Politics of Higher Ordination For Women in Sri Lanka: Discussions with Silmatas

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Volume 20 • Number 12007

Contents

The Politics of Naming: The Institution of the ReligiousStudies Department, University of Cape Town ....................... 5

Duane Jethro

Karanga Religious Perception of Health and Well-Being ..... 31

Tabona Shoko

Urbanism and the “Death of Religion”: Strategies ofReligious Manifestation in Modern Society .......................... 43

P. Pratap Kumar

Politics of Higher Ordination for Women in Sri Lanka:Discussions with Silma \ta\s ........................................................ 57

Vanessa R. Sasson

Religious Beliefs and Responsibility Attributionsfor Industrial Accidents among Ghanaian Workers ............... 73

Seth Ayim Gyekye & Simo Salminen

The Festival of Deepavali as Marks of Tradition andIdentity for Working, Married Hindu Women:Continuity and Change ........................................................... 87

Sheila Chirkut

Veiling, Secularism and Islamism: Gender Constructionsin France and Iran ................................................................. 111

Nina Hoel and Sa’diyya Shaikh

Journal for the Study of Religion, Vol.20, No.1, 2007

The Politics of Naming: The Institutionof the Religious Studies Department,

University of Cape Town

Duane JethroUniversity of Cape Town

AbstractThis article looks at the historical process of the institution of the De-partment of Religious Studies at the University of Cape Town from thelater 1950s until 1970. Specifically, it pays attention to the negotiationsthe University of Cape Town entered into with both the state and reli-gious organisations in its pursuit to establish a pluralist and liberal De-partment of Religious Studies. It argues three things. Firstly, that thedrive for the Department of Religious Studies was pivotal for the kindof liberal, political resistance practised at the university in response tothe apartheid state’s racist political machinations during the 1960s. Sec-ondly, that religious studies gained its apparently seditious character as aresult of it being in stark opposition to the apartheid state’s enforcing itsreligiously divisive and discriminatory Christian National Educationpolicy upon South African citizens during this period. Finally, that theegalitarianism underwriting the plural study of religion is an ideal that iscontinuously struggled for as it is always situated within a complex ofrelations between various competing parties bargaining with both religio-philosophical and financial capital.

IntroductionThe feature article on page eleven of the Weekend Argus, a Cape Town basednewspaper, of July 9, 2006, is about Sunali Pillay a Durban Girls High SchoolMatric learner. 1 The large photograph of her youthful face dominates the page

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and is the centre of attention of the accompanying piece as it shows her in aclose-up head and shoulders shot, which opens up to the background of herwhite school shirt and dark school blazer. At first glance the subject of the articleis hardly visible, but upon closer inspection, the tiny nose-stud in the girl’s leftnostril becomes all the more apparent. The size of the accessory is ironic, giventhat it was at the centre of an enormous, drawn out legal battle which took placein both the South African Equality Court and the Pietermaritzburg High Courtof Appeal between Sunali’s parents and her school. Contravening her school’srules of apparel and accessories, Sunali chose to wear the nose-stud to school.Upon being asked to remove the ring, Sunali responded by claiming that wear-ing the stud was “a cultural and religious practice”. This religious practice waswholly foreign to school authorities in the sense that, as Sunali’s mother re-marked, the school’s religious ethos was “predominantly white, Christian”.

Read within the context of the foundational document of the “New” SouthAfrica, the Constitution, which guarantees the rights of all people within itsboundaries, the legal contest regards the tension between Sunali’s right to freelyexpress her religious and cultural affiliation and her school’s right to enforce itscode of apparel. Possessing a clear understanding of these rights, other SouthAfricans have put them into practice by challenging both the state and schoolson a number of issues relating to religious and cultural expression. In recenttimes, a number of such cases have gained both media and legal attention.2 Atypical example would be hair and hairstyles, with learners wearing dreadlocksas a symbolic expression of their Rastafarian religion coming into conflict withschool stipulations on hair. In Sunali’s case, however, the South African judici-ary found that her right to religious expression superseded the right of the schoolto enforce its code of apparel.

