There is a resemblance of a home. I truly feel at home in any Dār1 … I really do feel this unconditional love. Not necessarily deep love; but we all gather in the Dār, and no one has any ulterior motives, so that's nice. (Salam, fieldnotes, 2020)
Dār is home, and there is no place like home. No two homes are identical, and no two people will feel exactly the same at the mention of home. Home can be happy, home can be unloving, home can be silent, it can be light or warm, dark or small, cold or loud, large or loving; and it often is not just one thing at a time, and not even one thing over time. Homes change, and so do our feelings towards them. If one thinks of home, it is often more than just a place – it is the sounds of people, or the absence thereof; it is the smell that we cannot figure out sometimes, even though it is so blatantly obvious to visitors; it is the hugs we dwell in, or miss; home can be anything, and it can be nothing. To try to capture the word ‘home’ would be cheating the essence of what it means, and it would be unjust to the endless possibilities it carries. There are things one can say, things that can be described, and others that – although surely constitutive – fall into unintended silences. However, to say nothing is also to fear capture to the point of erasure – which only makes it harder to experience, understand, critique, imagine, or even to hope.
Teacher's break room with a child sleeping on the couch, Egypt, 2020. Photo by author.
Citation: Anthropology of the Middle East 19, 1; 10.3167/ame.2024.190104
So, what is the Dār?
In this autoethnographic account, I attempt to unravel the idea of ‘home’, seemingly central to the construction of this place and the experience of it. The place examined here, in which the fieldwork took place, is a Dār, or an Islamic studies institute, in Cairo. The notion of home is not explored here as a noun, but as a verb. A strict definition of ‘home’ is hence not the scope of this article, even if it is alluded to throughout. ‘Homing’, on the other hand, is essential to explore, since this article is about the rhythms of the Dār. Boccagni (2022: 595) asserts that homing is ‘a set of everyday practices’ that ‘varies in reach, involving a proximate space or larger spatial and temporal scales; in relational bases, depending on a range of significant others; in material underpinnings, from particular objects and material infrastructures, like a dwelling, to online spaces.’ Thus, in this article, I attempt to unravel these everyday practices in the Dār, while also situating it in larger spatiotemporal contexts. In line with Boccagni (ibid.), I try to understand the home as becoming. Homing and unhoming, a co-constitutive relationship that is at once generative, unravelling and also accepting. In this regard, homing and unhoming are seen as verbs underpinned in ontological and existential questionings. Hence, the exploration of ‘homing’ in this article is simultaneously a subtle nod at unhoming.
Before moving on to the contents of this account, it is important to ground it in the existing literature. Prominent strands in the literature have included the imagination of a distinct modernity and tradition binary, with a negotiation of these two states (Lo 2016; Loimeier 2009; Lukens-Bull 2001; Reetz 2010). However, there is literature that goes beyond the modernity–tradition binary by problematising the binary of the religious and the secular (Asad 2003; Mahmood 2011). Other works have also challenged this binary, especially with a gendered perspective exploring Muslim women's practices. An example of this is Chiara Maritato's (2017: 540) tackling of the ways in which the Diyanet female preachers (in Turkey) have positioned themselves in a grey area between the official state institutional hold of the Diyanet and other activities that are uncontrolled and conducted by ‘unofficial’ religious communities, thus showing that the ‘Diyanet's alleged monopoly has been perceived as an arena where different religious interpretations could coexist’. By doing so, they push further beyond the secularism critique, and unravel the further complexities of Islamic knowledge and education. This work could also be framed within a wider discussion of feminism and Islam, and the texts on the ways in which women negotiate their presence as Muslims and challenge modern conceptions of the state and capitalism (e.g. Abukari 2014; Badran 2009; Davids 2014; Jonker 2003; Parvez 2016; Sayeed 2011). Another critical text on female Islamic education movements is by Masooda Bano (2017), who explores ethnographically how female Islamic education has risen since the 1970s in different areas. Bano (Ibid.: 39) explores how the women, despite considering themselves to fall within the bounds of orthodoxy, renegotiate the terms and material they are taught. Referring to the process as ‘re-democratisation of Islamic knowledge’, Bano explores the women's backgrounds to reveal how their lives affect their education and the material they deem important.
By recognising what has already been written, I insist that the contributions made have been, and continue to be, critically important in understanding spaces like the Dār, and the women that go there. However, pushing the boundaries of categories, of the resisting Muslim woman and of the ways in which spaces of Islamic knowledge have been written about is necessary. The literature does provide groundwork to work with and from, but there is not much research available on the daily practices or the everyday experiences of women in spaces of Islamic education or knowledge. The literature has ‘at times over-emphasized the coherence and singularity of commitment in Muslims’ ethical experience. In so doing, [these works] overlook the lived complexities and inconsistencies in individuals’ efforts to live lives both virtuous yet socially and experientially varied’ (Hefner 2019: 492). The fieldwork I did in the Dār offers another angle: of women who do not often come from a background or family of scholars, who are explored as others should have been to unravel the complex lives they lead that are intertwined with the Dār, but that are still varied, and who carry and negotiate responsibilities beyond the transmission of knowledge. I intend to show how women find ways to exist in spaces of knowledge, or to create their own, and to show the gendered alliances that form as a result and the communities that are built – and, hence, the potentialities that arise.
With these considerations, what this article is trying to show is that a rhythmic exploration of a place invites one to think not only about what is happening, but also about what could. This article is an invitation to immerse oneself into the rhythms of the Dār and its affective entanglements, and to thus explore the potential that comes out of it. Not to romanticise, but to find potential in and through the account that can be adapted in different contexts depending on the reader, akin to abstract art's subjective experience and its invitation to meaning-making. What these meanings and potentialities are is a matter I have tried to tread lightly through, with allusions rather than explications. The reasons for this include a refusal to over-explain as a means of distancing oneself from what is actually happening (to study it), and to instead allow for a myriad of meanings to come out of it, based on the assertion that this multiplicity of meaning is precisely what allows for a mention of potential in the first place. A fixation on explanation will become less an invitation to explore, and more an obligation to accept and dissect. To a great extent, already collecting and formulating this account will limit readers to what is presented. The spatiotemporal considerations in this article are meant to provide context and grounding, while the vignettes presented are meant to be messy enough to show the deconstruction of binaries such as comfort and discomfort, order and disorder, rigidity and flexibility, discipline and disobedience, modern and postmodern, and religious and secular, among others. This article also alludes to themes such as the embodiment of knowledge, collaborative learning, sociality as pedagogy, care, gendered spaces, affective spaces of knowledge, a critiquing of modernity, decolonisation and the construction of a gendered Muslim identity. To avoid imposing further limitations, an open account seems best if we are to find potentialities across worlds. The article is meant to draw out themes from the field, and to illuminate them with rays of fragmented and open descriptions; to unravel some understandings, while giving space for interpretation. It is thus meant to be a portrayal of the Dār that is both grounded in participant observation yet also a sort of creative autoethnography, whereby my existence is consistently immanent throughout.
