Employing rhetoric all too familiar to Turks today, major metropolitan newspapers in Turkey in December 1952 and January 1953 raised the specter of widespread Islamic or religious “reaction” (irtica). Staunch defenders of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk's policy of secularism, or laiklik, journalists in Istanbul and Ankara identified the existence of a “black press” (kara basın) manipulated by religious “reactionaries” (mürteci) determined to use print media to challenge the very secular foundations of the modern Turkish nation and to upset the established order. To prevent this, the time had come to prosecute vigorously both individuals and organizations that used newspapers or journals to exploit religion and promote obscurantist propaganda. Chief among these was not a metropolitan publication but, rather, an incendiary religious newspaper produced in the Black Sea city of Samsun—the very same city in which Mustafa Kemal had first set foot in 1919 in his efforts to lead what became the Turkish War of Independence. This black newspaper was Büyük Cihad, “The Great Struggle.”

After his premature death in exile in Beirut in 1937, the body of former Iraqi prime minister Yasin al-Hashimi became a matter of contention between the Syrian and Iraqi governments, as did his legacy as an avid Pan-Arabist. When the coffin with the deceased stopped in Damascus on its promised transfer to Baghdad, the Syrian National Bloc government used the opportunity to stage a solemn republican funeral to bolster its Arab nationalist credentials. Syrian conflicts with the Iraqi government that had removed al-Hashimi in a military coup in the previous year ultimately made Yasin's return impossible, however, and he was buried in Damascus, next to Saladin's mausoleum at the Umayyad Mosque. Unfortunately for the National Bloc, the funeral coincided with the first clashes over the Alexandretta crisis. The resulting street protests destroyed all public confidence that the bloc had gained during the funeral, underlining the volatile nature of nationalist politics at the time.

Held since 1956, the Eurovision Song Contest is an annual event traditionally dedicated to the eternal themes of love, peace, and harmony. Yet Israelis asked to pick a song for the 2007 contest in Helsinki paid little heed to these themes. Instead, they settled for “Push the Button,” a controversial number by an Israeli punk group called Teapacks; the song is generally understood as a description of life under the threat of a nuclear-armed Iran with its “crazy rulers.” Meanwhile, an Israeli fashion house (Dan Cassidy) commissioned a series of photos at a construction site in southern Tel Aviv that showed a topless model lying in a pit. The project was designed as a warning against the “holocaust” that would follow Iran's possible nuclear attack on Israel; the pit, as the project's creative director explained, represented “the mass grave of complacent Tel Aviv residents.”

Peaceful protests and demonstrations have swept through the Arab world, toppling rulers and advancing programs of radical change. Some enthusiasts for these movements have already proclaimed them a revolution. They predict a new Middle Eastern political and economic order. A new generation of young people—men and women, mainly in their twenties and thirties, using their skills in cyberspace communication and fueled by many frustrations—assembled vast numbers in peaceful protests that have thus far claimed many triumphs. They forced the departures of the long-standing dictators of Egypt and Tunisia and have demanded that the monarchs of Jordan, Morocco, and Bahrain reign rather than rule.

Like other area studies, Middle East studies has an interdisciplinary scope, which enriches scholarly debates on Islamist movements, groups, and actors. However, while Middle East studies brings scholars from a wide range of academic backgrounds together, it is still predominantly represented by two major disciplines: political science and history. Relatively less attention is paid to what other disciplines, particularly geography, sociology, and the humanities, contribute to the understanding and theorization of Islamist movements.

Do purple designer kufiyas spell the end of Palestine solidarity?

Kufiyas, especially multicolored ones, started becoming fashionable U.S. urban hipster wear around 2005. They are so trendy, in fact, that W's Meggan Crum called the restyled kufiya featured in French designer Nicholas Ghesquière's fall 2007 Balenciaga fashion line, and worn by Brazilian supermodel Flavia de Oliveira, one of “Fall 2007's Top Ten Accessories.” Meanwhile, over the last couple of years, kufiyas of all colors have been spotted on such celebrities as Mary-Kate Olsen, Kirsten Dunst, Cameron Diaz, Colin Farrell, David Beckham, Justin Timberlake, and even John McCain's daughter Meghan. In spring 2007, Urban Outfitters marketed the kufiya, in several colors, as an “anti-war woven scarf” until protests prompted the cancellation of the line—but not the sale of the item. It is available in the winter 2008 catalog, described now as a “houndstooth scarf.”