The school, as a nexus between the spheres of the public, the private and thestate, is thus a highly charged political environment. And in the new democraticSouth Africa, nowhere has this volatility become more evident than in regardsto religion and religion education. In trying to come to terms with this salientissue, considering that South Africa has a unique religious diversity, the state,through the National Education Department has implemented policy to demo-cratically manage the rights and interests of all stakeholders involved in theschool. To this end, and in line with the Constitution, the Department of Educa-tion has implemented policy in recent times to make religion education a com-pulsory part of primary and secondary educational instruction, as incorporatedinto the Learning Area of Life Orientation. Secondly, it has initiated ReligionStudies as a formal subject which secondary school learners may pursue fromgrades 10-12. In terms of intervention, the state has thus sought to not onlymanage the rights and interests of the many stakeholders involved but also per-petuate Constitutional values through the implementation of a pluralist, openbrand of religious education.

THE POLITICS OF NAMING

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The kind of tensions which manifest within the institution of the schoolregarding the issue of religion education, it can be said, are prevalent in alleducational institutions which attempt to democratically manage the religiousrights and interests of all parties involved. The terms that make up the phrase“democratic religious education” are often difficult to keep together. The crea-tion of the Department of Religious Studies at the University of Cape Town(UCT) during the 1960s stands out as a salient example of the ongoing struggleswhich take place around religion and education.3 Having been approached by aChristian organisation in the late 1950s about the possibility of instituting aDepartment of Divinity, over the course of the following decade UCT tookmeasures to realise the new department. But from the outset, Senate felt thatrather than having a department of divinity, as originally suggested, UCT wouldbe better suited for a Department of Religious Studies. In this case, religiousstudies signified the open, plural and egalitarian study of religion. Opting forthis brand of religious instruction was to significantly hamper the progress ofinstituting the new department as this had financial and religio-political impli-cations which involved not only religious organisations, groups and communi-ties but also the state. In spite of the various sensitivities, the tense socio-politicalenvironment strongly influenced by apartheid Christian National pedagogicalindoctrination at the time, Senate and the principals who were involved in theprocess maintained their stance on the issue, a stance largely influenced by anoverarching liberal political ethos swirling about UCT, to see the project tofruition.4

Thus, the primary focus of this article is the historical narrative of the insti-tution of the Department of Religious Studies at UCT. It pays detailed attentionto the dynamic struggles which the university’s bureaucratic hierarchy navigatedover the course of some eleven years to ensure that the particular brand ofreligious studies they pursued was eventually secured. In this regard, I hope todemonstrate that the phrase religious studies as referred to in the department’stitle “Department of Religious Studies” had a pleochroic significance for threedistinct, yet tacitly connected political paradigms and the different types ofpolitical tussles which took place within these. Firstly, that it signified Senate’sconstruction of UCT as liberal political space of resistance to the apartheidstate’s overt racist policies, and the construction of the department as a specialspace of resistance within these overarching political confines. Secondly, that itsignified pedagogical struggles with the state in general and, specifically howreligious studies functioned as a form of state political resistance in that it di-rectly contravened its religiously oppressive Christian National Education policy.Finally, that it signified a religio-political contest, or “politics of the sacred”,involving UCT, religious organisations and the state - a contest which brings tothe fore the fragility and contextual nature of the egalitarian, open, plural studyof religion.


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Early AdvancesOn the 9th of December 1958 the Organizing Secretary of the Christian Educa-tion Movement (C.E.M.), Mrs Snell, sent correspondence to the then Principalof UCT, J.P. Duminy, regarding their organisation’s motions towards establishinga Chair of Divinity at the university.5 In that rudimentary motion, Mrs. Snellconveyed the organisation’s intentions of establishing a chair of divinity at UCTas they were in the process of doing at the University of the Witwatersrand(Wits). Having had the “the pleasure of calling on” the principal in October ofthat year regarding the matter, the December letter represented the second step inthis phase of their grand mission. As such, attached to the letter for the princi-pal’s perusal, was a memorandum submitted to the heads of Wits neatly outliningtheir mission, its necessity and the path they recommended for its completion atthe university. Aligned with “English-speaking Protestant Churches”, the C.E.M.,represented by their Organizing Secretary Ms Snell, posited its current mission as“the provision of full and adequate religious instruction in schools and col-leges”. And so, “unanimous[ly]” they considered “the establishment of a Depart-ment of Divinity in the Faculty of Arts at the University of Witwatersrand” asignificant step in this overall process.6

