Hypotheses

In considering the "fundamentalist" Islamic movements of Morocco and al-Andalus during the 11th - 13th centuries, I continually return to my recollections of Eric Hoffer's book, "The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements," especially as concerns the role of the ribat in the formation and momentum of the Almohad and Almoravid sects. Much of "The True Believer" focuses on the psychological processes which must occur in order to affect the mass movement mentality, the foremost of which are the devaluation of self and isolation from mixed society.

To expand on these ideas, the devaluation of self refers to the ability of the group to impress upon an individual that his core beliefs are either incorrect or that he acts incorrectly upon them, and is, therefore, no longer the "good person" he thought himself to be. One may even go further and say that he is no longer the person he thought himself to be. This gives way to two phenomena: identification with the group and the need for redemption. The second, isolation from mixed society, facilitates the first, since it is only when one is removed from his usual intellectual and/or social environment that he is susceptible of completely changing his mind regarding morality and the like. It is noted, of course, that the above requires that the individual have a deep and earnest desire to be a good person to begin with.

So, how does this relate to the Moroccan Fundamentalists? In each case, the sect begins with a leader who finds himself unable to collect more than a few followers until he begins a ribat, allowing for the isolation. The first few followers provide an interesting example of Hoffer's theory in that these early members may have been particularly devout Muslims (and therefore quite concerned with being 'good people', even if they were uncertain of how best to go about this) and may have either been predisposed to think ill of themselves for whatever reason, or may have, upon reaching their future leaders been intrigued, and found their interest ridiculed by their neighbors. In either case, the first followers join the sect leader in the foundation of the ribat.

The fall of the Almoravids also finds an interesting explanation in this rubric. After crossing into the peninsula and taking power from the taifa kings, it seems likely that the Almoravides, a distinct minority in their new territories, were content to consider their sins forgiven. This seems likely in light of a lack of ribats being founded in the new kingdoms. The result, however, is that subsequent generations of Almoravides are not "tested in fire" as their parents were. They never come to believe themselves in need of redemption in a manner so intense as that of their parents, and so the fervor fades within a generation or two. And so it did - within about a century of the Almoravid rise to power, the Almoahds eradicate their rule. They, too, however, recede with the tide, and disappear within a few generations.

Posted by Cat Tierney at 01:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Our republic need not be built. To speak of the need to "build a vibrant democracy" is neither accurate nor helpful in troubled days.

Rather, ours is an heirloom, passed down from grandfather to father to son.

It must be cherished and loved, lest it fade.

We must restore it. We must reclaim, and affirm it.

If it is a sanctuary, we must dust the statues, open the shutters, and tune the organ.

If it is a home, we must light the candle in each window with care, and with vigilance watch that, though it flicker, it does not die.

If it is a watch, we must mend the cracked glass, and wind back the stopped hands.

If it is an idea, we must cherish it and love it, lest it fade.

Posted by Cat Tierney at 03:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I started to write this entry about certain patterns that arose in Christian-Muslim relations during the middle ages. I wanted to argue that, if one compares the Christian-Muslim cohabitation of Spain to that of the Holy Land, one finds different political structures, but nearly identical social structures. In the Peninsula, the Caliphate waned in power, giving rise to the fractious taifas, which the Christians in the north exploited by offers of protection for vast sums of what was essentially tribute money. In the Holy Land, the Saracen and Christian rulers would, during the intermittent peacetimes, treaty with one another for the economic benefit afforded by such accords. While the states pressed ominously against one another's borders, vacillating between war and peace, the Christian and Muslim men and women, the ordinary people, continued to trade and work with one another, the only difference being that at one time or another, a different religion would rule.

And this is so.

But, the salient feature here is not these two peoples in these two instances in this particular period. Rather, what comes through is that the people, the individual men, women, and children know little of the greater political machine. As subjects of their king, emir, caliph, or count the vast majority of people seem to have lived simple lives, without the romance of great battles and upheavals. They seem to have gotten along with their neighbors, for the most part, regardless of which edition of The Book they followed.

