At the time of Napoleon's invasion of Egypt—the conventional starting point of modern Middle Eastern history—central governments in the Arab world had long been exceedingly weak. The situation began to change after 1800: At an early stage, Egypt was brought under firm control, and toward the end of the century the Ottoman regime began to tighten its grip on its Arab subjects. In some places, however —the Arabian peninsula, for instance, or Morocco—it is only within living memory that the authorities have acquired the kind of power over their territories that a modern state is expected to have.

The Greco-Turkish War was one of the major aftershocks in the wake of World War I. In attacking war-ravaged Turkey, Greece sought to realize her goal of a new Hellenic presence in Asia Minor. This action, together with British, French, and Italian designs upon Anatolian territory, threatened Turkey's existence as a nation.

The Sahel of Tunisia is part of the arid zone that extends from Morocco to Afghanistan. People in this region profess the religion of Islam. Their views on the links between divine power, human actions, and rain are based on the Quran and are expressed in the rain prayers (salat a1-isrisqa') prescribed by the Prophet and therefore common to all of them. This article refers to North Africa, centering on the village of Sidi Ameur in the Sahel of Tunisia.

Revolutions are momentous events that shake the foundations of societies, transforming their social and political structures and often signalling the triumph of a new ideology. It has long been noted that the international ramifications of revolutions are no less profound than their domestic impact. This is not only because revolutions often give rise to powerful states, thus potentially undermining the extant balance of power, but also because they sometimes infuse those states with norms and objectives that are antithetical to those subscribed to by other members of the international system. They also exert a demonstration effect beyond the boundaries of their country of origin, with a potential for triggering waves of revolution and counter-revolution both within and between societies.

Three decades later, the circumstances that led to the Arab–Israeli war of June 1967 bare again the subject of scholarly attention as the end of the Cold War and the release of official documents in the United States, Soviet Union, Britain, and Israel have allowed surviving participants to compare notes and made possible the detailed reconstruction of decision-making in those states. Much of this historiography has focused on the critical two months immediately preceding the start of hostilities, giving rise to broad agreement that Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser “stumbled into the crisis rather than provoking it deliberately,” through miscalculation and ill-advised brinkmanship. However, there is still no consensus regarding the relationship between Nasser's decisions in spring 1967 and his policy toward Israel in the preceding three years, partly because the dearth of official documents from the Egyptian side has made it difficult to substantiate his real intentions and “historicize” his crisis behavior. Most recent studies tend to skim over the earlier period, if they cover it at all, or now accept the view that Egyptian strategy before 1967 was essentially defensive, based on deterrence and containment, and that Nasser ultimately shifted course due to perceptions of threat that steadily heightened in the course of the previous three years due to the revival of the Arab “cold war,” fear of Israeli nuclear power, and deteriorating relations with the United States, all set against a background of the debilitating military entanglement in Yemen and economic malaise at home

In the course of the nineteenth century, the relationship between Beirut and Mount Lebanon underwent important changes that have affected Lebanon's political life up to the present day. The city and the countryside had always been to some extent mutually dependent. They became more closely tied in response to the economic and political transformation of the region in the age of European penetration. This growing interdependence increasingly took the form of Beirut's ascendancy over the Mountain. While in earlier centuries it was the Mountain which had extended its sway over the city, in the nineteenth century the process was reversed. But Beirut's triumph as the dominant partner in the relationship was not an unmixed blessing: While bringing prosperity to the city, it also transferred to Beirut many of the unresolved tensions of the Mountain, preparing the way for the city's sectarian rivalries and tensions in more recent times.

Through their interactions with French archaeologists from around 1930, Afghan historians formulated a new official historical identity for Afghanistan based on its pre-Islamic past. This article provides the first analysis of this process by tracing the emergence of the new historiography through the career of its chief promoter, Ahmad ʿAli Kuhzad, as curator of the National Museum (founded 1931) and director of the Afghan Historical Society (founded 1942). Through placing Kuhzad in these official institutional settings and reading his major works, the article shows how traditional Persianate historiography was challenged by an imported and amended version of world civilizational history. In the decades after independence in 1919, this new historical vision allowed the young Afghan nation-state to stake its civilizational claims on an international stage. In these previously unexcavated historiographical strata lie the roots of the Taliban's iconoclasm, which are revealed as a dialogical response to the state cultural institutions that remade Afghanistan as Aryana.