In their memorandum to Wits, the C.E.M. argued that the need for such adepartment was two-fold. Firstly, that as universities are institutions designed forthe broad study of knowledge, “students should have the opportunity of relatingtheir religious beliefs to their intellectual development in other fields”. Sec-ondly, as “religious instruction” was compulsory in “provincial schools” and that“considerable time is devoted to the subject throughout the twelve year schoolcourse”, it was essential that university-trained teachers be adequately equippedto enlighten their students about the truth of religion.7 Despite the suggestionthat the new Department of Divinity should be inspired by its overtures, theC.E.M. proposed that the department’s eventual inception should flow throughthe bureaucratic process as naturally as any other new university department, amove perhaps designed to cool the overtly Christocentric overtones woven intotheir suggested departmental title. Yet the advances by the C.E.M. were notmerely empty demands, for the churches signed onto the project also proposed tomake a firm financial commitment towards achieving their goal. As stated in thememorandum:

But in earnest of their good faith and as expressing theirdeep concern in this matter, the undermentioned Churchesare prepared to subsidize the proposed Department to theextent of 500 pounds p.a. for an initial period of five years.8

Having conducted preliminary research into matter, the C.E.M. devised a finan-cial strategy that, seemingly, would traverse the initial financial dilemma as well


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as finance the department through its infancy until such time that it was finan-cially self-sufficient. According to their financial reasoning, the funds made avail-able from the churches in their stable combined with a subsidy available fromthe South African government would thus guarantee the fruition of their ideal.Overall, the Chair of Divinity as envisaged by the C.E.M. would be propped bythe pedagogical needs and feelings of churches of the Transvaal area as well astheir financial offerings towards this end, while at the same time be framed bythe academic legitimacy of a well-established and prestigious South Africantertiary institution.

However noble and well planned, the distance between theory and realitywere still far removed. At this early stage, in the case of UCT, the C.E.M. wassimply unable to make the same kind of concrete approach as they had to Wits.Mrs. Snell expressed exasperation in her initial letter at the fact that after ap-proaching “Cape Churches” about committing themselves to a similar endeavorat UCT, she discovered that Rhodes University had already appealed to the“Churches to underwrite two new chairs under the Department of Divinity there”.Nevertheless, if anything, these first forays were reconnaissance in orientation,meant to assess how arable UCT’s institutional terrain was for such a department.

The principal’s subsequent positive response to this initial letter most likelyregistered with the C.E.M. as the signal to proceed with organising a more con-crete proposal. Many months later, on the 25th of September of 1959, Ms Snelldelivered another letter to the principal, this time attaching a report on theestablishment of “Departments of Divinity at other Universities” the Universityof Natal, Wits, as well as their proposal for UCT. To this he responded simply,assuring them merely that the matter was “receiving continued attention”.9 Openingwith a statement on their position on religion and education, the memorandumto UCT, on behalf of the C.E.M. and English-speaking churches within CapeTown backing them, follows on with a section on “The Need For a Chair ofDivinity”, then a section on the “Financial Provisions for a Department of Divin-ity” and closes with the signatures of the heads of four church bodies backing theproposal. These were namely, the Church of the Province (since 2006 known asthe Anglican Church of Southern Africa), the Methodist Church of South Af-rica, the Presbyterian Church of South Africa, and the Congregational Union ofSouth Africa. Despite slight adjustments to locale and churches, the memoran-dum is virtually the same as the one issued to Wits University. Despite the C.E.M’sdelay in preparations, the process was already well under way within UCT. BySeptember 30th when the principal officially acknowledged receipt of the C.E.M.’sofficial proposal, a Senate and a special Sub-Committee meeting had alreadytaken place, to firstly establish whether UCT had the need for such a depart-ment, and secondly in which faculty it would find its home. Summarily, in theirattempts to fold UCT into their national project of disseminating a specificbrand of religious education, these early advances by Ms Snell on behalf of the


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C.E.M. marked the genesis of the current Department of Religious Studies atUCT.

