Thursday, July 16, 2015

Sinai: War in a Distant Province

            The July 1 battle in which the Egyptian Armed Forces regained control of a small border town from the self-proclaimed Sinai Province of the Islamic State (formerly known as Ansar Beit al-Maqdis or Supporters of Jerusalem) has heightened fear, anger, and above all self-congratulation among both the government’s supporters and its critics.  Days after still unknown assailants had assassinated the country’s Attorney General by means of a car bomb, IS fighters attacked a series of checkpoints in the northern Sinai peninsula and appeared briefly to have taken control of Shaykh Zuwayed near the border with Gaza and Israel.  The attack occurred more or less on the anniversary of massive demonstrations (June 30) and subsequent coup (July 3) in 2013 when former President Mohammad Morsi was removed from office.

            Most commentary, and especially in English, has focused on the incapacity of the Egyptian armed forces to prevent such attacks and the threat to the Egyptian state of an IS insurgency.   The rapidity with which IS took control of important cities in Syria (notably Raqqa) and Iraq (Tikrit, Falluja, and Mosul) as well as areas of Libya and Yemen suggest that much of Sinai and perhaps portions of the Egyptian heartland could fall easily into its grasp.   The argument of many analysts is straightforward: increasing levels of repression by the Egyptian dictatorship radicalize the population and drive Egyptians increasingly to accept the use of violence to overthrow an unpopular regime and IS stands ready to provide the violence.  In this argument that repression occurs in the context of the massive uprising of 2011 and the democratic elections of 2012 makes more Egyptians likely to find the regime intolerable and to sympathize with or participate in armed revolt against it.

            The logic of the argument is impeccable but as with so many arguments about Egypt and the Arab world over the past four years it turns politics into a morality tale whose authors are rewarded with victory.

            It is more useful and far more interesting to place the fighting in northern Sinai in the context of the last 35 years of Egyptian history.   Seen thus, the very real limits of the IS threat to the Egyptian state and the likely continued degradation of the Egyptian political scene as the government coercively responds to the military challenge it faces becomes more apparent.  As Egyptians become inured to a coarser and more violent political life, it seems unlikely they will be able to free themselves from it for at least a generation. 

            IS is a locally dangerous opponent and it may be true that the Egyptian Army lost more men in the first week of July 2015 in Sinai than at any time since the 1973 war with Israel.  However in July 2015 the Egyptian dead were about 1.5 % those who died in October 1973; and other attacks in the past several years have taken dozens of lives.  The violence in Sinai is real and frightening but so far it is well within the capacity of the Egyptian armed forces to repress.

To fully appreciate the meaning of the events in Sinai we need to look elsewhere.  We can begin with the period between 1979 and 1981: the years in which Egypt, during the presidency of Anwar Sadat, regained control of the Sinai from Israel and during which Egypt also faced its first (and arguably most threatening) Islamist insurgency.  These two processes are intricately linked, not least by the assassination of Sadat in 1981.

Although the Egyptian state presents the 1973 war as a military victory, Israel won and in the process not only regained control of the Sinai peninsula that it had first seized in the 1967 war but also a portion of the west bank of the Suez Canal.  It was widely believed at the time that it would not be long before yet another Arab-Israeli war would be fought. Instead a peace process returned Sinai to Egypt in return for a peace treaty that removed Egypt from the Arab military front facing Israel and demilitarized much of northern Sinai.

Egypt regained control of Sinai through lengthy and domestically contentious negotiations coinciding with a period of economic stress best remembered for two days of demonstrations and rioting in 1977 when the government lost control of the streets in downtown Cairo.   To limit political opposition to the treaty and to counter popular discontent rooted in economic distress, Sadat ordered the arrest of some 1500 people in the late summer of 1980.  Islamic activists engaged in what we would now call a Salafi-jihadi current assassinated Sadat and including members of the self-named “Islamic Group.” 

Sadat’s assassination while he presided over a parade celebrating the October war as a victory is well remembered globally.  Its shadow has obscured another side of the events of October 1981: the attempt to overthrow the regime by force.  In the days after Sadat’s assassination, Islamist militants launched an insurrection in the southern Egyptian city of Asyut.  Something like 60 police were killed in the fighting and ultimately the government regained control of the city by sending in Army paratroop units.  Asyut is one of the largest cities in Upper Egypt and has long been an important government and economic center for the region.  The Egyptian government has, on occasion, found it difficult socially or politically to dominate many urban and rural areas but Asyut is the one time in recent memory when it lost control of a major city for several days due to an armed uprising.  That events in Asyut had no echoes in the rest of the country was, for some Islamist activists, a clear indication that armed uprisings were doomed as a means to confront the regime. 

Sadat’s actual assassins were executed but other members of the Islamic Group, notably the cousins Abbud and Tariq al-Zumor, were given lengthy prison sentences.  They remained in jail even after they had served the judicial sentences imposed on them because the Egyptian government believed they posed a continuing threat. 

Sadat made significant progress in realizing the goals of the Camp David treaty before his murder.  As befits a treaty aimed at ending a series of increasingly costly and destructive wars between states, Camp David provided strong reassurances that neither party could easily launch a surprise war again.  It did this primarily by limiting troop deployments on each side of the Sinai border between Israel, the Palestinian enclave of the Gaza Strip (then still under direct Israeli occupation), and Egypt.  Although Egypt had regained sovereignty over the entire peninsula, Sadat had agreed that it would station no members of the armed forces in a zone stretching from Sheikh Zuwayed on the north coast to Sharm el-Sheikh on the southern tip.  Only lightly armed civil police would patrol “Zone C.” 

In years since 1981 development in the Sinai has centered mainly on the tourism industry in the south.  South Sinai with about 160,000 people is lightly populated but it has world-class beaches, scuba diving, and hotels.   One of the few issues that divided the Israeli and Egyptian governments after the signing of the treaty was the determination of the exact boundary demarcating the countries at Taba.  A court decision awarded a small slice of land and two hotels to Egypt, one of which is today the Taba Hilton. In the first decade of the 20th century there were attacks on tourist facilities in South but these were decidedly aimed at destroying the traffic rather than in creating a “liberated zone” such as IS has in Syria and Iraq.   Tourism has not done well in the years since 2011; revenues have shrunk from over $14 billon to under $ 5 billion a year.  

North Sinai, never the object of much investment by Egyptian governments, has suffered an even more catastrophic economic collapse than the south.   Although North Sinai is also lightly populated, with 420,000 people it is much larger than the south.  The largest city, El-Arish, with about 164,000 people, has roughly as many people as all of South Sinai.  Sheikh Zuwayed has about 60,000.   El-Arish is the largest city in Sinai proper, but it is not the largest city in the region.  Almost as large is Rafah which has 150,000 inhabitants thirty miles away on the Palestinian side of the border.  Not far beyond Rafah is Khan Yunis with more than a third of a million people and 18 miles further north is Gaza City with another half million. 

Much has been written about the tunnels under the Egyptian-Palestinian border.  They have supplied Gazans with cement, medications, and food (most of which is ordinary and some of which is luxurious).  They have been used for weapons (which became cheap and available after the collapse of the Libyan regime) and drugs such as tramadol (an opiate medication).  They have been viewed as engines of growth, survival and incubators for entrepreneurship as well as security threats and lifelines.  Less frequently has the estimated $700 million to $1 billion that passed through them been evaluated as vital to the economy of Egyptian North Sinai.  An impoverished area with little industry, however, would inevitably orient its economy toward the largest market in the region.  North Sinai may be part of Egypt politically but eastern North Sinai is necessarily connected to the Gazan economy.