The Dār and Larger Social Formations
Temporal Trailing, and Cartographic Contemplations
If we were to think of a space's many descriptions, one would need a host of different maps. Henri Lefebvre (1991: 85) asks: ‘How many maps, in the descriptive or geographical sense, might be needed to deal exhaustively with a given space, to code and decode all its meanings and contents?’ to which he answers, ‘It is doubtful whether a finite number can ever be given in answer to this sort of question.’ Setha Low (2017: 32) makes a distinction between ‘space’ and ‘place’, whereby space ‘is preeminently social, produced by bodies and groups of people, as well as historical and political forces’, whereas place is a ‘space that is inhabited and appropriated through the attribution of personal and group meanings, feelings, sensory perceptions and understandings. It is the spatial location of subjectivities, inter-subjectivities and identities that transform space into places – that is, the lived spaces of human and nonhuman importance.’ Low (ibid.) draws the relationship between space and place by explaining how place, although it can be studied through individual or collective experiences, ‘also derives its meaning from the social, political and economic forces and class relationships that produce its spatial, material and social form’. The upcoming section is hence an attempt to explore the Dār as a space, prior to moving on to exploring it as a place, with a recognition that these layers are always intertwined, but that the distinction made is out of simplification. What I intend to explore in this section are spatial and temporal themes that relate to what is currently experienced in the Dār, what is explained by the women that I have managed to converse with and what I have actively observed.
This section, however, is not meant as an exhaustive historicisation of the Dār. Instead, I utilise the notion of ‘trailing’ in the sense of tracing the history of the space by picking up certain hints – as fragments of historical accounts – that can help in following the temporal constellation the Dār is a part of. The fragmentation in this part is meant to resemble the real fragmentation that exists in historicising and contextualising as broader concepts. It is meant to show that historical narratives will vary, and will always be based on choices made. Hence, the fragments here were chosen depending on the hints left about within the space itself as to its positioning vis-à-vis historical and geographical contexts.
Geographic and Class Considerations
On Class
Eric Denis (2006: 68) argues that Cairo as a city has been ‘radically altered’. Denis (ibid.) argues that the neoliberalisation of Egypt from 1990 to 2000 gave way to ‘the new liberal, neocolonial city, the embodiment of risk and exclusivism’, in a way that has remade the social world. A ‘spectacularization’ of this can be seen in the proliferation of gated communities. Denis (ibid.: 49) further describes this process by highlighting the construction that has been underway in the east and west of Cairo, hosting private apartments, ‘dozens of luxury gated communities, accompanied by golf courses, amusement parks, clinics, and private universities’, as well as shopping malls. The relevance of Denis's description lies in the fact that the Dār under study is located in Tagammu’ (also called New Cairo). This is a relatively new city where most of the land ‘is sold to large scale developers building unaffordable gated-compounds, and the small portion sold as “social housing” plots, is too expensive for the low income families to buy’ (Shawkat 2019). Following their recent expansion, the Dār is now housed on the bottom floors of two villas. It includes two floors and one basement, all of which have classrooms, bathrooms and a kitchen. The first floors both have reception areas with a front desk, but only one is currently functioning as the other is still in the opening phase. In the first villa, you have several classrooms, a market room, a teachers’ lounge and the management's office (mainly for the owner, but it is also used by the two managers). The basement has another reception area, a prayer area, classrooms and a kitchen with a space where snacks are sold. The second villa also has a reception area, an area with chairs and tables, a refrigerator for food and drinks, classrooms and bathrooms. Its location in New Cairo is not inconsequential, and is telling of what this specific Dār is, what it looks like and who goes there – or rather, how it should look, and how the people who go there are expected to be.
Farida, an ex-student, explained to me how the word ‘Dār’ and the name of the programme, Ma'had al-’Ulūm al-Shari'yyah (Islamic Science of Jurisprudence Institute), made her feel like it was ‘a lower-class thing’ (fieldnotes, 2020). Farida is a relatively wealthy upper-class Egyptian in her early twenties, living in one of the most expensive compounds in New Cairo and studying at the American University in Cairo. She had previous experiences with Islamic spaces of knowledge in the form of classes at a mosque when she was younger, and then later on in informal religious gatherings at homes of people she knew. The Dār, however, was her first experience of classes that are part of a degree in Islamic knowledge. She explained: ‘It reminds me of Ma'had īlktrūniyyāt (the Institute of Electronics Engineering) or Ma'had Kahrabā (the Institute of Electrical Engineering), and those things that are less than a bachelor degree. Do you get me?’ (fieldnotes, 2020). I get it. I get it not because I agree, but because I have lived in my own privileged bubble long enough to know how these words sound to someone who lives in New Cairo, has been to one of the most expensive schools in Cairo and got a bachelor's degree from the American University in Cairo. Ma'had, in colloquial Egyptian Arabic, and for upper-class Egyptians, refers to education institutes that are lower-ranking, where lower-class youth receive a degree when they cannot afford a university. In that bubble, words like Dār and Ma'had are too Arabic, and not expensive enough to be allowed in. But, thankfully, the Dār's EGP 600 per term registration fee (around USD 38 as of 2021) makes up for its name. Its location makes up for its name. Its furnishing and air conditioners make up for its name.
Reception area and desk, Egypt, 2020. Photo by author.
