A man is murdered in a town just south of Karak, Jordan.1 As has been the custom for generations, the tribes of the victim and perpetrator meet to negotiate a ṣulḥa, a peace settlement that can avoid further conflict. The demands of the victim's tribe include the death of the alleged murderer and—in accordance with tradition—the jalwa (exile) of the khamsa (the term for those descended from the perpetrator's great-great-great grandfather). But these events do not happen centuries ago, when the tribal elders were clearly the most powerful political authorities in the region, absent a centralising government; this is 2016, when the Jordanian state has undertaken the role of maintaining law and order between its citizens.
This case study demonstrates the complicated nature of the justice system in Jordan, by considering interactions between—and the joint endeavours of—state and tribe. By examining these events in Karak, this article focuses on how specific state actors in Jordan and the formal Jordanian judicial system interact with the customs of Jordanian tribes, and vice versa, in theory and in practice.
My work considers documentary research drawn from media sources and archival material and draws on significant historic and contemporary Jordanian scholarship by academics including Peter Gubser (1973) and Jessica Watkins (2014). This includes analyses of a substantial number of social media accounts and posts—including from online fora purporting to represent the interests and views of particular tribes. I studied posts, comments, and replies, as a processes of real-time examination of the discursive construction (by online participants) of justice and the state in Jordan. I also conducted online interviews with those who posted statements in these fora or were involved in the proceedings.2
In showing how both tribe and state actors adopt a pragmatic approach, I consider the ways they seek to maintain their authority in particular spheres, at least in part by recognising and making use of each other's systems and processes and by recognising their own limitations, in certain scenarios. This case study adds to understandings of social power and justice in Jordan, identifying certain intertwined spaces and connected systems of state and tribe, and challenging their conceptual separation.
Tribe and State
Before discussing the case study below, I provide a brief note on the use of the concepts ‘tribe’ and ‘state’ in this article.
Specifically in a Middle Eastern context, Khoury and Kostiner (1990: 5) note that tribe has been used to describe so many different groups in different locations at different times that ‘a single, all-encompassing definition is virtually impossible to produce’. The relevant Arabic terms are similarly ambiguous (Tapper 1990: 56; Watkins 2014: 35; Gubser 1973: 50).
Despite such variations and, more generally, critiques of the term in wider anthropological and sociological scholarship, as Sneath (2016) notes in a review, this term is considered here as one recognised and engaged with as lived practice in Jordan: it is a distinctive and known category of social identities. Here, a tribe is a social group defined by genealogy though not necessarily a strict or accurate lineage; rather an identity of kinship is inculcated where a common, quasi-mythical ancestor is acknowledged (Rogan 1999: 7; see also, Barfield 1990: 155).3 In practice today in Jordan, those in a tribe help others of their tribe, whether with money, marriage, accessing employment, or achieving academic success, and there is evidence of politicians or lawmakers offering particular support to their kin (Kao 2015; Furr and Al-Serhan 2008: 21–22). As will be seen, however, there are variations in tribal customs and different tribal leaders or members can and do have different perspectives on how tribes should operate in practice.
Of relevance to this case study, the city of Karak and its surrounding area has long been a region of strong tribal feeling; indeed, Eugene Rogan describes it as ‘the tribal town of Transjordan’ in the early twentieth century (Rogan 1999: 29–30). Regarding tribal justice specifically, a prominent early authority, ‘Awda al-Qusūs, who wrote Bedouin Justice [القضاء البدوي], was from Karak and his work mostly concerns its local customs. Such customs have continued till the present. For example, in 2016 it was reported that there were ‘twenty ongoing cases of jalwa in Karak’ (ARDD 2016).
Broadly, where I refer to the state in relation to the events under examination here, I am referring to the Jordanian state as represented by the Jordanian government, local governors, the courts, and other state employees such as the police. Officials who represent the state do have some form of autonomy from society, including from tribal society, in certain circumstances: where the imposition of restrictions on tribal justice is attempted, for example. However, given that the state also operates as a ‘differentiated set of institutions and personnel’ (Mann 2012: 55), there is space for different state actors to react (to tribal justice, for example) in different ways and—alongside instances of state autonomy—there are other circumstances where the state is instrumentalised by powerful social groups in particular scenarios.
Tribal Justice in Practice: The Case of Turkī al-Ṣar āyira
Turkī al-Ṣarāyira, a forty-year-old trader, was shot dead in his shop in the town of Mu'tah, near Karak, on 8 January 2016 (Azzeh 2016). Feelings ran high among the al-Ṣarāyira family: Turkī was the son of an al-Ṣarāyira sheikh and the al-Ṣarāyira are an important tribe who had been involved in historic feuds on previous occasions for which the army had to be brought in (بلكي 2016; Gubser 1973: 92). A Facebook page was started called ‘We are all the late Turkī al-Ṣarāyira’ [كلنا المرحوم تركي الصرايره], tapping into connotations of martyrdom attached to the famous Egyptian Facebook group ‘We are all Khaled Said’ [كلنا خالد سعيد]. The page had been ‘liked’ by 406 people as of August 2024, and most posts involve pictures of Turkī and eulogies or blessings. Another page, set up on 10 January with over three thousand followers as of August 2024, is ‘Ongoing charity for the soul of the martyr Turkī al-Ṣarāyira’ [صدقه جارية لروح الشهيد تركي الصرايرة]. It carries similar eulogies, and several posts published on 12 January 2016 called for revenge and retribution.