In addition to goods, the North Sinai economy includes traffic in human beings.  By some estimates tens of thousands of Eritrean and other African citizens have attempted to illegally enter Israel through the Sinai border crossings.  Although it is impossible to accurately measure the number of people involved, international human rights organizations have described large numbers of people pressed into servitude, tortured, and held for tens of thousands of dollars in ransoms.   As is clear from the American Southwest, lengthy borders in desolate regions are difficult to police even for a strong state; where the state has withdrawn it is effectively impossible.   

Northern Sinai is also the route of a pipeline that until 2012 was the major export artery for Egyptian natural gas.  A main line connects the central Egyptian network to El-Arish on the northern Sinai coast where it splits into two parts: one, underwater, connects with Ashkelon in Israel; the other, significantly larger, connects to Jordan, Lebanon and Syria.  The gas connection with Israel was highly controversial and the pipeline, which provides little direct economic advantage to North Sinai, has been bombed more than 25 times since the 2011 uprising.  Increased demand for gas in Egypt prompted the government to end the contract with Israel in 2012 and reduce supplies to the Arab countries.   The Egyptian government has recently decided to allow the import of natural gas via a reverse flow from Israel through the same pipeline. 

Before returning to connect the strands of the argument so far, it is worth pondering what would happen if Gaza could trade freely with its Israeli and Egyptian neighbors.  Gaza City alone has roughly the population of the four largest nearby non-Palestinian cities combined: Ashkelon, Ashdod, and Beer Sheva in Israel and El-Arish in Egypt.  The 1.8 million people of the Gaza Strip (or Gaza province of Palestine if you prefer) are the largest concentration of human beings in the Sinai and southern Israel region and probably the largest supply of labor. 

North Sinai is a gateway for Gaza as long as its 1.8 million people can neither import directly through their own port or trade with Israel.   The northern towns of Shaykh Zuwayed, El-Arish, and ultimately Rafah (on the Egyptian side) have provided the otherwise absent gateway.  Egyptian governments from Mubarak through Muslim Brother president Morsi to now-president El-Sisi have limited legal economic exchange with Gaza and frequently closed the official border crossings.  Trade has thus required transport through tunnels, ie, as a form of criminal activity.  This is a trade that initially the lightly armed police were not equipped to deter and were sometimes paid to ignore.  Morsi’s government placed more pressure on this trade but governments since his ouster have been even more assiduous in shutting it down.

            Returning where we left off: as the 2011 uprising in Cairo and other major cities grew and the police forces collapsed, the maintenance of public order devolved to the Egyptian Armed Forces.  This required pulling troops into central Egypt, especially the cities, and left the borders unguarded.  The Supreme Council of Armed Forces did negotiate a very early agreement with the Israeli government to send troops in South Sinai partly to prevent attacks that would have damaged the tourist industry but North Sinai receded even further from effective government control.

            Unlike other equally impoverished areas of Egypt, North Sinai in the wake of the 2011 uprising did have one important economic sector: illegal trade.  It was precisely its illegality that made it rewarding. Illegal trade (in the north) and tourism (in the south) are important drivers of the economy and politics in these two areas. 

            Foreign mass tourism in Egypt is a post-Sadat phenomenon and it has provided regime opponents with a soft target. The most famous and still the most murderous incident is the 1997 attack on Hatshepsut’s Temple in Upper Egypt in which 68 people (including 6 attackers) died.  The attack was carried out by members of the Islamic Group who opposed a truce some of their leaders had arranged with the Mubarak government.  In 2004, 2005 and 2006 hotels and tourist attractions in Taba, Sharm el-Sheikh, and Dahab in South Sinai were attacked and more than 150 people killed in total.

            Salafi groups claimed responsibility for the attacks in South Sinai although the Egyptian state and many external observers see them as the work of North Sinai Bedouin who hoped to affect the tourism industry.  One aspect of the attacks that differentiates them from 1997, is that they all occurred on holidays associated with the Egyptian state or Egyptian society broadly speaking.  The 2004 Taba attack occurred on October 7 (a day after the anniversary of the start of the 1973 war and Sadat’s assassination) and the Sharm attack occurred on the anniversary of the 1952 revolution.  The 2006 attack in Dahab occurred on Sham El-Nessim (the only holiday celebrated by both Christians and Muslims) that occurs in spring and whose origins are pre-Islamic and pre-Christian.  These attacks thus struck at the economic roots of the state as well as its cultural and social claims to legitimacy.

            It is not surprising that within weeks of the beginning of the 2011 uprising some North Sinai residents had also attacked the gas pipeline. In May 2011 unknown attackers used a rocket propelled grenade to attack the tomb of the eponymous Sheik Zuwayed during a period in which attacks on Sufi shrines created mounting tensions in Egypt.  These attacks also made it clear that not all the arms that traveled through the region had been sent to Gaza: rocket propelled grenades, high explosives, and automatic weapons were widely available.  In mid-summer of 2011, in addition to the earlier attacks on the gas pipeline and the shrine, the police station in El-Arish was attacked and 6 policemen killed.  In November 2012 an RPG was used to attack a cement factory in El-Arish. 

            Although the army and the Egyptian media have recently alleged these weapons arrive in Egypt from Gaza, it earlier recognized that their primary source was Libya.  After the collapse of the regime there weapons became widely available for export.  Controlling the border with Gaza is probably more important as a way of draining financial resources from the state’s opponents in northern Sinai and also preventing them from having a safe haven from the Egyptian army.

            By August 2011, regaining control over the border area had become a priority for the Egyptian Armed Forces after a series of cross-border attacks from southern Sinai into Israel.  Who was responsible for these attacks remains unclear but they did provoke the first serious exchange of gunfire between Israeli and Egyptian troops in decades.  Five Egyptian soldiers were killed when Israeli soldiers crossed the border pursuing the attackers.  Coupled with the earlier attacks on the gas pipeline, the police station, and the threat to the tourism industry Sinai became more prominent to the government.  Few if any Egyptians were sympathetic to Israel’s security needs but equally few wanted the decision about whether renewed war would break out to pass into the hands of North Sinai Bedouin and guerrillas.

            A year later, on August 5, 2012, armed men again attacked an Egyptian military outpost, killing 16 soldiers, stealing armored vehicles and attempting to enter Israel where they were killed.  In the days after the attack, then President Morsi asked General Muhamed Tantawi to resign as Defense Minister and replaced him with Abdel Fattah Sisi who later mounted the coup that overthrew Morsi. 

            In mid-May 2013, as the Egyptian political crisis that ended with the coup deepened, seven Egyptian soldiers were kidnapped.  They were freed but not before a video in which they appealed for help was shown on the web.  Their freedom came after negotiations between tribal leaders and the kidnappers during which the Armed Forces appeared to be irrelevant and powerless. 

            In late October 2014 armed men launched yet another attack on army checkpoints in northern Sinai with car bombs, explosives and automatic weapons in which 27 soldiers died and 26 more were injured.  This was the largest guerrilla attack on the armed forces in the history of north Sinai to date although this, along with the incidents mentioned above, are only a few of the stream of violence occurring in the area.