Citation: Anthropology of the Middle East 19, 1; 10.3167/ame.2024.190104
When Mu'allimah Lama wanted to open the Dār in New Cairo, her goal was: ‘a place that teaches people their religion, ethics, order, compassion, understanding, cleanliness, everything; because what I saw before was different than that’ (fieldnotes, 2020). She often emphasised the importance of cleanliness, insisting that it was one of the reasons that the place was successful. This did not simply mean dusting off things, but implied getting furniture that was not cheap, getting air conditioners and setting up the space in a way that would allow the residents of New Cairo to feel at home – an expensive feat. The rent alone is EGP 320,000 a year (around USD 370 as of 2021), besides the running costs. This statement about cleanliness can hence be framed within Mary Douglas's (2002: 36) assertion that ‘where there is dirt there is system’. What is considered as dirt or as being dirty is that in the system which ‘must not be included if a pattern is to be maintained’ (ibid.: 41). In this context, then, the existence of a space of Islamic knowledge that is unkempt, untidy, disordered, inexpensive is both literally and figuratively ‘dirty’. It is thus what needs to be excluded, and replaced by the ‘clean’ space defined above. The move to a cleaner Dār, all else considered, is a move to an upper-class conceptualisation and administration of it. This shows the co-constitutive relationship between the secular and the religious, as well as their intersections with class.
Classroom with a television, Egypt, 2020. Photo by author.
Citation: Anthropology of the Middle East 19, 1; 10.3167/ame.2024.190104
The students also make statements acknowledging the class positionality of the space. Noor once told me: ‘This Dār, or any Dār in Tagammu’, will have much higher running costs than a place in Madīnat Naṣr [Nasr City, an area in Cairo], or in any sha'bī area. And there are less students; yet, owing to their higher social and income level, they need a higher quality of service … It's just like the difference between any private institution and a public one, the services are of course better in the private one’ (fieldnotes, 2020). Noor is in her mid-twenties, also lives in New Cairo and also attends the American University in Cairo, like Farida. Again, she is from a relatively upper-class background; however, her previous religious knowledge background is unknown. Her choice of word, ‘sha'bī’, literally translates to ‘popular’ or ‘of the people’, and indicates a space that is of a lower class. Furthermore, the mention of Madīnat Naṣr is interesting since that area is often perceived as a middle-class one. Therefore, by combining the mention of Madīnat Naṣr and the term sha'bī, Noor places New Cairo and the Dār itself in juxtaposition to these locations and, by extension, these classes.
Salam, another student, is in her mid-twenties, has also graduated with a BA in Economics from the American University in Cairo and currently lives in New Cairo. Salam also switched from another Dār in Maṣr al-Gadīdah because she did not feel like she ‘belonged to that community’, and the Dār in New Cairo was closer. She also felt that the aesthetics of the space in New Cairo suited her preferences. This expression of taste and belonging by a relatively upper-class individual once again unravels the reality of this space in relation to class.
On Institutions
Furthermore, the location is also significant because it mimics – albeit differently, and perhaps even more aggressively – the symbolic geographical distance that the first Dār al-’Ulūms had from al-Azhar, Egypt's largest religious institution and authority (Aroian 1983). Like these earlier spaces, the Dār places itself at a distance from al-Azhar; no longer being physically a part of it is symbolic of an even greater divide. The rift is not subtle. Almost all the students I talked to emphasised the lack of trust they felt towards al-Azhar that would make them unwilling to even consider going there. This was a lack of trust not merely directed at al-Azhar, but one telling of their current relations with the state. According to my interlocutors’ experiences, the 2010s marked a moment in time when many people finally became part of an outburst in reaction to what the state had been doing for years, and were subsequently let down. This was not specific only to certain people, but was of course expressed differently and had different reasons. For many of my interlocutors, this period meant that they no longer trusted the state and felt like they could express that. The Dār became a space accessible to them, that was no longer state-affiliated, and where they could trust the knowledge they received – as opposed to what they would hear from al-Azhar. This especially became true due to the statements al-Azhar were making about this historical moment, and the way that they continuously sided with the state, making them no longer trustworthy to some.
A friend studying at al-Azhar told me that her teacher frequently made snide comments about the ‘arrogant Salafy Dār’, juxtaposed with the ‘humbly moderate teachings’ of the more Sufī-oriented al-Azhar. The Dār's location becomes even more important with these dynamics in mind. Mu'allimah Lama explained how she picked this spot precisely for the Dār: ‘There are people here who teach Sufī teachings, and are not from ahl al-Sunnah; so, I said, fine, I will open next to them and take their students’ (fieldnotes, 2020). Given these words, the location could not be more symbolic of a struggle that one could easily overlook – especially since there is no mention of al-Azhar within the bounds of the classes in the Dār.
This symbolic geographical set-up is not only a reflection of institutional struggle, but is also reflective of the struggle against centralisation. Following a Qurān class at the Dār, I had a brief conversation with the Qurān teacher, in which she explained to me that al-Azhar was once the only place to teach the different branches of Islamic knowledge, and it was inconvenient for many women to join the programmes and classes offered there. The importance of the Dār then lay in its accessibility and closeness to a lot of women; she explained: ‘Is there a man that would agree that his wife study all day? No way. Which makes going to al-Azhar for a full day everyday really hard if your home is your priority. This is why the Ma'had2 is easier for married women’ (fieldnotes, 2020). She told me that she used to study at al-Azhar, but that it is harder now that she is older because of her back problems. The distance it takes her to get there sitting in the car is too much for her, and so she said: ‘the importance of the Dūr [plural of Dār] is that we no longer need to go to al-Azhar to learn’ (fieldnotes, 2020). The women have made ways to manoeuvre through the different states of being a woman in the world; the location of the Dār, and its place on a map, shows us this. It is not just convenient for married women, but also for women who study and work. The Dār is close to their homes, and since it offers weekend classes, they can easily make it there and be back home in time to sleep for work or school the next day. Salam, who is currently working at a company, said: ‘they were one of the very few Dūr that had evening schedules that fit my schedule as a working woman.’ She paused and laughed. ‘They were one of the few places in Tagammu’ that had evening and Saturday classes, which were perfect and very suitable’ (fieldnotes, 2020). The Dār thus becomes a space where women with different lives can come together.
