical settings and private contexts, while the latter is used for performances and competitions. Recitation preserves the divinity of Gods message, specifically how it was delivered. As Kristina Nelson writes in “The Sound of the Divine in Daily Life,” the Qur’an “is considered to be the actual sound of the Divine, the model of perfect beauty” (257). And as it is an oral tradition, the text is supplementary to the recitation, rather than vice versa, as Westerners often believe.

Proper and full recitation involves many factors. On one hand, it calls for technical aspects, like weeping and prostration. As “External Rules of Qur’an-Recitation” reads, weeping is important because the Qur’an was revealed in grief and the Prophet commands so. “External Rules,” especially, codifies recitation, including the number of times one should read the Qur’an each week. On the other hand, recitation involves an unexplainable but definitely universal and emotional quality. We see this in Koran by Heart, a film documenting the esteemed recitation competition in Cairo. The contestants were judged on a point system based on their technical skills, yet the competitor who received the highest distinction was the boy from Tajikistan. His training was less formal than the other winners’, he sung with his eyes closed, and at one point he even confessed that he did not know tajwid. His recitation was more valued than the others’ because of a certain quality that moved the audience and the judges.

Both film and text emphasized the communal aspect of recitation. The rules and competition are important parts of recitation, but at the very core, recitation is transmitting the word of God and that it is a continuous part of Islamic life

.Post #1 Illustration

My drawing reflects this very idea. The mouth is a universal one, symbolically depicting the act of recitation. Instead of a tongue, the mouth is filled with different houses, like the one inspired by Chinese architecture, to symbolize the worldliness of recitation. The smoke rising from some of the buildings reads “Allah” to show that this act is coming from homes and work environments and mosques. The whole of the drawing emphasizes the oral tradition – that it is pervasive in Islamic communities and that it forms the “music” one grows up around (as Nelson says). Most of all, it emphasizes that each recitation comes from within (the mouth representing the reciter’s own connection and knowledge) and from without (the tableau of buildings representing the community, the tradition, the Qur’an).