            The Egyptian Army, like most militaries, has few tools other than overwhelming force with which to re-establish control over North Sinai.  Opening the border with Gaza would have antagonized Israel and empowered the Hamas government but it would not have solved the economic problems of North Sinai; it more probably would have exacerbated them as the smuggling trade diminished.  Of course neither did directly attacking the smuggling trade endear the military government to the inhabitants of North Sinai.  Specific investments in North Sinai would take years to result in significant economic growth and the overall Egyptian economy was shrinking any way as foreign and domestic investment stalled and then declined.   Even had the central government been willing to pay fees to allow gas exports to transit the national territory, there was no politically appropriate way to allocate them to local inhabitants. 

            Armed elements in North Sinai have proclaimed allegiance to the Islamic State and asserted that they are the nucleus of a “Sinai Province.”  How exactly does a region whose insurgents are, even if loosely, connected to smuggling goods and trafficking people, fit with the creation of a state-building enterprise whose core is in eastern Syria and western Iraq?  And how does it relate to a project whose leaders claim it to be based on “strict” Islam? 

            One obvious connection is that the Islamic State has emerged in areas where structures of governance have been destroyed by war and where existing elites have been politically marginalized.  IS itself is not an armed insurgency against an existing government.  It was not organized in the wake of a popular uprising.  It exists where the old state ceased to exist and few if any structures of governance are in place.  In Iraq the American invasion and occupation effectively destroyed the old Iraqi state and the army.  The reconstruction of institutions of governance in the Kurdish north and the Arab south left the Sunni Arab center largely adrift.  A prolonged and exceptionally destructive civil war in Syria abetted by external actors accomplished an even more severe result there.  In both places armed Sunni militias competed for influence and control.  The details of how the Islamic State defeated its rivals are unclear but in the absence of a functioning army able to defend the national territory those are unimportant.  The existing militias (which in Syria include the Lebanese Hizbollah and the remains of the former Syrian Armed Forces) can defend themselves and their territories.  The Islamic State has been unable to move into ethnically or religiously different areas and its opponents have shown little willingness or ability to defeat it on its home ground.  The Islamic State itself survives, as the late scholar of state-building Charles Tilly would have recognized, by engaging in racketeering.  It operates a “protection racket” against competing militias and enforces its own power with displays of ruthlessness on a par with those of the Zetas and other drug cartels.   The Islamic State has clearly, as its name implies, created state or state-like institutions but it continues to require external aid (in the form of recruits and finance), external trade (in oil and looted goods) as well as internal political acquiescence if not support. 

            This brings us to the events at Shaykh Zuwayed in mid-2015.  On May 16 shortly after deposed President Muhammad Morsi was sentenced to death, three judges in north Sinai were murdered in a drive-by shooting of the mini-van carrying them from their homes to court.   The execution the following day of six men convicted of membership in a terrorist cell provoked some domestic outrage and international concern.   Far less attention was paid to events in north Sinai itself where, according to the daily Al-Misry al-Yawm, the army and police “eliminated seven takfiri jihadists.”  The newspaper described the killings as revenge for the deaths of the jurists.  Government spokesmen began to walk back the claim that the Armed Forces and the police are involved in a vendetta rather than enforcing the law, but the immediate perception of the headline writers may be quite accurate.  Something similar happened after the October 2014.  Headlines in the daily Al-Masry Al-Youm proclaimed in large type “No Mourning Before Retaliation” which may have reflected sentiments in the Armed Forces but was not itself reported as official policy. 

Unofficially retired generals, who had taken up posts as security advisers and experts, such as Sameh Saif al-Yazal, Hamdi Bekheit, and Gamal Abu Zikri called for clearing the population from the area so that the army could eliminate its opponents.   Since the fall of 2014 the Egyptian government has followed this policy and created a buffer zone up to a kilometer wide on its border with Gaza, razing hundreds of residences in the process. 

The coordinated attack on several army checkpoints indicated that the Sinai Province fighters have the capacity to engage in such operations against stationary and lightly held positions.  Reports about casualties vary and the Egyptian government has been careful to limit much news of the operation but it is generally agreed that dozens of people—soldiers, insurgents and civilians—died. Unlike the Syrian or Iraqi armies, the Egyptian Armed Forces are extremely well-armed due to years of aid from the United States and they have retained their operational capacity and institutional chain of command.  It is therefore neither surprising nor the cause for particularly great congratulations that, using armored vehicles and jets, they rapidly overwhelmed the fighters of the “Sinai Province.”  Nor is it surprising that the army’s operation took civilian lives as well as that of the IS combattants.

            Less obvious is how events in Sinai play out on the broader stage of Egyptian politics.  The fear of many foreign (and some but fewer domestic Egyptian) analysts is that Sinai is the beginning of a larger Islamist insurgency against the nominally civilian but essentially military dictatorship that now rules Egypt.  The reasoning is, as noted above, straightforward and certainly has merit.  The military ousted the democratically elected president of Egypt, Muhammad Morsi and outlawed the party he represented that was itself the political expression of the Muslim Brotherhood.  The MB is now outlawed, its members are being arrested, tortured, and (most recently) killed out of hand.  Consequently it will (and some of its younger members already have) turn to violence against the state.  Given that the MB had mass support, a membership of perhaps a million Egyptians, and that Morsi won millions of votes an insurrection that it leads will be more powerful than even the ones led by other (Salafi) Islamists in 1980 or the early 1990s.  The fighters of the “Sinai province” are one pole around which a larger insurrection might ultimately coalesce. 

            This is a powerful scenario but it deploys an overly simple psychology to underpin a policy argument based on an understandable normative antagonism to dictatorship.  Existing states, whether democracies or dictatorships, rarely lose to insurgencies.   Egypt may be an exception but it is unlikely.  The Egyptian state retains significant international support—from a superficially unlikely coalition that includes the United States, Israel, and Saudi Arabia—while Egyptian insurgents (whether former members of the MB or the “Sinai Province”) have little.  It is rare for insurgencies to win when they have little or no external support and while the central government retains international allies who provide it with arms and financial support. 

            If the MB is indeed moving from confrontation to violence, several of its presumed harder-line Salafi allies have been conspicuously absent from joining it.  The move toward violence by younger members of the MB may be accompanied by increasing use of Salafi-Jihadi rhetoric but neither the Salafi Nour party nor the Islamic Group have yet broken with the regime.  Nor, despite significant criticism of the government, have some of their better-known sympathizers such as the daily newspaper Al-Misriyyun.  This may be the last legacy of the Sadat era and a final irony of the way in which contemporary politics has developed.

            In the year after the uprising of January 25, 2011 the Armed Forces freed hundreds of members of the Islamic Group and other Salafi trends in the same part of the political spectrum who had been imprisoned by both Sadat and former President Mubarak.  Whatever political calculations the generals made, at the time it was presented primarily as accepting court orders mandating the release of prisoners who had served full sentences.  Holding them in indefinite preventive detention was not, the courts had said in previously ignored orders, in accord with the law or the constitution.  These men, including the Zumor cousins who had been part of the conspiracy to assassinate Sadat, re-emerged into political life.   Some have been associated with both the Nour party and others with the Building and Development party, linked to the Islamic Group.   