Historic and Temporal Considerations
Ahl al-Sunnah wa al-Jamā’ah: The Construction of the Dār vis-à-vis the Time of the Prophet
On Naming
The first important reference to history perhaps lies in the name of the space itself. ‘Dār’ is Arabic for ‘house’ or ‘home’. The use of the word Dār is less common in Cairo than elsewhere in Egypt, where ‘home’ is often referred to as Bayt instead. When I asked Mu'allimah Lama (the owner of this Dār) why it is referred to as such, she gave me a concise answer that is already reflective of the continuous interlinking of the past and the present: ‘because of ‘urf [custom], and like Dār al-Arqam that existed during the Prophet's time’ (fieldnotes, 2020). Dār al-Arqam was the place of residence of one of the companions of the Prophet, set up as a space of knowledge, she explained. The name drew on spatiotemporal parallels between the space in 2020 in Tagammu’ and the space that was set up during the time of the Prophet Muhammad to serve the same purpose of preserving and passing on Islamic knowledge. Additionally, in the Dār today, the names of the classes also reflect the way in which the present is the procession of the past as it devours the future (Bergson 1988). Each class is named after one of the Prophet's wives, companions or a famous Sunni Muslim scholar, thus marking an encroachment of different timelines, and a temporal intermingling represented in signs within that space. For example, one of the classes I frequently attended for my fieldwork was called ‘The Hall of al-Sayyidah Khadijah’, thus named after the Prophet Muhammad's wife.
Classroom door with a sign saying ‘hall of al-Sayyidah Khadijah’, Egypt, 2020. Photo by author.
Citation: Anthropology of the Middle East 19, 1; 10.3167/ame.2024.190104
On Framing
The Dār in its current form can be seen as preceded by the Kuttabs and the Madrasahs that became more common following the passing of the Prophet. Haroon Sidat (2018: 1) offers a historical account of the emergence of such spaces:
The name Dar al-Uloom is an Arabic expression that translates into ‘house of knowledge or Islamic sciences’. The generic word ‘madrassa’ can also be used, though in the British Deobandi nomenclature, the Dar al-Uloom refers to a particular type of teaching institution: that of higher learning. Their history can be traced back to colonial India where the reformist ‘ulama, or religious scholars, sought to revive Islam by training well-educated believers to instruct the community in the true practice of Islam to create what Geertz … referred to as ‘scriptural Islam’. They were part of a broader spectrum of revivalist movements that manifested in a visible expression during the 18th and 19th centuries in Arabia, and earlier during the 17th century in India.
Similarly to this description of the Deobandi movement, the Dūr in Egypt also have the primary objective of ‘the conservation of the classical Islamic texts and sciences, and not textual innovation’ (ibid.: 2), which is evidenced by the consistent reference to the concept of Bid'ah. Bid'ah translates roughly to ‘invention’, and is frequently used in classes at the Dār to differentiate what is part of classical Islamic teachings and what is a new addition to this body of knowledge. The teachers at the Dār explain that the school of thought they follow is the Salafy school – one that emphasises the importance of preservation of past classical teachings – and thus define the Shari'ah as the Islamic jurisprudence that emerges based on such teachings. According to multiple Mu'allimāt (plural of Mu'allimah) in the Dār, the texts that exist from the Prophet's time and the few generations thereafter most accurately detail the prophetic exposition of the Qurān sent from God. Any explanations or acts of worship not based on what is considered the Prophet's exact teachings are considered Bid'ah. The distinction is made clearer in the words of Mu'allimah Marwa:
The ūmmah [people] of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, has been divided into sects in terms of how they understand belief, like the belief in the day of judgement or in destiny … For us, there is Ahl al-Sunnah wa al-Jamā’ah [this refers to Sunni Muslims, who follow the direct teachings of the Prophet] and Ahl al-Bid'ah wa al-Ḍalālah [this translates to ‘the people of heresy and misguidance'] …
[We must ask ourselves], did we see the Prophet or any of his companions do this? What is the definition of Bid'ah? It is doing an act of worship in a time, or place, or for a period of time, or in a certain way, that does not exist in the Shari'ah. Worship is tawqifīyah [used in this context to mean that it is where you stop and act based on the evidence provided], which means it is predicated upon evidence. The people of knowledge have all agreed that worship is to be based on the teachings of the Prophet in its form, place, time, type and quantity. (Fieldnotes, 2020)
If the women perceive some acts of worship as being better, the Mu'allimāt urge them to stick to the direct teachings of the Prophet. Mu'allimah Nariman was asked by a woman in class about making regular prayers for the purpose of asking God to end the COVID-19 pandemic, to which she replied:
Look, because I trust that you – and not just you, but everyone here – are good and want to do good as a student of knowledge, you need to know the following for when others argue with you. You have to ask yourself, did this happen during the time of the Prophet? What did he do? I don't want you to do better, I want you to follow him. Always have a shar'y [from the Shari'ah] evidence. (Fieldnotes, 2020)
The Salafy Dār is hence similar to the ‘Ahle Hadith movement that shares some affinity with the teachings of the Wahhabi movement and broadly does not follow a particular school of law (madhab)’ (Sidat 2018: 2). Mu'allimah Nariman explained in one of her classes: ‘We do not follow a specific madhhab [school of thought in Islamic jurisprudence], we take the more likely opinion’ (fieldnotes, 2020). This likelihood stems from the opinion being the most prevalent one among scholars from the Ahl al-Sunnah wa al-Jamā’ah. It is based on the notion of consensus among Sunni scholars. Mu'allimah Nariman also said in another class, as they read one of the assigned books: ‘There are things the Shaykh [title of respect for people of knowledge in Islam] says that we will oppose, and I will say the more likely opinion’ (fieldnotes, 2020). It is thus about following consensus, even if they are to let go of some teachings from the books they read. The end goal is therefore a preservation of what is deemed to be the sound and accurate tradition of the Prophet Muhammad.
The Colonial Context and the State
Understanding the emergence of the Dār in Egypt with consideration of the colonial context entails understanding the ways in which ‘schooling was only a part of the wider political process of discipline and instruction.’ (Mitchell 1991: 89) Mitchell (ibid.: 81) proceeds to say:
Just as the model schools offered the model of a modern system of power, this image of the old style of teaching was also the image of existing Egyptian society. Movement is haphazard and undisciplined, space is cramped, communication is uncertain, the presence of authority is intermittent, individuals are all unalike and uncoordinated, disorder threatens to break in at any point, and order can be reestablished only by the swift and physical demonstration of power. Despite the problem of disorder, the weakness of authority, the absence of regulation and system, and the confusion of noises, of colours, of ages, of clothing and of activities, nevertheless the pedagogical style manages, it is said, to maintain some sort of order. Its form is the individual exchange between master and student. This relation is seen as both the limitation and the strength of the social order. It is the limit, because every instruction, correction, encouragement and admonition must be given separately and repeated for every pupil.