This article explores the social impact of North African soldiers’ experiences in French military hospitals during World War I. In particular, it examines improvised “Muslim hospitals” that were opened in order to isolate North Africans from French civilian society. Colonial and military officials believed that North Africans, presumed to be warlike, pathogenic, and promiscuous, could corrupt and be corrupted by the French public. Yet while existing literature tends to highlight the dehumanization of North Africans at the hands of military and medical authorities, this article, drawing from personal correspondence, photographs, and military and medical records, reveals a more ambiguous daily reality. I argue that the individual needs and desires of wounded North Africans and of French nurses, as well as material limitations and contingencies, created spaces for an unprecedented series of humanizing personal encounters. In military-medical “colonies within the metropole,” these soldiers found themselves caught between a newfound sense of affinity with the French public and a starker sense of the boundaries of colonial practice.

With the disintegration of the Ottoman Empire and the establishment of British rule in Palestine, the nascent Zionist labor movement, shortly to become the backbone of the Zionist undertaking in Palestine, found itself confronted by a series of fundamental questions. The purpose of this paper is to show that there was never a consensus within the Zionist labor movement; that the leadership was divided on vital issues; that Israel's leader, David Ben-Gurion, represented only one approach within labor Zionism, and that even after his approach had prevailed, following drawn-out disputes, and he had risen to a position of commanding authority, his policies continued to be challenged by successive leaders during the decades preceding and following the establishment of the State of Israel.

The closing decades of Ottoman rule in Palestine (the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries), a crucial period in the history of the area, have already received vast attention from scholars and other writers. They have used an abundance of source material, including documents belonging to individuals and institutions, consular reports, memoirs, travel books, and newspapers. But in contrast to earlier periods in Ottoman Palestine, very little has been done, as yet, to bring to light and utilize official Ottoman documents. This, of course, is absolutely necessary if the views and actions of the ruling power are to be described and analyzed, and—because the authorities must have had direct and reliable knowledge of the conditions of the land—if a more complete and balanced picture is to be drawn of the history of the country.

Le mot arabe sultân se rencontre plusieurs fois dans le Coran au sens de pouvoir.* A titre d'exemple, je vous cite quelques versets coraniques provenant de l'excellente traduction de M. Blachére: ‘Quiconque a tuée injustement, nous donnons à son proche, pouvoir [de la venger]’ (Coran, XVII, 35/33). ‘A l'exclusion de ceux des Errants qui te suivront, tu ne disposes d'aucun pouvoir sur mes serviteurs’ (Coran XV, 42). Et encore, au sens de puissance: ‘Je n'avais sur vous aucune puissance, sauf de vous appeler et que vous me répondiez’ (Coran, XIV, 26/22).

The last three messianic claimants to appear in the Jewish diaspora appeared in Yemen in the 19th century. At this time and place the mutual influences of Jews and Muslims were notable both in messianic movements and in literary expression. Muslim society in Yemen was aware of the messianic tension among the Jews, and individual Muslims even took part in each of the known messianic movements. Conversely—and this is the subject of this article—Jewish society, at least on the popular level, was receptive to Muslim apocalyptic ideas and beliefs and integrated them into Jewish apocalyptic anticipations.

The belief in messianism and the sharing of ideas on redemption or of the golden age in the eschatological era (i.e., at the End of Time) have long been maintained by the Jews. Some of the concepts that served as paradigms for later messianic speculations were derived from the Bible. For instance, the concept of rescue—the rescue by God of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt—became the example of God's intervention to help his people and mirrored the rescue at the End of Days. Likewise, the Davidic kingdom was believed to be the fulfillment of an ancient covenant between God and the Israelites—and, therefore, the Davidic kingdom became in the history of Jewish messianism the paradigm for how the future kingdom would be, how the covenant would be fulfilled. Also, the term “messiah” (mashiah)—i.e., the anointed one—was originally the official title for the Davidic kings and the early root for the later messiah; hence, it would be a Davidic descendant who would lead the Jews into the messianic age.

In Mount Lebanon, 1860 and the years immediately preceding it witnessed the turbulence of social and economic change. These were years of sporadic civil disorder culminating in a paroxysm of religious strife. These events and their antecedents have elicited enlightening studies from social scientists and historians.2 By comparison, the years immediately following 1860 were less disturbed, and might initially even appear less interesting. Under closer scrutiny, however, they provide revealing and instructive insights into the mechanics of change and the continuing history of the social and political formation of the specifically sectarian policy that is the core of the Lebanese fact.