The experience of many of these leaders with armed conflict against the Egyptian state was bitter.  It had begun with the uprising in Asyut and continued sporadically until it developed into a medium insurrection in the early 1990s.  This period culminated with an attack on a Pharaonic temple and prominent tourist destination in the Upper Egyptian city of Luxor in 1997 where 62 tourists were killed.  This attempt to destroy the tourist industry eliminated what remaining the popular support the Islamic Group had.  Thousands of Egyptian police, soldiers, political activists and ordinary citizens died and those leaders appear, for now at any rate, to have little desire to resume the bitter conflict that they survived and lost.  Whether this is a counsel of prudence or commitment to public order we cannot know but they continue their peaceful (if often politically controversial and extreme) political activity.  They write articles for newspapers, give interviews, and organize their supporters for what they hope will be parliamentary elections in the future.  They also claim to desire an Islamic state but evidently not the Islamic State on offer. 

            The Sinai Province of the Islamic State will no doubt continue to trouble the border region of northern Sinai.  Until some agreement is made between the government in Cairo, Hamas in Gaza, and Israel it will be difficult to catch the Islamic State between the anvil of the border and the hammer of the Egyptian Armed Forces.  But that agreement will, tacitly or openly, probably come.  Until that time the Sinai Province may manage to survive in a region where the Egyptian state is structurally weakened by its international commitments, its absence of local support and alienation caused by its violence and political mis-steps. 

            Two decades ago the Egyptian state fought one war with Islamists in Upper Egypt where they had far more local support in a relatively large population.  IS in its incarnation as the Sinai Province has less support in a far more marginal area.  It is not likely to be the place from which a successful assault on the Egyptian state is launched nor will it easily become, like the IS provinces in Syria and Iraq, a “liberated zone.”  That IS and perhaps other opposition groups have been able to use car bombs in Cairo and Suez is not necessarily indicative of widening support for a popular insurgency.  On the contrary, as Russian revolutionaries realized a century ago terrorist violence can legitimate the state for many citizens and demobilize a popular movement. Whatever else they have done, President Sisi and the generals have worked tirelessly over the past two years to demobilize Egyptian civil society.  It is instructive in this regard that IS may have paid more attention to the anniversary of the coup than did the government it brought to power.  That Egyptian have become used to much higher levels of open political violence than at almost any other time in recent history, however, is a sad reality.

The lasting threat to the Sisi government lies elsewhere, among core elements of Egyptian society and the state.  These will include general officers in the Armed Forces if they come to believe that they have lost control of the way coercion is deployed in society.  Loss of control occurs as the forces of order come to think of their task as the work of vendetta not the provision of safety.  And then there will be those with important economic interests who come to feel threatened by policies that have ceased to work and who want a larger say in how government is run as well as a growing sense of fatigue with a military regime.  That, however, is likely to be a long time in coming.

Monday, February 23, 2015

Sacrificing Humans

In recent months, to general horror, the Islamic State (in Iraq and Syria) has carried out many beheadings and one immolation.  So, too, have others loosely or closely affiliated with it, most recently of 21 Egyptian Christians in Libya.  These events have provoked significant debate and widespread condemnation on many levels.  Some have argued that there is nothing Islamic in these actions despite the claim by the perpetrators that theirs is the Islamic State.  Others have argued that whether these acts are Islamic or not they are far from unique.  American pilots, we are reminded, burned Vietnamese soldiers and civilians to death with napalm while white Americans tortured and immolated African-Americans by the thousands in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. 

Unsurprisingly comparing the Islamic State to the post-Reconstruction Confederacy is rhetorically satisfying but not at all illuminating. How, the implicit argument proceeds, can you criticize people for doing what your own forebears did in the not very distant past?  A comparison that could provide insight is transformed into a mechanism of demoralization.  The question that is worth asking is precisely why should the leaders of the self-proclaimed Islamic State choose this particular method of execution?  People can be killed by gunfire or exposure and the Islamic State has used both.  Why employ a method that, like the butchery of animals, requires so intimate a connection between executioner and victim?  Like lynching, it deploys practices and language that resonate positively and negatively with a larger population and creates powerful emotional bonds among both those who perform the acts and those who observe.

Pilots on bombing raids famously have no connection to those they kill.  Gunfire can be close but it is usually mechanical and quick.  Lynching, like the recent executions, required a particularly close physical connection between the murderer and the victim.  This was not a technological necessity but a requirement for creating boundaries of fear and loathing within and between communities.

The arguments swirling around the terrifying executions carried out by members of the Islamic State re-enact the conundrum of Christianity and lynching.  Both now and in the past many Christians vigorously asserted that there was nothing remotely Christian in lynching. And yet accounts of lynching are clear: those who undertook it claimed they were acting in accord with the needs of a Christian community and lynching’s most widely recognized practice was a distorted version of Christianity’s central image: a man hanging from a tree.

There have been many explanations and excuses for lynching. Theodore Bilbo, who served Mississippi as both governor and US Senator, advocated lynching as the spontaneous justice of the white Anglo-Saxon men for the supposed misdeeds of African Americans.  Toward the end of the 20th century it became common in academic writing to explain lynching as a form of terror undertaken largely for rational reasons.  With the abolition of slavery and the necessity of ensuring that African American labor remained cheap, lynching provided an inexpensive method of terrifying African Americans into economic submission.   Lynching was a crude but effective way to ensure the social control necessary for the production of agricultural commodities by unskilled labor in the American South just as whipping, branding, and other forms of torture had in the antebellum period. 

An economic explanation is entirely plausible for much of the violence in the American south between 1865 and 1955, but it leaves unexamined the specific form that the violence took.  Lynching was accomplished with impunity but often with little publicity.  A significant fraction however was the highly publicized activity of an entire community.  These lynchings were far from spontaneous.  They were carried out in a particularly orderly, even if emotionally highly-charged, fashion. 

In 1998 the Harvard sociologist Orlando Patterson published a provocative analysis of lynching in a book titled Rituals of Blood. Patterson recounts and accepts earlier explanations of lynching as a form of social control highly responsive to the social, economic and demographic features of the American South.  Drawing on earlier work that classified four types of lynching (small-scale terrorism, private grievances, semi-legal posses, and community-wide mobs), Patterson proposed that 35-40 percent were what he termed sacrificial killings.   To understand the meaning and cultural import of these lynchings, he argues, it is necessary to see them as forms of human sacrifice.  It was a practice that drew heavily on themes of Christian devotion and was highly resonant within the Christian society in which it occurred. 

Reviewing the anthropological literature on human sacrifice, Patterson notes that it has been among humanity’s most sacred rituals and that it played a crucial role in consolidating a compact of fellowship among the sacrificers.  He proposes six defining characteristics of human sacrifice: highly ritualized drama, performance in a sacred place, fire, the tethering of the victim, the demonization (or sacralization) of the victim, the disposal of the body.  Patterson’s characteristics are drawn from the anthropological literature but they also respond to the particular features of American lynching in which victims were typically hanged, then burned, and in which pieces of flesh and photographs were often deployed as mementos or in the literal meaning of the word, souvenirs. 

The decapitations carried out by the Islamic State are indeed quite similar to the kind of lynching Patterson refers to as sacrificial killing.  The immolation of Muadh Kasasbeh more completely mirrors Patterson’s paradigm, but it also allows us to see that crucial elements of contemporary human sacrifice are the creation of a particular set of ritual elements performed in a ritual space sanctified by previous sacrifices, for victims who are allegedly both evil and impure.