Within the context of colonisation, a discussion emerged over the need to return to the earlier ideals of the Prophet Muhammad, vis-à-vis others pushing for a move to more ‘European methods and ideas’ as a means to strengthen the country's position (Aroian 1983: 1). For Aroian (1983), the Salafiyyah movement sought to incorporate both a return of past ideals and their integration with what were deemed more modern ideals of the West. Whether that divide exists in itself is not as important here as the idea that this discourse describes the movement.
With this recognition of debates on the matter, it is more important to explore how the Dār expresses itself in this regard. Most visible is the avoidant stance on politics embodied by a white A4 sheet of paper hung on the walls of the classrooms, with the words: ‘No political discussions allowed.’ This is not to say that there is such a thing as being apolitical, since the sign itself is political. Perhaps a politics of refusal can be described here: a refusal to engage, in order to exist, in order to continue the work being done. The sign exists as an embodiment of this, especially since the Dār is closely monitored. For example, Mu'allimah Lama explained to me that a supervisor visits them who belongs to al-Azhar, whose role is to make sure that they are teaching within the bounds of what is appropriate. They have not faced any problems so far in this regard. However, there are political implications to the work they do, and to their imagination of a specific Islamic society. Nevertheless, these political implications are yet to challenge the state, and have conversely been used by it, due to the Salafy opinion regarding preserving the system. For example, one teacher often told the students that it was impermissible to go against the ruler of the country. Other teachers disagreed, and were angered by her stance. Eventually, the situation diffused and the teacher was asked not to speak about politics again; and that was that. Nevertheless, there is always something political at work; its covert quality has allowed them to survive thus far.
This survival has not been inconsequential, for there is always an underlying aura of fear – even if no one clearly says it. One time I had my phone on the desk and the teacher looked over and said: ‘you'd better not be recording us’ (fieldnotes, 2020). For a moment, I panicked, insisting that it was off. She then laughed and told me not to worry, that she was only joking with me, but that I should know not to record. I told her I wouldn't, and awkwardly laughed until she left. But the fear still floated around with the weightlessness of an elephant in the room. However, Mu'allimah Lama told me, when it was time for her to open the space in 2013, that ‘there's no such thing as working for God, and being afraid’ (fieldnotes, 2020).
Disturbing Distinctions
Aroian (1983) recounts how the methods and practices of European and American educational theories would also eventually influence the practices in the Dār al-’Ulūm. By the mid-nineteenth century, there was a national educational system in Egypt, whereby the ‘state regulated and financed education. Attendance would be required by law. The state would offer this education without charge. Promotion would depend on graded and standardised methods of evaluation. Continental Europe offered the model for the national system’ (ibid.: 9). On the other hand, the religious system Aroian (ibid.: 9) describes was organised ‘according to custom’, and was ‘decentralised’, with individual financing and optional attendance ‘governed by religious duty or as preparation for a religious vocation’; ‘evaluation involved no specific grades or standards of uniformity’. In the Dār now, the distinction Aroian makes between state-regulated and religious systems is troubled. The present realities of the Dār necessarily entail a rethinking of these binaries, especially with regard to a colonial discourse of dualities.
As mentioned by Mu'allimah Lama, there are customary aspects that govern the space, including its naming, and even the assigned books that have become relatively common. However, there is still flexibility in deciding on the books. I have been told that they can sometimes be changed, and new ones could even be introduced if suggested by the students. Furthermore, there is a decentralised aspect to the space, whereby the Dūr have now started opening up all over different areas in Cairo, which has made it so that one no longer has to go to al-Azhar to learn. On the other hand, there are legal considerations by the state that must be accounted for. Legally, the Dār has only been given a licence to teach the Qurān and its sciences. Mu'allimah Lama explained to me that, legally, that is the only available licence, and that anyone who wants to learn the other branches of Islamic knowledge should go to al-Azhar. Nevertheless, the Dār continues to teach all the different branches anyway.
The Dār is privately owned, but it is not individually financed, in the sense that it was opened through charitable donations made by various people – those who wanted to get the thawab (reward by God for good deeds) for opening up such a space, and possibly the network of students and teachers, and their families, who know Mu'allimah Lama. The Dār now continues to operate using the fees paid by the students at the beginning of each term – fees that Mu'allimah Lama explained are for the running costs of the space, and for savings that allow them to continuously expand and renovate it (with the most recent expansion happening in 2019–2020).
As for attendance, it is flexible. The teachers often remark that it is important for students to show up so that they have sufficient knowledge and are able to teach later on. Attendance is not rigidly monitored or accounted for, though. As for the teachers, the religious duty of attendance is highlighted in what Mu'alimah Lama told me: ‘I come everyday, I come on Saturdays, and I go home everyday at night like employees; but I do this because I work for God, al-hamdulillah [thank God]’ (fieldnotes, 2020).
Finally, although students do have exams and are given grades, they do not need to take the examination path, and can just attend the classes. However, doing so means that they do not get the certificate that would allow them to teach later on. The grades do not mean anything, and no one fails. It is simply a matter of bureaucracy and custom, and mainly a way to get the students to revise and test their knowledge. It also feeds into the preservation narrative, as Noor – a student – explains (fieldnotes, 2020):
It's not about the certificate, I don't care, and there's a big chance that I will turn to the non-examination track; but still, the existence of exams makes me read. The classes that aren't connected, or do not have some syllabus, make me feel like the knowledge that goes into my brain eventually flees it. I feel that, to me, anything with exams is important because then I revise and read so that the information is preserved in my brain, because I'm not the kind of person who remembers things without studying them.