The purpose of this article is to present to a wide public the documents relating to the construction of Süleymaniye published by the late ömer Lutfi Barkan and his team of collaborators in Süleymaniye Camii ve Inşaati, Vols. I, II (Ankara 1972, 1979). They strikingly illustrate the ability of the Ottoman central administration to co-ordinate complex operations minutely from a distance; and nothing of such detail exists for any monument of Istanbul before the early seventeenth century, or for any other building in the Islamic world.

Some topics have already been considered in detail by Barkan, which explains the present choice of the sections of the accounts relating to furnishing and decorating Süleymaniye. They offer a mass of material of considerable intrinsic interest and of considerable value for the history of the luxury trades, both domestic and foreign, in sixteenth-century Ottoman Turkey. But simple translation is not enough: there are too many variant or dubious readings; the technical vocabulary is often recondite and the senses of certain terms must be a matter for conjecture; and the identification or designation of many of the materials is problematic.

None of the editions of Hajji Baba of Isfahan nor the monographs and articles on its author, James Morier, that have come to my attention so far has made any comments on the introduction to this book. This introduction is couched in the form of a letter to the Reverend Doctor Fundgruben, Chaplain to the Swedish Embassy at the Ottoman Porte, and is dated London, 1st December, 1823. Doctor Fundgruben is characterized as being preoccupied with “hieroglyphic lore” and as the author of the book The Biography of Celebrated Mummies.

Israeli political, economic, and social achievements have apparently made Israel a developed nation. Social scientists customarily ignore its geographic setting in the developing world and study the country as a phenomenon of political, social and economic development. One aspect, however, is still problematic and controversial. This is the administrative. Israelis doubt the extent to which their governmental administration is developed, by which they mean the extent to which their administration is staffed by trained officials appointed on grounds of merit. While the forms of a modern government service exist, Israelis are skeptical of their substance, because of what they suspect to be widespread instances of inattention to the rules for appointment and promotion to civil service positions. Social scientists seem to have accepted the conventional wisdom of Israeli public opinion and they, too, have judged the Israeli civil service to be embryonic or stunted in development, largely because of political interference in appointments and advancement to senior positions. It is true that in every country the issue of which governmental offices should be political and which administrative is a problem. But this problem is exacerbated in Israel where, because of party politics, it is, ostensibly, one resolution which exists in law and another in fact.

The field of education, its various components and means of putting it into effect, have not received the attention of those who have studied the history of Arabic thought. It has been only recently that Arab education has received the attention of scholars. But thus far, research has been limited mostly to histories of educational institutions and to certain fragmentary aspects of education. Theories of education, or of areas within the field of education, have not been examined.

My starting point is the present—certainly a critical and loaded moment for scholars of the modern Middle East. It is incumbent upon us to take a step back and to rethink how to create new concepts, new narratives, new explanatory schemes, new historicities, and new visions of the future. An engagement with science studies, understood broadly, is one possible way to begin such critical rethinking. It is an exercise that could also be mutually illuminating, as scholars of science studies have been debating the global nature of science and technology for the last decade, undoubtedly in reaction to the once European-dominated narrative of the history of science. The field of science studies has moved well beyond “diffusion” and “core-periphery” models toward more eclectic examinations of various processes of epistemic encounters, translations, mediations, and conflicts that shaped societies. These processes also shaped science and technology. Here, I would like to provide a brief outline of one mutual engagement inspired by the injunction to follow scientists, doctors, and engineers and to probe what was at stake in the knowledge they produced and how they “made society.”

Scientists who study Dead Sea sinkholes come to know them in particular ways (as generalized hydrogeoloic phenomena, symptoms of a regional environmental crisis, or divine retribution) and at particular scales (from the distant orbit of Earth observation satellites, from digitally altered aerial photographs, and occasionally from the inside). Using ethnographic data gathered between 2012 and 2015 in the occupied Palestinian territories (oPt), Israel, and Jordan, I compare how groups and individuals study, think, and learn about Dead Sea sinkholes. The way hydrogeologic knowledge about these sinkholes is gathered and circulated helps define land around the Dead Sea as territory to be colonized. These scientific processes can nullify Palestinian claims to the Dead Sea, eliminate Palestinian people from Dead Sea landscapes, and marginalize Bedouin opposition to Jordanian government policies. I suggest that attention to “geologies of erasure” helps scholars to understand the scientific and political impacts of settler colonialisms on the collection of knowledge about changing natural environments in the Middle East and beyond.