The political mobilization of Palestinians in the occupied territories in the 1980s was closely tied to the rise of a new elite and the marginalization of the traditional notable leadership. Such mobilization was necessary in order to overcome, at least in part, the class, kin, and regional cleavages that had long fragmented Palestinian society and that had been used by occupying powers to undermine collective national action. The mobilization of Palestinian society by a new elite was made possible by structural changes that had led to the peripheralization of the traditional elite. The three most important structural changes were the dramaticrise of wage labor after 1967, which transfigured a basically peasant society, extensive land confiscations, and the widespread availability of university education after 1972. Each of these developments helped to break traditional patron–client relations that had been the social base of the old elite and paved the way for the rise of a more extensive, better educated, more rural, and nonlanded elite which had gained cohesion in thePalestinian universities. In addition, these developments, and in particular the diminution of the Palestinian peasantry, meant that large segments of the population had, in effect, been cleaved from their social moorings and were, thus, more open for recruitment into new forms of social relations and organizations. It is to refer to these structural changes in Palestinian society that I use the term “social mobilization.”

Much has been written recently about the severe domestic problems which Turkey has been experiencing since 1970. Instability in the form of worker strikes, student demonstrations, parliamentary stalemate over reform measures, and above all, urban guerrilla terrorism prompted the armed forces to intervene in March 1971 and impose a nonpartisan coalition government in order to put an end to what they deemed “anarchy, fratricide and social and economic unrest.” The following month, at the instigation of the armed forces, a state of emergency was declared and martial law was instituted in eleven of Turkey's sixty-seven provinces. Thousands of suspected “anarchists” were arrested and stood trial, with the result that an uneasy calm returned to the surface of Turkish affairs. Many civilian politicians in the Turkish Grand National Assembly (GNA) were restive under martial law, how ever, decrying their loss of independent action and demanding a loosening of the tight military control.

With the resumption of the search for an Arab–Israeli settlement, analysts have been debating the factors that have frustrated it for so many years. The fact that one Arab country, namely Egypt, concluded a peace treaty with Israel almost a decade and a half ago led some to reexamine that case to see what made it possible. The available literature on Egypt's disengagement from the Arab–Israeli conflict has been voluminous, as many policy makers and analysts in Egypt, Israel, the rest of the Arab world, and the United States published their accounts of this development. Despite many ideological and political differences among these writers, they all concluded that this foreign-policy shift represented a radical alteration of Arab policies toward Israel and that with Egypt out of the war equation, the regional balance of power had changed dramatically. Many of them also emphasized the centrality of President Sadat's role in explaining Egypt's exit from the conflict with Israel. One or another of Sadat's personal characteristics has been singled out by his admirers and critics alike as being the main factor behind the Egyptian foreign-policy shift. It is not that they considered other factors such as socioeconomic variables and regional or global structures irrelevant. They simply assessed them as not decisive in terms of their relative explanatory power.

Social scientists commonly know that time is a social construct and a tool for governing by those holding power. Yet, how exactly is time used for governing? This article examines how timescape (embodiment of approaches to time) works in practice as a tool of power by considering multiple networks of time that manifest in al-Batuf/Beit Netofa Valley planning policy. This valley's agriculture, mostly owned by Palestinian-Arab citizens of Israel, is considered by ecologists and officials a unique traditional agriculture landscape and wetland habitat that has become scarce in Israel due to its development and wetland drainage. Assembling separate modes of anthropological inquiry that attend to time as a technique, I show that knowledge, ethics, and time management are not separate spheres of governance but rather interwoven as one timescape tool of governing. Thus, the case of al-Batuf/Beit Netofa elucidates the ways in which time is used for governing in the context of an agricultural-environmental development policy and plan.

This article draws on a year of ethnography conducted among cis heterosexual couples in contemporary urban Lebanon in order to argue that, in the absence of a serious project of national reconciliation, intersectarian love, despite its short lifespan, constitutes restorative instances in post–civil war Lebanon. Intersectarian hetero desire emerges as a counter-discourse that threatens the masculinist foundations of the Lebanese state. By tracing the timeline of love in the life of Lebanese citizens, this article places personal narratives of “impossible” intersectarian love stories in conversation with queer temporality scholarship in order to recognize the political, albeit limited, potential of romantic love. Here, societal expectations of married life are replaced by an ephemeral unity that operates in contra to hegemonic interpretations of “man and wife.”