Mu'allimah Yomna confirmed this during her class on prayer in which she told the students: ‘We do not study and gain knowledge so that we can take a test. This is “prayer”, and it is the first thing we will be asked about [by God]’ (fieldnotes, 2020). Mu'allimah Marwa tells them frequently:
Do your grades matter to me? No. Neither should your grade matter to you. Do not talk about your grades, do not share them with the person sitting next to you. Al-hamdulillah that you studied. What should matter to you is that you studied. I keep hearing you guys say: ‘but I lost a grade here …’ I don't care. It isn't important and it doesn't upset me if you don't do well; because the important thing is that the knowledge settles in your heart, and that you take it in and apply it … It is heavy. Who said that it would be interesting? Knowledge is heavy, but after a while, it gets interesting. Just pray that God gives you the patience and the ability to learn. (Fieldnotes, 2020)
Noor, attending the American University in Cairo, sees a juxtaposition between forms of education emphasising the need to get good grades, since good grades mean finding a good job that then generates monetary value for the carrier of knowledge, and the Dār as a form of education separate from this grading system. Ali Madanipour (2011: 86) explains that the ‘value of knowledge in the knowledge economy is not knowledge per se, but an instrumental and commodified use of knowledge, hence the significance of converting knowledge into money.’ This is why the culture of examination has become so necessary and integral that one no longer imagines knowledge as valuable without being tested. The transformative value of knowledge becomes less important than its commodification. However, in the Dār, examination is part of the wider goal of preservation of what is deemed an Islamic tradition, as well as holding oneself accountable for the knowledge of it. It is a way for the students to revise what they have learned, to make sure that they have understood the material correctly and thus to get a chance to ask about things that need clarification. It is also a way to become more aware of one's standing, and one's mistakes, hence fostering self-accountability. The exams end up opening spaces of discussion among students and between students and teachers about the things they study. This allows for debates to ensue, and more knowledge to be circulated in class and beyond it, utilising sociability as a pedagogical method. As one studies, is examined and discusses, one starts consolidating one's knowledge – which is what is intended by the Dār as a project to make sure correct Islamic knowledge is not lost, and is preserved in the minds, hearts and practices of the students and teachers. Yet examinations are also viewed as inferior to the hearts of knowledge's carriers and their actions – whose alteration is deemed to be the value of knowledge itself. Knowledge becomes valuable for both what it says about the world, and more specifically how it transforms a person. For what it says about the world allows it to transform those who carry it. The value of knowledge, even if one does not immediately act on it, is that those who learn have the ability to act at some point. They also have the ability to transmit that knowledge to others who would act upon it as well – it is thus transformative for the individual and the community. In the Dār, it is often suggested by the teachers to the students that knowledge that does not transform is useless. Instead, the changes that happen to the students are what make that knowledge valuable.
Rummaging through Rhythms: Vignettes from the Dār, and Sketching the Place
When different sounds, bodies, smells, scenes, affects and conversations come together, they are more telling of the space that is the Dār than merely labelling it as a space for the Islamic education of Muslim women. Such labels, while multiple, often do not reveal much of the dynamics of the everyday, nor do they give a real exploration of the complex spatiotemporal arrangements. Lefebvre (2004: 15) explains that ‘everywhere where there is interaction between a place, a time and an expenditure of energy, there is a rhythm.’ For Lefebvre (ibid.: 5-6), the meaning of rhythm is not clear because ‘we tend to attribute to rhythms a mechanical overtone, brushing aside the organic aspect of rhythmed movements.’ This is not to say that there is not a form of repetition within the everyday, but that the essential thing about rhythms is that none of them are identical, and there is always space for something unexpected. This organic and empirical notion of ‘rhythmanalysis’ involves an organic engagement with our surroundings. Rhythmanalysis is a way to unravel the social, not only as an enactment of a form of agency or a capacity to grasp, but rather also as a function of being grasped ourselves.
Shortly after hearing ‘Yes, that is so interesting, bas ya'nī ih Dār baa'a [so what is the Dār]?’ a few times, I realised that the word Dār evoked many different scenes and descriptions, and that one way to write about the Dār would be through myself and my interlocutors. It is by putting forth our experiences, and the meanings we ascribe to them – mimicking the mess. Although ‘there is no space here for discrete instants that can be counted, only a continuous unravelling of duration’ (Quinlivan 2017: 2), there also must be an attempt. With the same initial struggle to put them into words, and with the same fear of holding them captive within these words, I move forward to at least enable an imagination, or a communication of what the Dār could be, using a technique of deliberate imprecision. The upcoming section is an amalgamation of different vignettes meant to inspire readers to immerse themselves, engage and imagine. Not only to imagine the space as experienced, but also to imagine the potentialities. Instead of clearly listing the existing potential as a subjective endeavour, I am instead opting to lay the groundwork for readers to do so themselves. Naturally, there are upcoming and previous allusions to potentialities, but they remain as such for the purpose of keeping the mess, and staying with it. Every day, the women negotiate, rethink, alter, push, debate, fight, discuss, laugh, eat, drink and question. Every day is messy, and every day we are shown the ways in which this mess is navigated instead of rejected. This reflection is meant not only as a description of the space, but as an inspiration to us when reading about it and extending our imagination beyond it. It is a technique meant to inspire creative critical inquiry.
‘Dār’ || ‘Home’
It's comfortable. If I need a Dār and could not find another one that is as well furnished, where I am psychologically comfortable, with good finishing, nice chairs and an air conditioner … These things are nice to have, and it's nice to have a comfortable place where you can find food, drinks and that kind of stuff. (Salam, fieldnotes, 2020)
I looked down and the first thing I noticed was the carpet; I smiled, because I thought my grandmother had the same one at home. Or maybe we did. Or maybe I saw it at one of my friends’ houses? I wasn't sure, but it was awfully familiar. As I walked through to get to the classroom, I passed by the kitchen. I could've sworn my grandmother had the same sink and tiles. Or was it my friend's house? And in the classroom, the white walls, beige and light brown wooden floor, and the air conditioner would have been identical to our living room – if it weren't for the white fluorescent lighting, and the black leather desk chairs. The huge whiteboard, the mic and the teacher's desk also didn't cater to my imagination; but the feeling of familiarity, that ‘homey’ feeling, persisted somehow. Perhaps it was the smell of coffee and tea in the air every morning. I do not drink either, but my parents drink both. But I've smelt them before, in so many different places; so why were they now reminiscent of home? I think the other sounds might have helped.
A classroom at the Dār, Egypt, 2020. Photo by author.