Were it not so, the wars could not have gone on. This, I think, lends some irony to the situation. At the "lower" echelons of society Muslim and Christian worked side by side during the periods of Caliphate, taifa, and Kingdom, producing goods and services. At one point, Fletcher mentions the vast number of charges and bows Moorish factories could put out during the Caliphate of Cordoba - I wonder, how many of the factory workers were Christians and Jews? Given that the population was still, at this time, largely Christian (Hispano-Romans their predecessors, mostly, with some of the recently deposed Visigoths), it stands to reason that there were at least a fair number of Christians at the factories of the Caliphate. And therein lies the irony. It was peace between common men that allowed the wars of religion to take rage.

And so it is today.

Posted by Cat Tierney at 01:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Though I was absent for this day of class, I did settle in to watch El Cid one evening a few days later, which was about the time that I finished reading Fletcher's The Quest for El Cid. Being unable to find a copy of the History Channel's production short of shelling out $80 for the series in which El Cid is featured, I have only three sources to work with, rather than four. That said, since Fletcher appeared in the History Channel production, I'm sure there is no vast difference between the scholarship offered in his book and that of the video (though the book, I'm sure, is nowhere near as gory as the HC production).

That said, one of the differences I found most intriguing between the three sources is the portrayal of El Cid's death. In the film version, the audience is shown the hero who fights on, even in death, inspiring thousands to win the day with narry a scratch. In the poem, Rodrigo Diaz dies quietly in his bed with his wife near by, his daughters happily married, and the city of Valencia at peace. In Fletcher's book, a third version is given, which comes from the Estoria de Cardena. Here, the origin of the otherwise inexplicable scene at the end of the film becomes clear. El Cid auto-embalms his body, which, after his death, is strapped to Babieca, so he may ride back to Cardena in Castile, and remain seated on his ivory seat for another 10 years before being buried beside his wife. Of these various tellings, the closest to actuality is that of the Poem, though it, too, has its departures.

Each of these, rather than portraying the historical man and his surroundings, tells a story. Each does so with a purpose intended, the roots of which are, I think, to be found in the parent culture. I can say little about the story told in the Estoria de Cardena, since it was only briefly discussed in Fletcher's book, but if I had to guess, I would suggest that the motivation for the strange tale told may be to anchor the fantastic. By the author's time, the legend of Rodrigo Diaz may have spiraled beyond the pale of believability for most, with tales such as the dead man mounted being woven by every Sancho on the corner. This, I think, is the reason for the Alfonso VI who, "no longer take[s] it as a miracle" that the body of El Cid is so well preserved - this character is, perhaps, to be the voice of the audience, who, upon reading the chronicle, no longer roll jaded eyes at the tale, but come to "understand" how such remarkable events are possible.

Interpreting the poem's version of El Cid's death is aided as much by analysis of what is not said as by that of what is said. In the poem, Rodrigo Diaz dies peacefully in Valencia, and the poem ends. Nothing is said of the strife and labor foisted upon Ximena. Even less of the loss of Valencia just a few years later. Such details would not befit the Poem of El Cid - this is an epic about a man whose honor, courage, piety, dignity, and fealty brought him great wealth and boundless respect. To tell of the disasters that befell his loved ones after his death and the eventual loss of all his life had gained would be to counter all that the poem had theretofore given to its readers. Rather than informing the audience of the proper way to live, it would show them the futility of such endeavors. The Poem of El Cid cannot end with the continued details of Valencia, it must end warmly with the peaceful passing of El Cid.

As for the film version, Fletcher's remarks regarding the motivations of Ramon Mendez Pidal (acting as the film's historical adviser) are evident in the El Cid's terrific final scene - it is not merely the man fighting the infidel, no, it is not merely the spirit of the man, no - it is the spirit of Spain, the unity of Spain driving the Moors from the city of Valencia. Yet again, the story must end in victory, but here, in 1950s-1960s Spain, there is little use for a manual for the proper vassal, rather the fighting spirit must come through. The politics of the day demand that Spain find knowledge of its own spirit, as only a hero can give it.

Posted by Cat Tierney at 01:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)