The degree of development (or, if you prefer, material civilization) of any society is set by the size of its surplus (the total amount it produces minus the amount needed for the bare subsistence of the population) and the uses to which the surplus is put. In Emerson's wise words, “The question of history is what each generation has done with its surplus produce. One bought crusades, one churches, one villas, one horses and one railroads.” The size of the surplus is, in turn, determined by four factors: the amount of energy available to the society, the society's technology, the mix of its economy, and the size of its population. Until comparatively recently, energy was, with the important exception of sailing ships, provided exclusively by human or animal power.1 Two important steps forward were the invention of the watermill and that of the windmill; their development will be discussed later. Nevertheless, it has been estimated that until the Industrial Revolution, some 80–85 percent of total energy was provided by plants, animals, and people.2 This means that the basic factors determining the amount of energy available to a society were the amount of land (arable, pasture, and woodland) it had at its disposal and the land's productivity. Land “was not simply the principal source of food for the population [the other being the seas and rivers] but also virtually the sole source of the raw materials used in industrial production”—fibers, hides, hair, wood, and so forth; almost all industrial workers were engaged in processing agricultural materials.

On 22 May 1990, the Yemen Arab Republic (YAR) and the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen (PDRY) carried out their old pledge to unite into a single Republic of Yemen. This historic event occurred less than three years after the YAR, seemingly secure and comfortable in its separateness, celebrated its silver jubilee in 1987. This article traces and assesses political development and socioeconomic modernization in the YAR over this more than 25-year period, and hazards some guesses on the implications of these changes for current efforts to implement Yemeni unification.

First of all, may I say how warmly I welcome this opportunity to express something of what I owe to French masters, colleagues, and friends. Half a century ago, when I first became concerned with the history of the Middle East as a young instructor at the American University of Beirut, I might have found it more difficult to say this. France itself was unknown to me at that time. I looked at it mainly as the rather unsuccessful ruler of the country where I was living and working, and to which I was bound by ancestral ties. My attitude may have expressed something of the Arab nationalist sentiment of most of my colleagues and students at the American University, and also something of the tradition of Anglo-French rivalry in the Levant.

For many years the class category of the state bourgeoisie has had considerable currency in the analysis of states and societies in the Middle East and in the developing world in general. In part, resort to this category has been driven by the remarkable expansion of the economic roles of these states, an expansion that has required that we try to understand the managers of the process. In that respect what is undertaken here fits into a broader and older effort to make sense, in class terms, of the owners of intellectual or technical capital—white-collar workers, civil servants, public-sector managers, and those in the service sector. These are awkward strata in that they neither own (much) capital nor do they provide labor to the owners of capital in the same manner as peasants and the proletariat. They are frequently portrayed as “intermediate” and “in transition.” They are situated between capital and labor, and, in Marxist analysis, are seen as the witting or unwitting agents of the dominant class as it emerges or as it consolidates its grip on the economy and the state apparatus.

Despite a growing literature on peasant movements in the early 20th century, the story of the peasant rebellions of the Caspian region at the time of the Iranian Constitutional Revolution of 1906–11 has been little studied.1 A close look at three sets of materials—the newspapers of the Constitutional Revolution, among them Majlis (1906–1908), Anjuman (1906–1909), Habl al-Matīn (1907–1909), and Sūr-i Isrāfīl (1907–8); British diplomatic reports; and several regional studies and memoirs of the period—reveal that, during the First Constitutional Period of 1906–1908, a number of strikes and sit-ins were carried out by the peasants, often with the support of craftsmen and workers, who had initiated trade union activity. Such revolts were considerably more sustained and prominent in the northern areas of Gilan and Azerbayjan, which were directly influenced by the flow of radical ideas from the Russian Caucasus; they also benefited from a long history of social struggle among the craftsmen and small shopkeepers (pīshahvarāns), who maintained their guilds, and a tradition of alliances among the craftsmen, the urban poor, and the poor peasants.2

During those eventful days of early January 1979, after Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi of Iran had finally announced his intention to leave the country and the revolutionary leader Ayatollah Khomeini had made his return from exile contingent on the shah's departure, a hemistitch by Hafez, the 14th-century Persian poet, suddenly appeared next to an array of revolutionary slogans on display in the streets of Tehran: “Div cho birun ravad fereshteh dar āyad” (When the demon departs, the angel shall arrive). The basic binary oppositions of demon/angel and departure/arrival fit the realities of the situation the country had found itself in; a perfect correspondence had been made between the simple, single idea enshrined in the abstract language of a medieval poetic phrase and the intricate political posturing involved in a modern-day revolution in the making. Furthermore, the stark discourse of antagonism underlying the opposition had become as absolute, as uncompromising as the idea of a total revolution.