Citation: Anthropology of the Middle East 19, 1; 10.3167/ame.2024.190104
One day, when I was offered a biscuit, from the ones the teacher got, by one of the students, and I politely said I didn't want any, she told me, ‘No, you have to take one or the teacher will get upset’ (fieldnotes, 2020). The biscuit is part of the rhythm, and me rejecting it was a form of disruption; class could not begin, and the teacher would get upset. So every morning, before class, the women gathered in the kitchens, made their teas and their coffees and had their sandwiches and snacks. They talked about everything. Two women exchanged recipes. Another two talked about their families. A group of four were frustrated with how they had done on the exam. No, wait; they sounded pleased. I must have not heard them right in all the simultaneous murmurs. And laughs. That was the most consistent sound. The laughs echoed throughout the day: from morning breakfast, in classes, in every food and prayer break. I wrote ever so often throughout my fieldnotes, as interjections, ‘woman makes a joke, everyone laughs’ (fieldnotes, 2020). It feels like home.
But besides the laughter, some silence would persist until the sound of the ādhān [Muslim call to prayer] ceased. But that kind of silence was not as quiet as the silence of getting speeches of displeasure from the teacher. The silence of ādhān time was less stern. There were the whispers and the breaths of the women, synchronising with the ādhān, as they took those moments to recite after it. These whispers were not the only ones flooding the room daily, but other sounds were also harmonious. After every ‘ṣallá Allāh ‘alayhi wa-sallam’ [‘Peace and blessings be upon him’, in reference to the Prophet Muhammad] are echoes of ‘wa ‘alayhi al-ṣallah wa-sallam'[‘Blessings and peace be upon him']– as subtle and unpronounced chirps (fieldnotes, 2020).
The path between both sections of chairs in class sees a swooshing of long black ‘abāyahs (a loose-fitting garment). First and second years usually have more colourful classes; the later years see a more unified black. The colour black almost becomes a uniform. Sometimes the ‘abāyah feels like home because you never have to leave behind the pyjamas underneath. Maybe that is why, sometimes, the women would place two chairs facing each other, sitting comfortably with their legs stretched out in front. One time, a woman had snacks. The other time another fell asleep. Like home.
But there are also things that don't really feel like a home. The white fluorescent lights always remind me of school, or of science labs. They make you less comfortable. The teacher sitting alone at her brown wooden desk, placed atop a small stage at the end of the classroom, juxtaposes with the crammed-in women. That makes you less comfortable. There is a constant resounding of ‘sorry’, ‘excuse me’ and ‘can you see?’ bound within the classroom's walls, triggered by the tightly packed black desk chairs (fieldnotes, 2020).
Baby sounds, sounds of women laughing, plastic, women talking, chairs screeching across wooden floors, shuffling shoes, clinking glasses … Mu'allimah Marwa: ‘I'm going to leave you until you're completely done with everything, and I will just sit here, eat and drink and just [wait]’ (fieldnotes, 2020). That is when the silence is the most silent. Sometimes, the women are silent when they are asked not to be. Especially in the halaqah (recitation circles). They all sit in a circle to recite the Qurān, but each one takes a turn in which the teacher focuses on her recitation. The sound of the teacher reciting is usually accompanied by the whooshing of pages being turned, or the whispers of women trying to follow. Sometimes they fall silent, and all that is heard is the sound of the fingertip dragging across the page, following the letters – following the sounds that must be uttered. Until the fingers rest and she has to start reciting. She has to keep repeating until she gets it right. Sometimes it seems like the rest have zoned out, they are all silent. But when the recitation is done, the teacher then jokes about the spelling, or calls on someone else to ask a question, and the sounds flood the room again. The consistency of WhatsApp message beeps, phones ringing, alarms resounding. The phone's ādhān, sometimes synching with the ādhān from the mosque, or with other phones, sometimes each going off on its own. Sometimes the phone rings and interjects with the ādhān and the whispers. Sometimes the class pauses, at other times everyone curiously halts for a split second, staring at the phone or the person anxiously trying to get it to stop. Sometimes they look, and a mother lets the phone ring – it disrupts nothing when it is in the hands of her child; and perhaps, taking it away would be noisier.
Fieldnotes: sketches of the classroom, Egypt, 2020. Photo by author.
Citation: Anthropology of the Middle East 19, 1; 10.3167/ame.2024.190104
Fieldnotes: sketches of the classroom 2, Egypt, 2020. Photo by author.
Citation: Anthropology of the Middle East 19, 1; 10.3167/ame.2024.190104
Perhaps most recently, the sound that triggers a complete disruption of rhythms is the sound of a cough. It existed prior to COVID-19. When one woman has a cough in Mu'allimah Lama's class, early in the semester, she tells her to go get something to drink for the cough, and asks if she is okay. When she leaves the women talk about how she is always coughing, and how they feel for her and always pray for her allergies to get better. The students ask the teacher to pause the class and wait for her, and so the teacher recaps what they have covered until she comes back. But later on, one of the women is sick and is talking to the teacher; the teacher interrupts and says: ‘don't talk at all or the virus will come out. I will give you the final grade, but please keep quiet’ (fieldnotes, 2020). They all laugh, but the room tenses up a bit. COVID-19 starts to change things. The discourse in class changes, and the word ‘grateful’ circulates consistently. The teachers say: ‘God has bestowed upon us health … feel that, [and be grateful]’ (fieldnotes, 2020). But the tension soon fades, and the familiar sounds of laughter soon echo again. When one student sneezes, Mu'allimah Yomna says: ‘Allāhu akbar [God is great!]’, and they all laugh. A student then says: ‘Gone are the days where we used to tell someone God bless you when they sneezed’, and they all laugh again. To which Mu'allimah Yomna replies: ‘Yes! Now we say Allāhu akbar!’ She laughs (fieldnotes, 2020). These silences, these sounds, the rigidity, the flexibility, the laughter, the effects and all these rhythmic motions fluctuate throughout the day. They always seem to exist, daily, without fail; but they are never the same.