As in the post-Civil War South, the Islamic State uses murder for many purposes.  One such use is summary justice. There are accounts and even videos of numbers of captive Iraqi or Syrian soldiers, police, or simply men of military age being murdered by gunshots to the head.  There are also accounts elsewhere of communal summary justice that strongly resembles lynching.   On June 15, 2013 writing in the Egyptian newspaper Al-Misry al-Yawm, Islam Diyab reported that there had been 25 cases of accused criminals being executed primarily in villages in the previous six months.  These unfortunate men (whose guilt is undetermined) were beaten to death and their bodies exhibited.  Whatever agonies they suffered in the final hours or minutes of their lives, however, were unrecorded and unceremonious.   Unconscionable as these murders were, they were not carefully staged or professionally filmed.

The killing of foreign aid workers, reporters, and now 21 Egyptian Christians as well as a Jordanian air force officer is different precisely in the creation of a clear ritual which removes the victim from everyday secular life and forces him to enter the realm of sacrificial space.  There is a brief period in which the victim, invariably clothed in an orange jump suit, is made to walk with his captors from a point of origin to where he will be killed.  Once there the executioner makes a short statement proclaiming the reason for the killing.  The reason is not the criminal behavior by the captive but an event in which he did not participate for which his death is either retribution or expiation.  With the exception of Kasasbeh the executioner then uses a knife to cut the victim’s throat and there is a final scene of the head lying on or next to the torso of the body.  Frequently the execution party shouts “God is Great” as the head is severed. Nothing about these events is random.  The prisoner never appears to display any emotion at all—neither crying, screaming, or even attempting to escape from the blade.  Recent news accounts of Kasasbeh’s death indicate he was drugged but it is by no means clear if this is common.

These beheadings have been compared to those of Saudi Arabia but they are clearly different.  A filmed account of an execution in Saudi Arabia shows a woman beseeching the executioner not to kill her as she vainly thrashes on the ground and tries to escape.  That execution itself takes place in what appears to be a parking lot although many occur in city squares.   Grisly, terrifying and inhumane as the execution is, it is clearly not a ritual.  It is a messy and banal murder of a frightened woman who proclaims her innocence.  The filming itself, like all images of executions in Saudi Arabia, was made surreptitiously and like other public executions in Saudi Arabia the location assumes no sanctity even if human blood is shed there.  Whatever the Saudi executions are meant to be, they are not intended to create the heightened state in victim, executioner or observer of the rituals being created by the Islamic State.  Nor is any record made to exhibit the power of the state.

These IS executions are performed for the camera.  The executioner proclaims the rationale behind the event and places the ultimate blame for the deaths on the presumed enemies of Islam—the United States, Britain, Japan, Jordan, and most recently the Roman Church. Sometimes the victim makes a confessional statement which is, again, not a confession of criminal behavior but an indictment of a home government.  Such statements may be echoes of previous statements in which the political authorities are accused of various moral failings, including a refusal to rescue the soon-to-be-killed victim. 

The rituals surrounding the murders have developed over time.  As Yuval Neria and his co-authors pointed out in a 2005 article in the journal Religion (“The Al Qaeda 9/11 instructions: study in the construction of religious martyrdom”), the murders committed by the hijackers on 9/11 were conceived as acts of slaughter.  Since the decapitation of Daniel Pearl such acts have become more stylized, formally developed and intended as public ritual.  A state that claims religious authority is carrying them out.

Here at least we can see one aspect of these ritual murders that differs significantly from lynching given the religious background of the murderers.  Patterson notes that trees play a significant role because Jesus was sacrificed on a wooden stake or cross.  For American Christians therefore rituals engaging wood were culturally relevant and meaningful.  Although the Qur’an mentions crucifixion as a punishment for certain crimes, the practice has little contemporary resonance in Islamic thought or practice. 

What does have enormous religious significance for Muslims and Jews alike, however, is ritual slaughter as a form of sacrifice.  For Muslims and Jews (unlike Christians), flesh is only acceptable as food if the animal has been slaughtered in an appropriate way: by rapidly slitting the throat.  It is this particular form of slaughter that makes an animal ritually available for consumption. There are other rules: the head is not severed until the animal is dead; generally the animal should not see the knife; and the animal should not be aware that it is about to die.  Lynching was an obscene parody of the sacrifice that Christians believe lies at the heart of their religion; the decapitations by the Islamic State are also a parody of the daily slaughter of animals for human consumption. Does it also address something at the heart of the religion as well?  It does.

The “binding of Isaac” is well-known to Jews and Christians from the Torah.  The same story appears more briefly in the Qur’an where it may also refer to Ishmael rather than Isaac.  The crucial point is that Abraham is initially commanded to slaughter his son.  Abraham agrees but ultimately is relieved by God of this task after which human sacrifice ceases to be a religious practice.  The rituals surrounding the slaughter of animals for food retain a link, by analogy, to older practices of animal sacrifice.  The Arabic verb (dhabaha) deployed in the Qur’an is still used for butchering of animals. 
Why, if this form of execution is a form of human sacrifice, has it become so popular with people who ostensibly (as was the case with American whites in the south) do not believe in it?  These events have been described as advertisements that seek to attract more recruits to the Islamic State as well as attempts to terrorize the local population.  Both of these may well be true, but there are, it seems to me, other aspects as well.  First, these executions have certainly terrorized foreign aid workers and reporters who now give areas of Syria and Iraq a wide berth. 

Second, and far more important, they strengthen the sense of community of those who participate in them.  Patterson argued that human sacrifice, like enslavement, is something done to outsiders.  Slaughtering people quite literally transforms them into animals.  By deliberately slitting the throats of their victims, the agents of the Islamic State are transforming them into objects void of moral standing.  The murders themselves transgress established Islamic (and Jewish) norms of animal slaughter.   These require the butcher to instantly sever the arteries so that the victim feels no pain and has no awareness of imminent death.    Unlike the national community or the community of Muslims or of humanity, the community of the Islamic State is not defined by common human form, good works, language, or even nominally shared religion.   It is defined only by loyalty to the state and its own ideology.

Like lynchings or indeed any form of highly ritualized killings they transform observers into participants who have engaged in behavior that is at once highly charged emotionally and widely understood elsewhere as criminal.  There is, it appears, no way to go backward for those who have undertaken such rituals which are, like lynchings in the American South, terrifying parodies of sacred behavior.  That the concepts animating this behavior appear, to outsiders, as something of a pastiche or mash-up of historical events, religious texts, and apocalyptic cinema does not make them any less useful as tools for obedience.  To the contrary, those who have adopted such practices and the beliefs that legitimate them have cut off any path back to the societies they have left behind.

Third, the making of the videos has the effect of turning viewers into potential members of the community of ritual killers.  No one in the video, obviously, stands up to stop it and those who watch cannot should they wish to.  This is therefore, for the moment at least, a literally monstrous second coming of the Islamic state in which, as William Butler Yeats wrote in a different context nearly 100 years ago, “the best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”  It is a moment in which the participants on the ground become members of a community bonded by the ritual shedding of blood while the passivity of viewers reinforces feelings of fear, anger and disorientation.

NOTE:  "Sacrificing Humans" is co-published by Nisralnasr and Jadaliyya.  