Writing in 1962 Stephen Neill listed twelve of what he regarded as “positive achievements of New Testament studies” over the past century.1 As an affirmation of progress in a notoriously difficult field of investigation, they make satisfying and even cheerful reading for the historian. Who was Jesus of Nazareth? What was his message? Why was he put to death? Why did his few followers become, in effect, the nucleus of the powerful and widespread community called Christianity? These were the enormously difficult questions that had begun to be posed in a critical-historical way in the mid-19th century, and some of the answers Bishop Neill discerned, though by no means final, represented ground gained and truths won. Neill's widely read book was revised in 1988, and though his optimism was here and there tempered by what had been said and thought in the twenty-five years since the first edition,2 there was still good reason to think that historians were by and large on the right track in pursuing what Albert Schweitzer described in 1906 as “the quest of the historical Jesus.”3

During the past two decades, historians of the last Ottoman centuries have produced ground-breaking research documenting the increasing economic interaction between Europe and the Middle East. Relying on information about the empire's trade with Europe, scholars have concluded that the 19th century was a time of transformation–in culture, in politics, and in economics. By thus calling our attention to changing circumstances, these historians, economists, art historians, and sociologists have outlined a general landscape of upheaval and change.1 Monographs on Ottoman cities, focusing on the effects of international trade on coastal areas, have begun to sketch in the epicenters of massive economic dislocation.2

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.

In the 1980s public policy shifted sharply in favor of market-based solutions, in contrast to the previously dominant “Keynesian” approach to economic management. A number of countries, irrespective of their regimes or stages of development, are currently implementing programs designed to reduce the size and scope of the public sector and strengthen the market. The privatization of public enterprises constitutes a key element in such a strategy.1 Yet hitherto, the extent of privatization—the number of enterprises involved as well as the scale of divestiture—has been extremely limited, especially considering the amount of rhetoric the idea has generated. In addition, the vigor with which privatization policies have been pursued also shows considerable variation among countries. These “stylized facts” of privatization clearly merit an explanation.2 Here I will look for that explanation by using the Turkish experience with privatization between 1980 and 1989 as a case study.

Students of Islamic history have long demanded that more attention be given to social and economic affairs, and it cannot be denied that substantial progress is being made inthe field. Nevertheless, many gaps remain that will have to be filled in by detailed investigations of various periods and regions, notions, nad relationships. An attempt will be made in this article to elucidate the functioning of a faction, or ṭā⊃ifa in Central Asia in the second half of the 15th century. This ṭā⊃ifa was the system of patronage and protection installedby Khwaja Ahrar, a famous shaykh of the Naqshbandi silsila.

Classes are objective positions defined by the social relations of production. These positions broadly determine, among other things, the occupants' political and ideological orientations and their potential to participate in revolutionary movements. The conflict between and the contradictory nature of these positions are the underlying mechanisms for the generation and reproduction of class struggle. Nevertheless, a simple structural analysis is insufficient for analyzing the role of classes in a revolutionary movement. Classes are not static entities fixed once and for all, nor are they completely determined by “objective” economic “facts” such as the social relations of production.1 To understand the success of the dominated classes in a revolutionary movement, one must analyze their level of class formation—namely, the capacity of the members of a class to realize their interests. Class capacity is contingent, among other things, on the level of organization and mobilization of the members of the class. Rather than deriving automatically from the structural positions, class capacity is “rooted in traditional culture and communities.”2 Class boundaries, interests, and mobilization are always shifting: interests change, coalitions are formed and break up, positions in the economy are created or destroyed, and demobilization occurs.3 Classes are continually organized, disorganized, and reorganized.4 The methodological strategy adopted in this article to demonstrate the importance of class in shaping the economic policy of the Islamic Republic is based on the analysis of the significant and controversial issues that appeared in the post-revolutionary period. It will be argued that these issues were a manifestation of class struggle and that the way they were finally resolved reflected the balance of class forces.5