A suspect was arrested. He was Hishām al-Maṭārna (Roya News 2016); the al-Maṭārna are another prominent local tribe. Immediately on the announcement of his name, violence broke out in Mu'tah despite the arrival of state security forces. YouTube videos show the extent of unrest: gun shots were fired at Hishām's house, despite the armoured trucks and police vans outside, and shops were set on fire (وكالة زاد الأردن الإخبارية 2016; Sameer 2016). News reports also mention power outages because of the rioting (الصنارة 2016).
Although they arrested eighteen people, including four of the al-Ṣarāyira, the police were unable to prevent the continuation of the violence that had broken out (البوصلة 2016). However, tribal leaders stepped in and the al-Maṭārna family agreed a type of ‘aṭwa (a provisional truce, to be renewed until a final settlement is agreed), specifically an ‘aṭwa fawrat al-dam, an agreement for three and one third days that no revenge would be taken (Gubser 1973: 87; جبريل 2016). An ‘aṭwa fawrat al-dam, the traditional terminology, appears to be increasingly referred to as an ‘aṭwa ‘amniyya, a security ‘aṭwa, as the police increasingly supervise and record the jalwa and ‘aṭwa processes (Watkins 2014: 35, 40). This is the term used by a prominent member of the al-Ṣarāyira and close relation of Turkī in a Facebook post on 13 January 2016.4
As early as 13 January 2016, the father of Hishām, Gibrīl al-Maṭārna, was reported as having accepted his son's guilt and reportedly called for his execution in the same place as Turkī al-Ṣarāyira was killed, and with the same weapon, while praising the links between his tribe, the al-Maṭārna, and the al-Ṣarāyira in an ostensible demonstration of contrition and a desire to re-establish the previous level of social cohesion (الغد 2016). In a written statement he opens with a Qur'anic quote, Sūra 2:179, on retribution, and opines that his son's death is necessary to ‘calm hearts’ (المعاطية 2016). He also offered to pay compensation for the damaged shops and property and to end any outstanding financial obligations between him and the al-Ṣarāyira (جراءة نيوز 2016). It is unclear if this referred to claims of a financial dispute which some alleged on social media to be Hishām's motive, or if he was pre-emptively agreeing to diya (blood money: the ‘price of the damage to honor that results from giving up the right to retribution’; Carrol 2011: 16), expected to be demanded in the tribal negotiations, as is traditional.
On 15 January 2016, more than two thousand people held a meeting in Mu'tah (‘الصحفي’ 2016). This appeared to be in keeping with traditional practice: the key figures who met at that time are the ja'ha, a sort of mediation team, mostly constituting tribal elders, which tries to achieve a ṣulḥa or muṣālaḥa, a peace agreement which would avoid a feud (Johnstone 2015: 16). Breaking an agreement is considered deeply dishonourable and can result in various punishments (ibid.: 20).
The al-Maṭārna presented an alleged confession on behalf of Hishām, and the al-Ṣarāyira presented their demands: the al-Ṣarāyira would grant an ‘aṭwa for three months, but demanded the execution of Hishām, and called upon all of the al-Maṭārna, the Prime Minister, the Minister of the Interior, and the King (even though these latter parties were not obviously connected to the tribal dispute in question) to accelerate and ratify the passing of the death sentence. The al-Ṣarāyira further demanded a commitment from the al-Maṭārna that Hishām would not instruct a defence lawyer nor present any defence. Finally, they demanded the exile of all Hishām's relatives up to and including fifth cousins (جبريل 2016; جراسا 2016).
As a result of the al-Ṣarāyira's demands, a huge number of Hishām's relatives were relocated to the Tafilah Governorate. Meddāllah al-Ṭarāwna, the al-Ṣarāyira's guarantor in the agreement, claimed subsequently that not all the appropriate relatives left; however, the al-Ṣarāyira were reported to have overlooked that apparent transgression of the agreement (جبريل 2016). Al-Ṭarāwna allegedly said that if Hishām's family were to leave Tafilah (their place of exile) then the al-Ṣarāyira would have the right to kill them; on this basis, exile was claimed to be necessary for their own safety (ibid.). After a month and a half, most of Hishām's relatives were allowed to return by the al-Ṣarāyira, but his father and siblings were required under the tribal agreement to remain in exile until the agreement of a final settlement (ibid.). Meanwhile the court case was ongoing against Hishām, charged with the murder. On 16 January 2018, the state sentenced Hishām to death, having found him guilty of premeditated murder (الدرب 2018; الإخبارية الوقائع 2018).
Tribal Resistance and Forms of State Acquiescence
The ways in which tribal parties in Karak resist prohibitions on tribal practice and the corollary, apparent acquiescence of state parties will now be discussed in further detail before considering how tribes also recognised and attempted to instrumentalise state procedures, alongside instances of the state systems working to resist such attempts. These dynamics should be understood in the context of the long-running formal and informal actions by the Jordanian government to assert control over tribal justice practices, which are briefly considered first.