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Prince Tancredi Falconieri Considers the Arab Spring


“Se vogliamo che tutto rimanga come é, bisogna che tutto cambi”

           Most useful in understanding the different outcomes of what appear to be similar processes in Tunisia and Egypt are the words Tomasi Di Lampedusa places in the mouth of Prince Tancredi Falconieri in the novel Il Gattopardi (The Leopard).  A challenge to an elite faced with ruin, they form the epigraph to this essay:  If you want things to stay as they are, they have to change.  Lampedusa’s novel is set in Sicily during the unsettled conditions of the Risorgimento.  The problem confronting the old nobility is what to do in the face of the new Italian nationalism and the revolutionary changes to the state and society that Giuseppe Garibaldi hoped to impose.  To preserve its influence and elite status (that is, to ensure that nothing changes), the family must accept the new forms of governance (that is, accept that everything has changed).   Prince Tancredi’s observation suggests that we think of the old elites, even in a revolutionary uprising, as active participants who are neither passive nor innocent.

The recent legislative elections in Tunisia provided an increasingly rare moment of optimism.  Political analysts are especially happy with Tunisia.  It has garnered high praise for passing the “Huntington two-turnover” test that every other Arab country has failed: the party that dominated the government immediately after the fall of the authoritarian regime has now peacefully given way to its opposition. Tunisia’s October legislative election therefore marks what political scientists call the consolidation of democracy because it seems that all political actors accept the verdict of the ballot box.   

            Explanations of the divergent political outcomes in Tunisia, where an Islamist party peacefully ceded what power it had gained, and Egypt, in which a similar party was forcibly ousted, have subtly and forcefully been attributed to a multitude of causes. Among the most commonly proposed reasons is that the revolutionary youth never gained mass support or had a solid organization either to compete with the Islamists in elections or push the revolution to its conclusion.  But looking at Egypt and Tunisia together tells us that’s wrong.  The revolutionary youth in both Egypt and Tunisia had little impact on the outcome either way whereas the old elite had a very large impact.  Democratization succeeded in Tunisia because the old elite was neither excluded nor subjected to the threat of political or administrative marginalization.

The underlying thread of many analyses since December 2010 has been that democracy can be and perhaps should be the result of a revolutionary rising. It is my belief that democracy, unlike revolution, is a profoundly conservative as well as inclusive solution to the problems of social change.  Democracy’s success thus more or less guarantees, for a protracted period of time, that there will be few political solutions—whether in terms of moderate public policy or dramatic institutional change—to economic inequality.

        To understand why the Tunisian and Egyptian uprisings have had different outcomes, I therefore propose to leave aside the dominant narrative of secularism, Islamism, and the political weakness of the youth in order to focus on a very different issue: what happened to the old ruling elite outside the central core of the presidency in the wake of the uprising. It is seductive to dwell on the more contentious and more emotionally laden issues such as whether Muslims can be democrats or the often incomprehensible constitutional wrangling. These lead us astray from the more fundamental and essential role of the ruling elite, without whom no country can make the transition from authoritarianism to democracy.

There are, as far as I can tell, two different ways of talking about democratization, social upheaval and dictatorship.  One, largely confined to the left, focuses on the tectonic plates of social cleavage.  These are the elements of the body politic: workers, farmers, landowners, officials, and a handful of capitalists.  The second, far more popular within American academic circles, largely reduces to the interplay of millions of individuals who must find ways to resolve their differences whether over constituting the institutions of governance, property rights, or political participation. 

Understanding the larger sociological background of revolt as well as choices that confront generic individuals are both worthwhile enterprises.  What I propose here, though, is that we will gain more traction in understanding the events of the last four years if we focus on a different set of admittedly elite institutional actors: members of political parties, government officials, and holders of significant economic resources.  The crucial question to be asked is whether the political conflicts in the wake of a mass uprising and the collapse of a regime provided a plausible existential threat to any particular group.  Rather than thinking of revolution vaguely as a rapid and complete change, I prefer a definition proposed by Otto Kirchheimer.  Does the new regime destroy the possibility that the old regime and its members can return to power?  This saves us from the implicit mysticism of structural-functionalism and its game-theoretical descendant in which individuals carry all of society’s institutions in their own heads. It allows us to focus on the crucial aspect of democracy:  are all parties, including the ones ousted by the collapse of authoritarianism, able to contest for governance?

Of the many contextual differences between Tunisia and Egypt we can note three.  First the Egyptian courts had a much longer history of systematic intervention in political disputes than did their counterparts.  Second, the Tunisian military had never in the 20th century played a direct role in political or government life.  Third, the level of mass mobilization in Egypt before the collapse of the authoritarian regime was far wider and exhibited much higher levels of spontaneity than did those in Tunisia.  This is another way of saying that politics in Tunisia more directly displayed the underlying capacities of institutions and organizations than did those in Egypt.

In both Tunisia and Egypt the authoritarian regime centered on a particular figure who had been in power for decades and around whom an increasingly small coterie of family and close associates clustered.  By 2010 wide sections of the political elite in each country had been marginalized by a narrow group at the very pinnacle of authority.   In each country the regime maintained its grip on power partly through reliance on the police and partly through the manipulation of a single party (the Constitutional Democratic Rally in Tunisia and the National Democratic Party in Egypt). 

In early 2010 there was every reason to think that Egypt was more likely to experience a successful transition to democracy than Tunisia.  Egypt had a far more open press environment, more competitive elections, and had experienced more turnover among government ministers.  For example, in 2010 the Tunisian prime minister, Mohammad Ghannouchi, was the same one who had been appointed more than 20 years earlier by Ben Ali.  Atef Ebeid, who President Mubarak had appointed as Prime Minister in 1999 (when Ghannouchi assumed his office) to replace Kamal Ganzouri had departed after a five year term.  Ahmad Nazif, Ebeid’s successor, had only served seven years when he was replaced on January 30, 2011.  Egypt had had three prime ministers in the two decades during which Tunisia had one.

The story of the protests in Tunisia and the massive uprisings in Egypt is sufficiently well known for me not to repeat it.  In its place it is worth looking more closely at other aspects of the subsequent events in the two countries.  In some ways they are remarkably similar but in other respects they differ notably.  An understandable desire by many observers and analysts to conflate a revolutionary uprising with the process of democratic transition has created a narrative that now lacks not only many details but is, in some ways, a significant distortion of the political trajectory of the two countries. 

As strikes and demonstrations became more widespread in both countries, members of the judiciary played an early role in shaping events.  Reformist judges appeared from the first days of the uprising in Tahrir square while in Tunisia the country’s attorneys were on strike by January 6.  Violence against property in the protests led to the promulgation of a curfew in both Tunis and Cairo and in both places the Armed Forces refused to fire on demonstrators.  In Cairo, however, where Field Marshal Mohammed Tantawi was both supreme commander of the Armed Forces and Minister of Defense, the army’s chain of command remained intact and shielded from civilian interference.  In Tunis, President Ben Ali dismissed the commander of the Armed Forces Rachid Ammar on January 13.  Ammar was re-instated the following day by long-serving Prime Minister Ghannouchi who Ben Ali had deputized as president before he fled the country. 

The Tunisian Supreme Court first appeared as an actor in the transition on January 15 when it declared that Ben Ali was not incapacitated but had quit the presidency.  Consequently, Fouad Mebaza3, the speaker of the Assembly, was installed as president rather than Ghannouchi, who then remained as Prime Minister.  Mebaza3, a member of the RCD Central committee since 1988, served as the president of Tunisia until December 13, 2011 when he was replaced by the human rights activist and Ben Ali opponent, Moncef Marzouki.  Had the Egyptian Supreme Constitutional Court made a similar ruling when Mubarak left office, it would have declared that either the speaker of the Assembly, Fathi Sorour or Farouk Sultan, president of the court, was his constitutional successor.  Both men were as closely associated with Mubarak as Mebaza3 was to Ben Ali.