The effect of the coming of Islam on the condition of women has long been a subject of debate among scholars with divergent interests in the Muslim world, including Protestant missionaries, anthropologists, Muslim reformists, apologists, and feminists. The central question upon which this subject is focused has been couched in language of mutually exclusive extremes: Did Islam at its inception bring about an improvement in women's condition, or was Islam responsible for bringing about inequalities between men and women in Muslim societies? The purpose of this article is to suggest new directions for exploring the effect of Islam on women, to confront the inadequacy of the sources and methods that are presently brought to bear on the issues, and to introduce Christian sources to a debate that has been carried out within a self-contained Muslim-Arab context

For those who have, or once had it, power holds a strange fascination. For that very reason it waxes men inventive. It is almost invariably surrounded by ideologies of legitimacy, which adduce tradition, divine grace, or the law in order to support the establishment of those at the top. These ideologies are, strictly speaking, instruments of mystification; yet they are permissible weapons as long as they do not prevent the other side from returning them in kind.—Ralf Dahrendorf1

Whoever builds a mosque for God, even like the nest of a bird to lay her eggs, God will build for him an abode in paradise.1.

In 1774, the Mamluk shaykh al-balad Muhammad Bey Abu al-Dhahab began the construction of a large mosque-madrasa-takiyya in one of central Cairo's prime locations. The complex bearing the name of the donor lies within a rough triangle formed by the main gate of al-Azhar, the Khan al-Zarakisha, and the wikāla of the 16th-century Mamluk ruler Qansuh al-Ghawri and forms the most important part of Muhammad Bey's waqf. Extensive agricultural lands and urban properties were included in the waqf by the donor to support the personnel of the mosque, school, and rakiyya, to pay for the religious activities stipulated by the terms of the waqf, and for the upkeep of the buildings.

The deportation of the majority of the Armenian population from the Ottoman Empire during World War I and the massacres that accompanied it are of commanding interest. The paucity of scholarly contributions in this area, however, has impeded the development of interest in the subject, thereby contributing to the nebulous state surrounding the conditions that led to the disappearance of an entire nation from its ancestral territories. Some maintain that this nebulousness is compounded by the intrusion of political calculation.1 At issue is whether or not the disaster was intentionally organized by the Ottoman authorities, and whether or not the scope of Armenian losses bore any relationship to that intention.

While I was working on my Ph.D. thesis on Ikhwan in the Sudan,1 a Sudanese colleague of mine working in a related area used to joke that we have all become “Orientalists.” There was a certain sense of irony—and truth—in this “accusation.” Our endeavor was either the negation and supersession of Orientalism, or its final triumph. For here we are, fiery Islamic militants, squatting meekly and dutifully at the feet of our Orientalist sheikhs, hoping to drink at their hands the cup of knowledge on which we had simultaneously turned our backs. Is this conceding defeat or starting an invasion?

It is a widespread pattern in many countries in the Third World for men to leave their families and migrate long distances in order to earn money. The effects of labor migration are usually studied using a macro approach: how migration effects the wages, labor supplies, and governmental policies on the national level. In this study, labor migration is studied using a micro approach: the effect of the migration of the husband on the relationships between husband and wife, mother and child, and wife and in-laws.

On 11 November 1851, Nasir al-Din Shah (r. 1848—96), the 20-year-old Qajar ruler of Iran, dismissed from the post of premier his guardian-tutor (atābak) and brother-in-law Mirza Taqi Khan Farahani, Amir(-i) Nizam, better known to posterity as Amir Kabir. He allowed him to continue in the post of commander-in-chief of the army (amārat-i niẓām), however. “Since the office of the grand vizierate in volves too much labor,” the shah wrote to Amir Kabir, “and the burden of such a task was arduous for you. we have relieved you of this duty. You must continue as commander-in-chief with full confidence.”1 Only two months later, on 10 January 1852, Amir Kabir was secretly put to death in the Fin royal garden near Kashan, where he had spent the last days of his exile.

When World War I ended and the political map of the Middle East was redrawn, the ruler-straight borders separating the Fertile Crescent countries were not determined wholly in Europe, when the mandates were divided between Britain and France, as is commonly believed. The border between Syria and Iraq was determined between 1918 and 1920, when Iraqi officers serving in the Syrian army brought about the annexation of regions originally designated for British-occupied Iraq to Faysal 's Arab government in Syria.