Originally, the centralising state in what became Jordan was content to authorise and formalise some customary law: the state relied on ‘pre-existing sources of political authority’ as many expansionary powers have done (Tamanaha 2008: 382). For example, in 1924, a Law of Tribal Courts was passed (with amendments made in 1929 and 1936). This law categorised those tribes that were permitted to use their own justice systems, while giving the state some control: for example, prospective tribal judges had to apply to the Prime Minister for the King's approval and a state committee ‘ultimately oversaw their Tribal Courts’ (Watkins 2014: 36). However, many who formally came under the state's jurisdiction nevertheless continued using tribal justice processes outside of what was allowable under the Law of Tribal Courts; in addition, some state laws, such as the law of 1932 forbidding revenge killings, were not enforced (ibid.; Gubser 1973: 90).
In 1974, various tribal leaders met with the King to agree the ‘Palace Convention’, which ‘amalgamated the range of ‘awā’id (customs) used in dispute resolution by different communities and tribes’ (Watkins 2014: 37). While some were abolished, and all were ‘made subsidiary to civil law’, this agreement—which had no formal status in Jordanian law—did purport to recognise certain cases as falling in the domain of tribal justice (ibid.).
Soon after, in 1976, tribal law as previously authorised and recognised was officially abolished (ibid.: 33).5 However, claims such as those by Helen Metz of central government thus taking sole control by eradicating tribal law can be readily challenged: Metz noted that ‘the elimination of tribal law in 1976 attested to the all-pervasiveness of central government penetration’ (Metz 1991: 184, 191–193). Despite such claims, tribes have continued using traditional practices as discussed here. In turn, and notwithstanding its formal prohibition of such practices, the state has made efforts to restrict or regulate certain aspects of this tribal justice system, as Watkins (2014) has noted. For example, there have been frequent attempts to limit those affected by jalwa (as discussed further below), the king has approved amounts specifically between 25 and 35 thousand dinars for diya, and those few tribal judges authorised to practice have been previously approved by the Royal Diwan—in theory, tribes’ autonomy to manage their own appointment of judges and agree other amounts of diya is thus officially limited (Watkins 2014: 37–38).
In September 2016, the cabinet introduced amendments to the Crime Prevention Law to legalise and formalise many tribal practices that had previously been illegal. The ‘aṭwa, the jalwa, and the diya procedures would have legal status and administrative governors would be charged with supervising tribal processes. This was meant to put into actual law what the Palace Convention previously addressed. However, the draft did not go to parliament for approval, because of objections from both those who did not want tribal justice recognised, and those who did not want the state interfering in tribal justice (ارفع صوتك 2018).
Subsequently, in September 2021, an agreement was reached between the Ministry of the Interior and a large number of tribal sheikhs to limit and regularise elements of jalwa, including by reducing the number of family members displaced and formalising roles for local government authorities (الوزارة الداخلية 2021). Yet even as part of the negotiations and the announcement of this agreement, government participants in the negotiations criticised the role of tribal justice within Jordan: the Minister of Justice noted that jalwa had no legal basis and hoped that the agreement was a step towards its eventual elimination; an MP involved in negotiating the document commented during those negotiations that: ‘[e]veryone is against jalwa today, and no one is calling for it. Jalwa is illegal’ (ibid.; Al-Nawafleh 2021). The effectiveness of these measures cannot be ascertained at this stage, although given current approaches and continued examples of high-profile cases involving tribal mediation and demands for jalwa (see Wilkofsky 2023), further efforts by the Jordanian government to limit the role of tribal justice processes may be expected to follow in the years to come.
These developments are part of a relatively long history of repeated attempts to formalise, restrict, and—on occasion—to prohibit tribal practices, which tribes have responded to in different ways. The case study of the murder in Karak illustrates some of these dynamics and is one example of how the Jordanian justice system and those who participate in it may operate in practice. We turn now specifically to the demands that the al-Ṣarāyira tribe made at the tribal mediation and the ‘involvement’ and responses of the state through specific actors.
The Jalwa and Khamsa: Contested Limitations on Tribal Practice
To a certain extent, the tribal mediation process that occurred in Karak is fairly typical: after the murder and naming of the suspect, important figures from both tribes arranged an interim, peace-keeping agreement for three and one third days, as already detailed above. Afterwards, in-depth negotiations resulted in demands that included jalwa (exile), as already noted.
Yet Aḥmed Jāber, the al-Maṭārna's guarantor, reportedly described the al-Ṣarāyira's demands as harsh and difficult, and this is what apparently led to heightened media coverage (جبريل 2016). One particularly notable demand, in the context of historic attempts by the Jordanian government to limit tribal practices is the demand of jalwa for the full khamsa (the traditional, extended family grouping).
Attempts to Limit Jalwa
The khamsa had been the traditional group to which jalwa applied and it appears that the expulsion of the khamsa had a particular resonance in Karak; Gubser notes that in Karak, for cases involving loss of life, the ‘strict’ khamsa was applied (Gubser 1973: 47–48).