By January 17, Prime Minister Ghannouchi announced a new cabinet  which contained 12 members of the CDR including former defense minister Ridha Grira, a graduate of the distinguished French institute for training high-level civil servants, the Ecole Nationale d’Administration (a distinction he shares with Adly Mansour, the president of the Egyptian Supreme Constitutional Court who served as President of the Republic from the ouster of Mohammad Morsi in 2013 until the election of Abdel-Fattah Al-Sissi in 2014).   

Initial attempts to contain popular unrest that had only grown since Ben Ali fled were unsuccessful.  Neither Ghannouchi’s resignation from the CDR nor the inclusion of trade union and opposition political figures silenced protests.  Within a day the trade union ministers had resigned and on January 27 Ghannouchi gave up and resigned as Prime Minister.

Ghannouchi’s replacement was not an outsider by any stretch of the imagination.  On the contrary, he was replaced by an even more central figure from the old regime.  The new Prime Minister, Beji Caid Essebsi, had served in several key positions under the Republic’s founder, Habib Bourguiba.  Essebsi was defense minister from late 1969 until June 1970 and then served as Ambassador to France.  In Tunisia, as in other former French colonies, the ambassador to Paris is a position of exceptional importance for economic, political and security issues.  Between 1981 and 1986 Essebsi was the country’s foreign minister.   After Ben Ali ousted Bourguiba, Essebsi moved to the legislature where he was president of the Chamber of Deputies from 1990-1991.  Essebsi, who would be Prime Minister in 2011 until he resigned to make way for Ennahda party leader, Hamadi Jabali, on December 24 thus played a key role in determining the nature of the democratic transition.   Before the courts in Tunisia (as in Egypt) dissolved the former ruling party in March, the Interior Ministry had already suspended it from official activity.   Essebsi thus presided over the liquidation of the party in which he had spent most of his adult career and from which he would draw many of the leaders for the new party he created for the 2014 legislative elections.  Essebsi and his associates were quintessentially what Egyptians derided as “feloul” or the remnants of the old regime.
It is possible that Essebsi only pursued this course under the pressure of demonstrations, but nevertheless it was Essebsi and a number of politicians from the old regime as well as some of their long-standing opponents who bore the responsibility for shaping a democratic outcome in Tunisia.  Thus, speaking on November 10, 2011 at the African Media Leaders forum, Essebsi noted that it was his government’s responsibility to ensure that the Tunisian revolution did not devolve into a fratricidal conflict nor deviate from what he called its virtuous path.

Among the consequential choices his government made was the exclusion of members of the CDR from participating in the elections for the constituent assembly.  Arguably even more important, however, was the decision to encourage human rights activist Kamel Jendoubi to preside over the commission charged with writing the relevant electoral law and carrying out the election itself, ISIE.  Jendoubi and his fellow commissioners chose to employ a particular version of proportional representation that provided Ennahda with the number of seats that corresponded to its share of the vote but that also privileged smaller parties.  Other electoral rules, including other versions of proportional representation, would have translated Ennahda’s 38 % share of the popular vote into a majority of seats rather than the plurality it actually received.  Ennahda thus, by design, was unlikely to control the constituent assembly without receiving an overwhelming majority of the popular vote.

Ennahda had the votes in the constituent assembly to impose a constitutional article banning members of the old ruling party from engaging in politics.  In fact, just such an article (116) was drafted into the Tunisian constitution by a majority.  Under the rules of the assembly, however, it was rejected because it did not have the necessary super-majority.  The measure failed to gain a super-majority in large part because of significant number of Ennahda delegates abstained.  Such a constitutional article would have been an insuperable barrier to the old political elite regaining influence through electoral politics and would have made the creation of Essebsi’s Nida’ Tounis, the largest party after the last elections, impossible.   The most widely cited argument for not excluding former members of the CDR was simply that there is, in a democracy, no reason for stripping individuals of their political rights unless they have been convicted of criminal activity.  Whether Ennahda representatives were convinced of this argument on its merits or simply took a more hard-nosed view of the likely results of excluding their long-time opponents we do not know, but their decision was consequential.

In Egypt events have worked out quite differently.  There are, of course, many contextual differences between Egypt and Tunisia but one obvious and crucial difference was the inability or unwillingness of the Muslim Brotherhood to find a way to compromise with members of the old regime.  On the contrary, the Muslim Brotherhood often sought to marginalize and exclude as much of the NDP as possible.   These attempts to marginalize and exclude the NDP and its cadre as well as its leadership were highly popular with a significant portion of the Egyptian public.  The top NDP leadership included prominent businessmen, religious officials, and government officials all of whom were widely derided as corrupt figures of an authoritarian regime. 
Days before Husni Mubarak resigned, on February 6, 2011 Vice President Omar Suleiman met with members of the opposition including the Muslim Brotherhood in an attempt to broker an agreement about the future of Egypt. These were the days in which several groups of so-called “wise men”, including some of Egypt’s wealthiest and most important businessmen as well as academic figures and former officials engaged a public dialogue through public statements and occasional interviews.  Other opposition leaders including Muhammad El-Baradei opposed the talks which were unpopular with the demonstrators in Tahrir Square. The Obama administration backed the talks as a way out of the impasse in Egypt.  Both President Obama and Secretary of State Hilary Clinton called for an orderly transition.  Some disarray in the American position occurred when former US Ambassador Frank Wisner stated that Mubarak would have to stay in office indefinitely.  Press reports indicated that Mubarak would have agreed not to run for a new term and that some changes in the laws regarding freedom of expression would have been made.   

             The first attempt to broker some kind of agreement or transitional pact foundered.  Subsequently there were occasional talks between leaders of the MB and some of their political competitors and more than occasional claims that the MB had worked out a deal with the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces but nothing of the kind ever happened.  Talks routinely broke down; bargains once made were scuttled; and a heightened sense of distrust permeated relationships between all the dominant actors during the period after Mubarak left office.  

            Unlike in Tunisia, it proved, for example, very difficult to win agreement on the nature of the electoral process as well as substantively limiting the ability of the Islamist movements to dominate the legislature.  After initially promising to limit itself to contesting 25 % of the seats, the MB finally decided to contest nearly everywhere.  SCAF found it difficult to choose among a variety of electoral schemes but ultimately chose a mixed system in which some seats were contested by party list and others by individual candidacy.  Parties were nevertheless allowed to contest the individual seats although it was widely known that the Supreme Constitutional Court, in several prior decisions, had ruled such contestation unconstitutional. 

            Anger and contempt for the political figures of the old regime were common through the first year of the uprising in Egypt and the MB began to present themselves as a party dedicated to reforming Egypt by continuing the revolution.  Key to this objective was eliminating the “feloul” or remnants of the old regime.  This was surprising to many Egyptians because there was no reason to believe that the MB planned to make significant or rapid changes to the country’s economic or governmental structures which would have been the hallmark of a revolutionary party as widely understood in Western as well as Egyptian academic literature.