In January 1950, in the first free election held in nearly eight years, Egyptians went to the polls to return a Wafdist government to power. After having been banished from office for five years, Egypt's majority party assumed office aware that it shouldered a heavy burden of responsibility. Between October 1944, when the King dismissed the war-time government of Mustafa al-Nahhas, and January 1950, eight minority governments governed, or tried to govern, Egypt. Escalating political violence marked a period of increasing disillusion with parliamentary rule that encompassed all sectors of Egyptian society. Indeed, it might be argued that Egypt's ancien régime survived until 1950 only because the minority governments marshaled the coercive powers of the state to control the streets, campuses, and factories, where dissidence was most manifest. At the time, many sensed that if the political establishment failed to achieve the evacuation of British troops from Egyptian soil, contain rampant inflation, and narrow the gap between rich and poor, martial law could not save the liberal order from collapse. What would follow was uncertain, but talk of revolution, fearful or hopeful, filled the air.

In my contribution to a volume edited by Roger Owen, I have studied the economic development of Palestine from the Crimean War up to the beginnings of the first Jewish Aliya. In this article I propose to investigate the concomitant demographic development of Palestine, that is, of the Livās of Jerusalem, Nablus/Balqā', and 'Akkā, during roughly the same period.

It has long been recognized that much of the richness of Muslim women's ritual lives has been found outside of both the mosque and the “five pillars of Islam,” in a wide set of devotional practices that have met with varying degrees of affirmation and censure from male religious scholars. This recognition has given rise to a valuable literature on such practices as shrine visitation, spirit-possession rituals, and Twelver Shiʿi women's domestic ceremonies. The prevalence of such noncanonical rituals in Muslim women's lives, although waning in many parts of the contemporary world, raises questions about the relationship between women's religious practices and the constitution of Islamic orthodoxies. Have women, often given lesser access to mosque-based and canonical rituals, historically resorted to autonomous and rewarding religious practices that are, nevertheless, fated to be marginalized in the male-dominated construction of Islamic normativity—a normativity that women may ultimately internalize and master only at great cost to their religious lives?

In order to gain a proper historical perspective on opium production in Turkey, it is necessary to look into its worldwide impact during the first half of the nineteenth century. During this time, opium production and trade in both India and Turkey grew rapidly and international trade in opium acquired great significance in shaping England's commercial and political relations with the Levant and the Far East for over a century.

For more than century, race was a major interest in anthropology. Buildingon Johan Blumenbach's 1795 color classificaiton dividing humanity into white, black, brown, yellow and red, anthropologists further subdivided the people of the world into finer taxonomic categories. Hair form, shape of the nose, pigmentation of the eyes and the hair, stature, and the shaps of the head were among the many characteristics race classifiers added to skin color to enable them to fit populations into the typologies they designed. By the end of the 19th century, numerous races and subraces had been described, laying the groundwork for the direction the discipline would follow until the mid-20th century. It was expected that the development and refinement of a racial typology would lead to a framework for tracing lines of human evolution and routes of human migration.

Long before the French Revolution, an anonymous geographer of the 10th century had already imagined the “boundaries of the world”—(ḥudūd al-ʿālam)—as comprising distinct regions. According to this unknown figure, each territory varied from another “First, by the difference of water, air, soil, and temperature (garma-va-sarma). Secondly, by the difference of religion, law (sharīʿat) and beliefs (kīsh). Thirdly, by the difference of words (lughāt) and languages. Fourthly, by the difference of kingdoms (padshāʾī-hā).” These criteria, as well as natural barriers—mountains, rivers, deserts—allowed the author of this work to divide the world into tracts much like nation-states today.

On 9 November 1956, a poem in colloquial Arabic appeared in the month-old Cairo daily al-Masāʾ. The poet was an unknown named Hamid al-Atmas, a carpenter from the Delta city of Damanhur. Entitled “That's It, I'm Off to the Battlefield,” al-Atmas's poem celebrated the worker as soldier, for British and French troops had just landed in Port Said. The narrator states that he will put down his tools—as will many laborers and craftsmen—to go and fight. Following victory, he will return to his shākūsh (hammer) and mingār (plane). This, he stresses, is a people's struggle.1 The point is made no less subtly through the poet's choice of language: the narrator's diction is based on that of shop, home, and street.

When discussing the Kuzari of Halevi, Leo Strauss comments in a footnote that “One cannot recall too often this remark of Goethe (in the Noten und Abhandlungen zum besseren Verständnis der West-östlichen Divans): ‘Das eigentliche, einzige und tiefste Thema der Welt — und Menschengeschichte, dem alle übrigen untergeordnet sind, bleibt der Konflikt des Unglaubens und Glaubens.’” It will be argued here that the influence of such a conflict on Islamic philosophy has been much exaggerated, especially by the highly influential approach that Strauss brings to such a mode of thought and its means of expression.