However, as part of the process of regulation detailed earlier, particular efforts have frequently been made to limit the number of people being exiled, including various informal initiatives and one notable attempt by King Ḥussein (Azzeh 2016; Furr and Al-Serhan 2008: 24). This latter attempt by King Ḥussein occurred in 1987 when the issue featured as part of a review of the Palace Convention discussed above: an agreement with prominent Jordanian tribal leaders was made which limited those affected by jalwa to the ‘second degree of patrilineal descent’ (Watkins 2014: 42). In addition to and separate from the state's attempts to curtail such practices via legislation, tribal leaders have repeatedly come together, or been brought together by state officials, to broker among themselves agreements whereby jalwa is ostensibly limited. This happened in Tafilah in 2013, where tribal notables talked of the ‘burden’ that jalwa can be, and in Irbid in March 2013 (القطامين 2013; التميمي 2013). In both cases the groups agreed to limit jalwa to those in the family register, the official document listing an individual's spouse and children, but in both they stressed that if the state is to be in charge of murder cases, then it must hasten their resolution. Another instance of tribal self-regulation was in the city of Salt in October 2015 (Jordan Times 2015; Luck 2015). Limiting jalwa was also a key amendment to the Crime Prevention Law 2016, approved by the Cabinet—and informally by some tribal leaders—in September 2016, though not submitted to parliament (Jordan Times 2016).6
In May 2016, Karak governor ‘Abdallah al-Khiṭāb and police representatives attended a meeting of tribal elders who signed a ‘tribal honour document’ limiting and defining some tribal traditions, including limiting jalwa to the family register (العضايله 2016). Even some tribal leaders there talked about violations of customs by tribes. Sheikh Aḥmed Sālem al-Mubeiḍīn cited a recent instance when 474 people were exiled in a jalwa, which seems to refer to the al-Ṣarāyira case and said that such an act is contrary to tribal customs (العضايله 2016). As mentioned above, a further attempt to limit jalwa was made in September 2021.
What emerges from this history is that the state has made efforts to limit jalwa with little or no success. Tribes have given undertakings to agree limits to jalwa but—as in the case study, here—are also willing to ignore such agreements and seek to enforce larger group exile (though we shall see that this may be demanded but not always enforced). The state appears unwilling to intervene and not always prepared to resist tribal demands that larger family groups are exiled. Further, there is variability in tribal practice: the outcomes of tribal justice and mediation depend upon the specifics of particular cases, a theme returned to in the discussion of state and tribe as politically expedient or pragmatic, and some sheikhs appear to have different views of what represents traditional practice. These various characterisations of the state-tribe relationship on this issue are pertinent to the al-Ṣarāyira case, as discussed in further detail below.
The al-Ṣarāyira Demand the Khamsa
Even while among both state officials and tribal leaders there may be some impetus for limiting aspects of tribal customs, the case study here, that of the murder of Turkī al-Ṣarāyira in January 2016, indicates the strength of tribal feeling and an unwillingness to be seen to recognise attempts to limit tribal practice: as noted, the al-Ṣarāyira family demanded the jalwa (exile) for the full khamsa and did not face any notable opposition from either other tribal sheikhs or the state at the time of this demand. However, it appears that this demand was not effectively enforced for all and, even among the al-Ṣarāyira family, not everyone felt that it was necessary or appropriate.
The comments made by those involved in the mediation process indicate the particular dynamics and perspectives associated with this traditional practice and the complex nature of the ‘rights’ being sought. On the issue of jalwa, a prominent member of the al-Ṣarāyira family and close relation of Turkī, the murdered man, made a Facebook post on 15 January 2016 in which he shared the post of a group called ‘The Forum of the Sons of the al-Ṣarāyira’ [ملتقى أبناء عشيرة الصرايرة]; this is a group of around thirteen thousand members which purports to speak for the al-Ṣarāyira and publishes news about al-Ṣarāyira family members. The post in question detailed the al-Ṣarāyira's demands. On it, one of his ‘friends’ on Facebook comments that he hopes the demand of jalwa would be reconsidered; this Facebook friend notes that Gibrīl al-Maṭārna (the accused's father) appears to be a virtuous man. The al-Ṣarāyira family member replies saying that this is true but claims that their attempts to lessen the punishment on the al-Maṭārna have faced opposition from important tribal figures; he says that the topic requires education and awareness, that there will be a secret return home of people, that only a few of the family live in Mu'tah, and that there is concern over people's lives. This member of the al-Ṣarāyira here is seen to recognise problems in the jalwa system but to consider that the support that tribal justice has from important persons means that the traditional operation of the jalwa system cannot be opposed. Further, there are pragmatic reasons for supporting it, regarding people's safety. The suggestion is that a level of stability is needed to return to the region; if such stability were achieved, it would be possible to quietly disregard more strict tribal obligations.
This relates to the perspectives of other commentators, such as a former MP Aḥmed ‘Oweidī al-’Abbādī. He has noted how the discourse around tribal justice changes in moments of heated disagreement; speaking as a tribal member rather than an MP, he has said that he and his tribe support changes that might include limitations on jalwa but, in practice, if a crime were committed against one of them, they (the tribe) would demand the exile of the khamsa, since ‘the reputation of the tribe is more important than the law of the state’ (جبريل 2016). Given that in this case study a full exile was demanded, but not effectively enforced, such statements align with others made in public settings, where tribal justice had to be asserted as a way of maintaining tribal reputation, strength, and identity. Such tribal identity and social power was understood by Karak governor ‘Abdallah al-Khiṭāb when he commented to the press that he and his fellow MPs were depending on well-intentioned tribes not to complicate government attempts to formalise and limit tribal practices (ibid.). As the case study shows, these continue to be negotiated spaces.