            Circumspect as the MB was, however, their reaction to the so-called Selmi document of late 2011 shows how different the situation in Egypt was from what obtained in Tunisia.  Ali Al-Selmi, vice prime minister, drafted a proposal that had the backing of SCAF and the government which was then still dominated by liberal elements of the old regime and a handful of its liberal opponents.  He offered a set of supra-constitutional principles to guide the work of the still-to-be chosen constituent assembly which had many substantive similarities to earlier such statements issued by the Muslim Brotherhood, his own Wafd party, and independent forces in March 2011.  It only allowed the civilian government to consider the total budgetary allocation to the Armed Forces and it gave SCAF the right to prior review of any legislation affecting the army.  There was opposition to ratifying the military’s hitherto unofficial authority in the new constitution, but the subsequent constitution drafted a year later by the Muslim Brotherhood-dominated assembly gave the Armed Forces significantly more control over its own finances and the government. 

His proposal also included significant restrictions on how the still to be chosen legislature could choose the constituent assembly.  First, Selmi proposed that elected legislators not be allowed to serve as members of the constituent assembly.  He also proposed a corporatist plan through which the SCAF would appoint the bulk of the members of the constituent assembly from the existing institutional framework of Egyptian society in which unions, professional associations, and other groups would choose their own representatives.

If implemented, his proposal placed mild substantive constraints on what the assembly could write but it egregiously violated one of the few obviously legitimate elements of the transitional process.  That an elected legislature would choose the constituent assembly was one of a handful of provisions that had been the object of the March 19 referendum.  The MB called for massive demonstrations against the Selmi proposals and hundreds of thousands of people mobilized against them including sections of the left. Selmi himself became a lightning rod for protest and mistrust because of his own connections to the old regime. Selmi has a doctorate in economics and had served previously in Mubarak cabinets.  He was a prominent member of the Wafd, generally considered a secular pro-business party with a significant Christian base of support.  Rejecting the Selmi placed the MB firmly on the side of electoral legitimacy but it suggested an at best limited tolerance for reaching substantive agreements with the social, political or economic elite of the old regime. 

            The Muslim Brotherhood initiated demonstrations in Tahrir Square and were able to mobilize significant support against the proposal on November 18, 2011.  Police later attacked a sit-in by relatives of the people killed in the initial uprising and protests continued.  These included particularly violent confrontations between the police and youth, many of whom were drawn from the ranks of soccer fans and from poorer neighborhoods, which left 41 dead and perhaps 1,000 wounded.  The Selmi document was another victim and so was the government of Prime Minister Essam Sharaf who resigned on November 21.  He was replaced by Kamal Ganzouri, who had served as prime minister under Hosny Mubarak from 1996 to 1999.

            From the left the Muhammad Mahmoud events were widely viewed at the time as evidence that the Muslim Brotherhood was uninterested in pursuing the revolution to establish a democratic order.  Viewed in the framework of Tunisian politics, however, they suggest a different interpretation:   the Muslim Brotherhood refused to reach an agreement with members of the old regime about the new structure of the state.  The mobilization of street demonstrations and the willingness to accept the outcome of the violent confrontations that it had neither solicited nor endorsed placed the Muslim Brotherhood on a distinct path in the months to come.  This was the path of electoral politics, themselves a fundamental process for representative democracy.  It was also, however, a path in which elections and demonstrations together could be used to marginalize and diminish the role of other institutions of the state as well as the political opponents of the electoral victors.
            In the succeeding months a far more brutal and direct battle for power developed in Egypt that took the country in a very different direction from Tunisia.  The Muslim Brotherhood coalition gained 45 % of the seats in the new parliament and, in alliance with the Salafi “Islamist bloc”, could control the new legislature.  Among other measures it enacted a political ban on members of the old ruling party which, like its Tunisian equivalent, had been dissolved.  The Supreme Constitutional Court struck down this law as unconstitutional, using language similar to that deployed by Tunisian legislators in rejecting Article 116.  The Court also voided the elections to the lower house because the electoral rules violated established court doctrine about the rights of voters. 

            This is not the place to discuss in detail the long conflict between the Muslim Brotherhood, the courts, and members of the old political class.  It is telling that the MB, despite its commitment to the electoral process and its claims to the necessity of the alternation of power, remained unwilling to allow the one set of political activists most likely to challenge its dominance successfully to compete in an organized fashion for power.  It is in this sense that the MB can legitimately claim to be a revolutionary force.  The MB was certainly not an ideological party committed to socialism, income redistribution, or secularism.   For reasons that are too complex to address here they were certainly committed to eliminating a significant fraction of the old political class (the “feloul” or remnants of the old regime) and moved as rapidly as they could to do so. 

            No doubt the stories of the Tunisian and Egyptian experiences of political conflict in the wake of authoritarian collapse are more complex than the one I have told here.  I plan to examine some of those aspects, including the role of the army, elsewhere. The advantage of this story, however, is that it takes our attention away from the problems of secularism, post-secularism, moderation, radicalism and religion and places it firmly back into the structure of conflict and accommodation between political and institutional forces. 

            Sometime before his tragically premature death I had coffee one morning with Samir Soliman, the respected Egyptian political scientist.  In the years since it has become common to argue that the failure of the Egyptian revolution and Egyptian democracy can both be attributed to the failure of the secular left to organize sufficient popular support to challenge the Muslim Brotherhood.  Seen in this optic the tragedy of Egypt is the fault of the middle-class intellectuals who played such conspicuous roles in front of the television cameras in the early days of the uprising in 2011.  Samir had a different view of how democracy, if it was to work at all, would work in Egypt.   The only party that could conceivably challenge the MB and alternate with it, he argued, was a conservative party. Committed as he was personally to the politics of the left, he did not that day argue that the liberal left would be a likely counterweight to the MB nor did he mention from where such a party would draw its leaders or members.

            In Tunisia it is clear that a conservative-centrist party has emerged to challenge Ennahda and its roots are heavily in the old regime although it also boasts other supporters.  In Egypt for a variety of reasons no alternate center-conservative party was built.  That would have necessarily been a party with deep roots in the old NDP, the party many of whose members have re-emerged since the coup.  In the absence of a thorough-going revolutionary exclusion, they would, I think, have re-emerged anyway.  The question is whether they did so through elections or as part of an anti-electoral coalition.   Attempting to exclude the economic and political elites of the old regime may have seemed like both revolutionary and democratic good sense to the Muslim Brothers and to many Islamists and leftists between 2011 and 2014. 

            Egyptian revolutionaries (in the conventional left-wing sense) and the leaders of the MB feared the re-emergence of the feloul as a political force.  They correctly understood that a powerful conservative party with significant support from Egypt’s business elite was not a friend.  Such a political grouping was not inclined to support either the projects of economic and social equality that animated the left or the projects of creating new state institutions that the MB favored.  The MB were committed to elections. As the old elite increasingly re-asserted itself the MB responded by attempting to marginalize both their institutional and electoral capacity. In this they echoed the very old concern of revolutionaries in Europe and Latin America that electoral democracy is not necessarily the friend of movements for economic redistribution nor do they necessarily lend themselves to the creation of strong protections for the political, civil, or social rights of the poor and the weak. 

The idea that democracy is the last station on the revolutionary road remains seductive and it informs a certain idealized understanding of American history and the process of democratization.  Representative democracy itself, however, is less likely the successful conclusion of revolution and more likely the premature end of its utopian hopes and dreams.  Only if nothing changes, can everything change.