One of the most consistent sounds is that of children. Sometimes, they make beds out of chairs, and sleep peacefully at the back of the class. Only until they wake up crying and one of the women has to calm them until they find their mother, that is. But their sounds always exist, mingling with all the other sounds, fusing and integrating – but sometimes breaking. I remember one day the room echoed with the thuds of chairs and the squealing of desks as they dragged across the white ceramic floor tiles. The students rush to find a spot to sit, their bodies awkwardly colliding. Amid the layers of lamūā’khzahs and the apologetic ‘an izniks (both phrases are Arabic for ‘excuse me’), a child's whaaa-mmmm-ehh makes its way past its mother's silencing attempts. Deb-deb-deb, an old fist continuously knocks rhythmically on the black metal desk, never failing to skip a deb, and never allowing a new flow of deb to surmount, only the same deb-deb-deb. ‘Haḍritik ‘ayzah tishrabi hāgah?’ [‘Would you like to drink anything, Ma'am?’], the woman in charge of the kitchen mutters to the room, her widely welcoming smile and wave almost drawing out the longings hiding beneath awkward shaking heads and dishonest lā, shukrans [‘no, thank yous'] (fieldnotes, 2020). The deb-deb-deb halts, and a cracking coarse voice requests a cup of tea, with a spoonful of sugar and just a tiny bit of milk. The teacher's presence demands silence (just until she sits down), and so the tapping of her heels, as she moves from the small wooden door to the desk and chair atop the mini-stage, is only outdone by the sequenced squeals of the screaming child insisting on being fed – forgoing the theatrics of awkward head-shakes and dishonest lā, shukrans. The women take turns cradling the body of the determined child. His body is surfing the waves of loud cradling women demanding tea and sugar and milk, and he seems like he might want milk, too – but no one asks. His toothless mouth opens wide with a roar, struggling to disrupt the drowning sounds, but then failing and gasping for air to fill his now overworked lungs. The teacher gives a reminiscing ‘hhhh’ and smiles, as she remembers her own children's hungry squeals. There is a room right inside the classroom where the mother can feed her baby, but she translates the whaaa-mmmmmmmmm-eeeeehhhs as cries of irrelevant, incurable pain and not hunger; and with her definitive judgement, the teacher decides to move on.
Omnia is relentlessly trying to calm her crying baby in the back of the classroom, trying to hear the teacher over the tears: ‘Anā itfarhadt’ [‘I am drained'] (fieldnotes, 2020). With an exhausted exhale, Omnia throws herself back in the chair at the end of the classroom, after having placed her baby in the baby seat by the foot of the chair. Being drained but pushing through to manage to come to class, and stay there, was not only Omnia's struggle, but that of several other women I came across in almost every single class. There was always a mother or two, sometimes even three, with their babies crying or running around class – and sometimes, on the good days, sleeping soundly in their baby seats or on beds made of abandoned chairs. I remember one daughter, seemingly 4 or 5 years old, stretched on two chairs at the back of the classroom, dozing off. As soon as she got up, she started asking for her mother – her question marking the brink of a possible outcry or meltdown. A woman got up, carried her, hugged her tight to calm her down, walked her about and waited until her mother could take her. The mother finished what she was doing, and eventually got up and took her into her arms as she was released from the arms of the other woman.
Even when it sometimes felt like the children were out of place, striking in their presence, they also sometimes seemed to fit in. Another little girl, around 5 or 6 years of age, was with her mother in one of the Qurān classes. The girl wore a veil and stood next to her mother. She was quiet, and didn't move a lot. As the women recited, she listened. Then, once, she began reciting along with them. ‘Yākhti [‘Oh, my dear'], your little one is reciting’, the teacher said (fieldnotes, 2020). According to Mu'allimah Lama:
Originally, I didn't allow the existence of children inside the classrooms unless their mothers could control them. Otherwise, there are rooms connected to the classrooms with screens and speakers so that the mothers with their children can attend and listen, and can see the whiteboard. Sometimes, they take shifts where one says, ‘my son is sleeping, can I leave them with you and attend?’ to the others and they agree to watch him until she's done. (Fieldnotes, 2020)
One time, when one of the children was being especially loud, the mother apologised to the teacher for disrupting the class. She didn't leave, and wasn't asked to; instead, the teacher said: ‘I am happy when children exist in these spaces’ (fieldnotes, 2020). As soon as class ends, the du'a (Arabic for prayer) of the end of the māglis (a session of knowledge exchange or transmission) is recited by the teacher, prompting the sounds of all the women to rise up at once, talking, mingling, catching up or going up to talk to the teacher. ‘Subḥānak Allāhum wa biḥāmdika ashhadu an lā ilāha illā anta astaghfiruka wa atūbu ilayk’ [‘Oh Allah, exalted are You, praise be to You; I declare that there is no god except for You, and I ask for our forgiveness and turn to You in repentance']. With those words, the volume increases, and whichever kind of silence ends.
Conclusion
The idea of ‘home’ cannot be grasped by words, because even if one does so, it never feels the same, neither to the same person in time, nor to others. So to capture a place would be to do it injustice. However, to not say anything at all – although sometimes necessary – eliminates any chance at an imagination of a space or its potential. ‘Bas ya'nī ih Dār baa'a?’ [‘So what is the Dār?’] The answer to that question will never be one thing or the other, but between the sounds, smells, sights, feelings, heartbeats and objects, some ideas can be drawn. The idea of the Dār being one rigid space, with a fixed history and temporality, cannot be true amid the mess of the everyday. No matter how much one can construct an image of a well-defined, orderly space with consistent daily schedules, the lived experience is never the same.
Throughout this account, I have attempted to unravel that lived experience, first through myself, my body and my senses, and also through the reflections of those around me, my interlocutors, who might have felt the same or differently. This attempt was merely to try and complicate the fixed notions of what a space of Islamic knowledge might look like, in order to move on to the different imaginations and potentialities that emerge with its existence. To reflect, to imagine and to hope, based on the realities of people, objects, spaces and times. To think beyond the categories we affix, to allow the flux of potentialities to make their way through our work and lives. Instead of thinking about spaces of knowledge – Islamic, and otherwise – as void of sounds of children, smells of food, the laughter of bonding, whispers of stories, and compliments, we can begin to explore the potential of having all these exist in a space designed for the transmission of knowledge and the transformation of its holders. We see a space that caters and allows for the mess of life to happen every day, in constant negotiation with ideals of order and discipline. We can imagine and find potential in spaces that embrace that mess, and work with it and around it instead of attempting to control and deny it. This shows us the potential of spaces of knowledge also becoming places of mess, while continuing with that same goal of learning and educating; the Dār shows us that these need not be separate.
Notes
The ALA-LC Romanisation Tables system for transliteration was used for Arabic terms, with exceptions being the use of g instead of j and z instead of dh for words that are pronounced in the Egyptian Arabic dialect.
The women often use the words Dār and Ma'had interchangeably to refer to the space itself.
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