But more than simply allowing these tribal procedures to occur, in this specific case study and in the agreement that resulted in jalwa of such a large group of people, certain state actors were very much involved, including the police and members of the Jordanian government.
Police as ‘Intimate Collaborators’
This case shows certain police officials operating in various capacities, including in the mediation process. The police responded quickly to the violence that occurred in the town of Mu'tah. However, their actions were insufficient to stop the rioting: much of the violence discussed earlier occurred after the arrival of the security services. The rioting here is an example of a form of self-help politics, characteristic of tribal justice, where restoration of honour is sought by one tribe seeking vengeance upon another tribe by direct action (Gubser 1973: 87). Rather than the state's actions, it was a tribal process, the ‘aṭwa ‘amniyya (the truce agreed by the relevant tribes), that appeared to calm the situation. That tribal processes can prevent violence is an often explicitly articulated reason why tribal justice procedures are tolerated and facilitated by the state, as Watkins (2014: 42) has discussed. However, as indicated, the police still played a role in the mediation process: photos published on Facebook in January 2016 by a local journalist show two police officers were present at the ‘aṭwa, with a caption claiming that they have central roles in the local police force, and that they are writing the document of the ‘aṭwa (‘الصحفي’ 2016).
This does not seem unusual: Watkins claims that every police station registers the signing of a local ‘aṭwa ‘amniyya (Watkins 2014: 40; see also Furr and Al-Serhan 2008: 26). The police were also reported as having ‘supervised’ the al-Maṭārna's departure (جبريل 2016). Such officers are the state's representatives then, and are also ‘intimate collaborators’ with the tribes (Erie 2015: 1016).7 Behaviour such as this has frequently been justified by reference to Crime Prevention Act No. 7 of 1954, which gives governors the right to demand a pledge of good behaviour from someone suspected of being likely to commit a crime or be a danger to others, or to place someone under police supervision.8 In practice, this allowed state governors in Jordan to ‘detain’ 12,345 individuals in 2010 (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2011). While the law does not ostensibly relate to jalwa at all, that it is used to allow for tribal agreements to be actioned indicates another form of co-opted justice where the police and law can help facilitate tribal justice. Nevertheless, various bodies have criticised its use, including the Supreme Court of Justice in Jordan. In addition, there have even been instances where the Public Security Directorate reportedly acted like a tribe itself, negotiating a settlement and paying blood money to a tribe whose member was killed by the police (Watkins 2014: 41).9
State Elites as Tribal Elders
Two state officials are reported to have been particularly involved in the aftermath of the murder of Turkī al-Ṣarāyira: Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Education, Moḥammad Dhneibāt, and Karak governor, ‘Abdallah al-Khiṭāb (جبريل 2016). Dhneibāt was reported to have represented the al-Maṭārna (the family of the alleged killer) in the ‘aṭwa and accepted the al-Ṣarāyira's demands (ibid.). Ostensibly, this is an instance of a state representative accepting customary legal judgments and processes, despite the state's efforts to ban or limit such processes, which appear to contradict several elements of state law. However, the situation is complex. Al-Khiṭāb, in interviews, notes that Dhneibāt was participating as a tribal leader—the Dhneibāt are a prominent tribe whose traditional home was the nearby village of Judayyda—not as a government representative (ibid.; Gubser 1973: 98).
This is an example of the impossibility of arriving at neat divisions between tribe and state in Jordan: tribal identity and social power can facilitate those from important tribes acquiring political power, as various scholars have previously noted (see Mundy and Musallam 2000: 209; Gubser 1973: 71; Layne 1987: 124). Thus, it is not unusual for those with government positions to be involved in mediations involving their tribe. However, such figures often claim that they are attempting to reduce the amount of diya demanded; in that regard they are trying to limit tribal demands, as Mohammad Adnan (2013) has noted. In another account, Watkins discusses how politicians are increasingly being sought to pass tribal judgments, and on this basis serving to replace more traditional mediators: ‘[some] shaykhs, elders, and tribal judges… conveyed a sense of bitterness that their roles had been usurped by politicians’ (Watkins 2014: 42). In a complicated interplay, then, tribal influence can result in political power within the state, and those state positions then confer particular authority in tribal affairs. Tribal identity and processes are thus maintained, although certain parties—in this case, traditional tribal elites—see their particular influence displaced by those with state power.
Recognition and Instrumentalisation of the State
While the al-Ṣarāyira could be seen as defying and ignoring the state and its processes with their demand for jalwa, further demands by the al-Ṣarāyira suggest a recognition of the role of state actors in the justice system and an attempt to make use of those actors.
Several Al-Ṣarāyira family members in the Facebook group, ‘The Forum of the Sons of the al-Ṣarāyira’ [ملتقى أبناء عشيرة الصرايرة], had decried the lack of security and stability in the region. However, some also praised the vigour of the security services who were investigating the case; one prominent family member stressed that the law (‘qānūn’ [قانون])—without making it clear whether this was state or tribal law—must take its course. A more formal statement issued by ‘The Forum of the Sons of the al-Ṣarāyira’ [ملتقى أبناء عشيرة الصرايرة] itself carried a similar message: they complained about what they claimed to be the marginalisation of the town of Mu'tah by the security services, and appealed directly to King ‘Abdullāh to make the authorities investigate the killing, and purported to threaten revenge and the taking of matters into their own hands if this was not done (MNC Today 2016).10 On 8 January, the group's Facebook page called for the state to carry out the death penalty, and for the state to discharge its duties to a part of society which paid its taxes and contributed to the nation (ملتقى أبناء عشيرة الصرايرة 2016). Here, it is clear that state law is being noted: a recognition that the state has a role in securing justice—in apprehending a suspect, carrying out an investigation, and undertaking its own punishments—is located, if instrumentally so, alongside tribal practices.
The al-Ṣarāyira's demands in the ‘aṭwa (the truce) were also adapted to recognise and influence state processes and mechanisms. Demands that a defendant drop his right to a defence lawyer are not traditional features of tribal agreements: such demands are predicated on there being a subsequent state judicial process and a court system that confers that right. At the earliest this system was only codified in Jordan in 1961, and I was unable to ascertain details of any prior cases in which tribes demanded that a defendant refuse to present a defence or refuse to instruct a defence lawyer; however, a subsequent case, that of Mohammad Hajjaj in September 2022, has been reported (Wilkofsky 2023). The implication of the demand that no defence lawyer is appointed is that a lack of legal representation allows for a greater likelihood of conviction and punishment in the state's court of law; the tribal demand appeared as an attempt to secure that outcome.
In itself, the demand for the death penalty also appears unusual: while it is difficult to make universal claims regarding tribal justice and the death penalty, such punishment appears to have very rarely occurred under tribal rulings, particularly since the 1920s (Johnstone 2015: 31; Abu-Rabi'a 2001: 34). The official Jordanian legal system does sentence people to death for murder, though there was a de-facto moratorium on the death penalty between 2006 and 2014 (Husseini 2014; Al-Jazeera 2014).
The al-Ṣarāyira's demands, including this relatively novel demand for the death penalty to occur, appear to rest on an understanding by the tribes that state justice will occur alongside tribal processes (jalwa, for example) and indicates spaces where tribes may instrumentalise state procedures. The calls for King ‘Abdullāh to facilitate the process of sentencing and execution are calls for the official justice system to happen as efficiently as possible to realise the tribal call for a death sentence; Article 39 of the Jordanian Constitution requires the King to ratify all death sentences. This is not to say that Hishām was not guilty, nor that the court, absent these demands by the tribes, would not have sentenced him to death; as noted above, the court did pass a death sentence after Hishām was found guilty. However, the pre-emptive tribal demands sought to guarantee that the state would carry out the al-Ṣarāyira's wishes. The al-Ṣarāyira's appeals are suggestive of an understanding of the state justice system and an effort to ensure that that system provides the outcome that the tribal justice process has previously decided upon. What emerges in this instance is not a situation of any ‘parallel’ legal systems, a critiqued idea in various settings, but one in which the two systems are intertwined (Adnan 2013).
The Courts’ Response to Tribal Processes
We turn now to the question of how the Jordanian court system responded and might have been expected to respond to the tribal justice processes that occurred in this case.
More broadly, there are multiple ways in which cross-justice system influence can occur in Jordan. For example, courts might apply tribal principles because they have been codified in state law (as is not uncommon in postcolonial or tribal states; see Tamanaha 2008: 383).11 There may also exist quasi-official mechanisms that give tribal decisions influence in state courts. For instance, Jordanian law has recognised the ḥaqq khāṣṣ, the personal claim for compensation which mirrors the idea of diya. If a tribal settlement is reached such that blood money is paid outside the state's system and the family of the victim discontinue this personal claim, then state judges might reduce the financial or custodial punishment it would otherwise order (Watkins 2014: 38).
Beyond these more regulated instances of tribal influence, it has been claimed that Jordanian courts unofficially respect and follow tribal decisions (Husseini 2016; Antoun 2000: 450; Kuttab 2016). Prominent sheikh Ḍeif Allah al-Qulāb, for example, commented in 2014 that courts will generally wait for tribes to have come to a decision before passing their own sentence on a perpetrator; settlements between victims’ families and the families of suspects can persuade the court to reduce sentences (Kao 2015; Husseini 2016). A report on women in the Jordanian justice system also suggested that tribal links between state judges, lawyers, police, and the parties in a case do influence the outcome in various ways (Johnstone 2015: 26). Such practices have occurred in Israeli, Palestinian, and Iraqi courts too (Tsafrir 2006: 90; Khalil 2009; Carroll 2011: 28).
However, it has also been reported that, in some instances, Jordanian courts do also disregard tribal agreements: victims of crime have sometimes ignored tribal settlements even when their tribe accepts these, and instead would take their cases to state courts, to be awarded significant damages (جبريل 2016; Johnstone 2015: 31).
The al-Ṣarāyira's demands are tied to an awareness and acceptance of the state's system and appeared as efforts to incorporate that system into the tribal rulings. Further, the al-Ṣarāyira specifically sought to guarantee the outcomes they sought from the state's system (in a context where such courts have, at least sometimes, overtly refused to be influenced by tribes): the demands that Hishām not offer any defence nor accept a defence lawyer are hard for the official justice system to circumvent if they so wanted, as they cannot make Hishām present a defence.
In the event, although Hishām reportedly did refuse to defend himself, the state did appoint him a defence lawyer (the equivalent of a public defender).12 Defendants are entitled to state-funded legal counsel for cases involving the death penalty; however, such an appointment is not automatic (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2011; Metz 1991: 275). Given this, the provision of a lawyer despite Hishām apparently not requesting one potentially points to the high profile, public nature of the case and could also be interpreted as example of how the state is willing to oppose tribal demands, at least in the case of an ‘aṭwa condition they had more control over, and to try to ensure that (state) justice is seen to be done.
The Tribe and State Dialectic
This particular case study adds to the literature on possible practical resolutions of a conceptual issue: how different, ostensibly conflicting legal processes can be reconciled in practice.
Both Jordanian tribes and the Jordanian government produce and enforce normative rules (with both tribal customs and state legislation considered and treated, contextually, as law by many in the relevant social field) and demonstrate a relatively high level of institutionalism. This scenario may be considered in terms of ‘legal pluralism’. A lengthy discussion of legal pluralist theories is beyond the scope of this article. However, the schema made by scholars has relevance for Jordan, as shown in this case study.
In particular, the case study examined above is a specific example of how legal pluralism operates in practice and is sustained. There are two important points here. The first is that both state and tribe have significant social and political power allowing for complicated processes and negotiations to ‘enforce’ their systems and neither can ignore the other. Both were expected to be involved by the community in the aftermath of Turkī al-Ṣarāyira's death, marked by both the expressions of tribal identity and calls for state involvement, including on Facebook.
The second is that each system, state law and tribal ‘law’ or customs, respectively, is built upon different principles. The two systems particularly differ on three points. Firstly, the Jordanian state's system, similarly to other state systems, considers crime an individual act, ‘a conflict between one or more individuals and a state, sometimes acting on behalf of a victim’ (Abidi 1965: 101; Hughes 2017). In tribal justice, in at least some practical ways, ‘legal personality is defined as the collective, with mutual liability within this group’ (Johnstone 2015: 8). Secondly, sharaf, honour, is enormously important and it is this that is damaged in tribal contexts when a crime is committed. It is the restoration of sharaf that blood money or revenge accomplishes; such concepts are not taken into account officially by state law. Thirdly, restoring sharaf aims to provide ‘a basis for resuming the normal flow of social relations’ (Antoun 2000: 447), what Laura Nader—researching the Zapotec in Mexico—termed ‘harmony ideology’ (Nader 1990: 1–3). By contrast, state systems—including the Jordanian justice system—tend to have more obviously punitive and deterrence focused goals (Johnstone 2015: 14).
These differences played out in the murder of Turkī al-Ṣarāyira, as indicated: the whole community, the khamsa, is forced to move (although this appears to have been mediated later by some level of accepted non-compliance); violence breaks out and threats are made against all those who breach the ‘aṭwa; the comments made by participants in this process on Facebook note the importance, for the reputation of the al-Ṣarāyira, of tribal processes being respected, and the possible consequential space for relations to be restored with the al-Maṭārna family subsequently.
What emerges from this situation in Jordan, and what can be particularly seen in this case study, is a recognition by both tribe and state of the other and, at least to some extent, a level of cooperation. That the two justice systems—under state law and tribal customs—are based on the different principles outlined above, however, means that they retain certain distinctive features, even while they cooperate.
An important distinction made in the scholarship on this topic is between ‘weak’ / ‘official’ and ‘strong’ / ‘unofficial’ legal pluralism. The former refers to a situation where different bodies govern different constituencies, but the state remains sovereign and sanctions this state of affairs; the latter refers to instances where the state does not have the monopoly on the production or enforcement of regulatory norms, but where there are truly competing authorities (Griffiths 1986; Chiba 1986).
The situation in Jordan belies that easy categorisation, particularly given the complex nature of state operations, as already indicated. The operation of the justice system in this case study bears on other examples where scholars have examined ideas of power in particular settings. For example, Janet Roitman has noted that, in certain contexts, activities that might superficially be antithetical to the proper operating of the state are in reality ‘fundamentally linked to the state and are even essential to the very recomposition of state power’ (Roitman 2004: 192). Roitman has examined unregulated economic activity in the Chad Basin and distinguishes between state regulatory authority (which is absent or flouted) but the continuation of state power (tariffs are still extracted from traffickers, for instance) (ibid.: 214). In Jordan, this case study is an example of how the government appeared to face difficulties in enforcing its own laws with respect to justice procedures (in settings of repeated, unsuccessful attempts to limit jalwa, for example by tribe and state), but it achieves some aim—stability and the functioning of its key justice processes—by apparently acquiescing to tribal processes and tribal power on some (though not all) occasions. Tribal justice procedures, at least in some instances, appear to operate as, to use Roitman's description of unofficial economic activity, ‘part and parcel of the political logics of the state itself, contributing to its capacity to fulfil constitutive tasks’ (ibid.: 213).
Akhil Gupta has similarly described how what might be categorised as ‘corruption’ in northern India is not a ‘dysfunction’ of the state but is ‘a mechanism through which “the state” itself is discursively constituted’ (Gupta 2006: 212). Gupta discusses scenarios where local officials engage in bribery, circumvent administrative and legal constraints on land transfers, and operate from a home rather than an office, as ‘collaps[ing]’ the ‘Western notions of the boundary between “state” and “society”’ (ibid.: 220). In this case study of the murder of Turkī al-Ṣarāyira, the operation of justice similarly involved certain police officials carrying out tribal agreements not formally recognised in statute but also the reverse scenario, which also represents a collapsing of this distinction: tribal elders carry out the administration of justice that is thought of as being the purview of the state.
What emerges from this case study are specifics of a complicated matrix of different actors, sources of authority, and contested principles that nevertheless represent a combined system of sorts that applies in Jordan. As a continuation of historical practices, I also characterise this system as one of pragmatism: tribe and state can be considered as in opposition conceptually, but Jordan's history has been one where there has been both conflict and compromise between these two actors.13 In this case study, both enforce their processes where they can, recognise their limitations, may concede or appear to concede their principles where necessary, and are willing to vary their procedures.
Conclusion
This article, through its case study and related material, has demonstrated some of the ways in which tribe and state (both powerful institutions informing Jordan's justice systems) interact and respond to each other. More particularly, it has shown how tribe and state justice systems operate on the ground. This is a space of practical resolution by actors willing to be pragmatic and of power distributed across institutions: this further challenges common conceptual understandings of an isolated state and any simplistic categorisations of legal pluralist jurisdictions, thus adding to the wider scholarship on these issues.
In this case study, those subject to the pronouncements of this combined state-tribe justice system have also needed to be pragmatic, acting in the interests of their survival and avoidance of conflicts. Thus, for example, affected members of the khamsa comply with the demand that they leave the town of Mu'tah when tensions run high, but some at least are then able to return from exile when the risk of violence subsidies; further, in specific contexts, some victims of crime in Jordan will ignore tribal pronouncements and seek justice in the state court.
That this is a situation of pragmatic and differentiated actors negotiating complex power dynamics while endeavouring to utilise the justice systems to favour their interests, where there is the space to do so, means it is difficult to predict how this terrain will develop. Both the Jordanian state and, in some instances, Jordanian tribal leaders have taken measures that aim to restrict tribal justice processes. However, as discussed, the social power of both tribe and state, and the differences in the legal principles underpinning each party's justice system, result in a justice system incorporating both tribe and state procedures, as fluctuating forms and processes, likely to continue in Jordan.
Acknowledgements
I am very grateful to all those who responded to my questions about the issues and processes covered in this article: both academics, particularly Professor Eugene Rogan, and those in Jordan involved in such processes.
Notes
I have transliterated to include diacritical marks and the definite article ‘al-’, except for places with common English names, such as Karak or Jordan, and authors with Arabic names but who write in English.
I have maintained their anonymity, as these interlocutors did not wish to be named.
There is generally no central authority nor set succession rules for tribal leaders. Rather a preeminent man emerges as each section's head with relatively little coercive power but whose authority is normally accepted because of particular traits that garner respect, such as skill in mediation or bravery, or factors like wealth or age (Hourani 1990: 304).
Although all information gathered from Facebook was publicly accessible, I have anonymised comments published by individual users.
1976 قانون إلغاء القوانين العشائرية الأردني لسنة.
2016 قانون معدل لقانون منـــــع الجـرائــــم لسنة.
Erie, drawing from Chris Garces, applies this term to police involved in quasi-official Islamic courts in China (Erie 2015: 1016).
1954 قانون منع الجرائم رقم 7 لسنة.
Watkins describes how the Public Security Directorate in Salt accepted an ‘aṭwa from and paid diya to local tribes after a police officer fatally shot one of their members (Watkins 2014: 41).
The source here actually cites ملتقى أبناء ملتقى عشيرة الصرايرة; this is likely a typographical error: no such group seems to have existed, while the Facebook page of ملتقى أبناء عشيرة الصرايرة carries a similar message.
For example, under Jordanian law, more lenient sentences can be given in cases where someone has killed a female family member for allegedly being unchaste (this being perceived as harming the tribe's honour). See قانون العقوبات رقم 16 لسنة 1960 مع تعديلات حتى 2018.
Personal communication with al-Ṣarāyira contact (not named here to maintain anonymity), 5 March 2018.
The modern state in Jordan is relatively young. In the nineteenth century, as the Ottomans spread the influence of their centralised authority into the region, tribes were the major unit of political authority and identity. They performed many roles associated today with the state, including providing security, dispensing justice, and collecting protection money, khuwa, ‘de facto taxation’, from sedentary agriculturalists such that the Ottomans struggled to extract any more taxes, and the tribes’ military strength challenged any claim on the part of the state to a monopoly over coercive force (Rogan 1999: 9; Abu-Rabi'a 2001: 4). The Ottomans slowly developed the institutions that would eventually result in modern Jordan, but in many spheres of life they had to be pragmatic; as long as they were, and were ‘willing to negotiate contentious points, they were able to extend their rule with only minor resistance’ (Rogan 1999: 184; Abu-Rabi'a 2001: 40; Gubser 1973: 73).
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