Terms of Reference, Tactful NegotiationsFrom the outset the principal of UCT, J.P. Duminy, was both receptive to, andgenuinely interested in the idea, clearly expressing his positive and encouragingfeelings about the matter in his replies to Ms Snell’s intimations about a Depart-ment of Divinity. For example, to their October meeting he expressed “interestin the possibility of a Chair and Department (or Faculty) of Divinity”, and to herDecember 31st letter availed himself to any further information “as the situationdevelop[ed]” on her end. 10 As mentioned, by the time the organisation hadformulated and approached the university more concretely and officially, thematter had already weathered two high level debates within UCT, as a result ofthe principal’s independent efforts. Initially, the proposal was put forward to theuniversity Senate who subsequently commissioned a special sub-committee toconsider the matter. On the 13th of May of 1959 a meeting was held to discussthe sub-committee’s report. Attached to the report were the December 9th letterfrom Ms Snell, the memorandum issued to the heads of Wits University and thecomments made by various boards of faculties at UCT. Looking at the informa-tion the sub-committee members had at hand, clearly, they factored the C.E.M.’sinitial intimations seriously into their deliberations. In the final analysis, “theSub-Committee was unanimous in its view that the university should have ateaching department of Religious Studies”. But this came with a proviso whichmade it clear that “if and when a course were offered in this particular field itshould not be linked either financially or doctrinally with any particular reli-gious group or church”.11

Thus, in their success the C.E.M had also failed. They had succeeded inpersuading UCT in instituting a department of religious studies but not with thestyle of religious study they would have preferred. This minor success, though,was long overdue since the 58/59 approaches were not the first time either Witsor UCT were approached by the organisation. The C.E.M had made similarmotions to these tertiary institutions some ten years prior. Publishing its produc-tivity over the period of 1947-8 in Christian Education, the C.E.M’s official jour-nal, in a section entitled “University Projects”, the redactor clarifies theorganisation’s aims in this regard:

It is hoped that within the near future the possibility forReligious Education at a University level will be availablein all academic centers and the way opened for adequatetraining of Scripture teachers and organizers of ReligiousEducation.12


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In practically effecting these measures, UCT was paid a visit in June of 1948 bythe Organizing Secretary. She met with the then principal, Dr T.B. Davie andmade the suggestion of the possibility of UCT having a “Lectureship in BiblicalStudies”. Unfortunately, “the idea [was] rejected by Senate”. This setback, how-ever, did not blunt their intentions since, they hoped the matter to be “proposedagain” with the support of the Peninsula Church Council, and with the help ofother high profile organisers of religious education within the region.13 Thissecond proposal took some ten years to develop and resubmit. UCT was to havea department dedicated to the study of religion, but not the kind of departmentor religious instruction intended by the C.E.M. and churches that had backed it.It is not clear whether the C.E.M. was informed of the outcome of the sub-committee meeting or the final proviso, as there is no clear indication of it beingcommunicated to them in the correspondence, yet in general, the continuedattention UCT gave to the matter resonated well with their intentions.

Simply, the C.E.M focussed its work on the educational upliftment of SouthAfrican scholars through trying to found the national scholastic education sys-tem, in whatever way possible, on sound religious principles. Religious in thiscase referred to a liberal brand of Protestant Christianity. Established in 1942 inJohannesburg, with Miss Snell as its first Organising Secretary, the C.E.M. ef-fected its aims through improving religious instruction in the key focus areas’ ofthe school, the home and church and penetrated these through availing itself as“a source of help for teachers, clergy, and lay church workers, parents and youthleaders of all Christian denominations and all races”.14 Their advances to theSouth African universities in this formal manner thus represented but one of arange of practical strategies employed to religiously uplift the spiritually barrenscholars across the country. For example, they organised and held courses forteachers and parents on a range of Christian issues, paid visits to schools withinthe Johannesburg area and other regions in the country, and developed a librarystocked with the latest in Christian pedagogical material which members hadfree access to. In this religious drive Christian Education functioned not only asthe organisation’s mouthpiece but also a vital teaching aid. Thus, a commonfeature in the journal are practical Christian lessons directed at both adults andchildren, which readers could invoke at their leisure within their relevant insti-tutions. The journal also published articles related to Christian education byprominent members of the English-speaking churches and high profile local andinternational academics and professionals, as well as publicised the organisa-tion’s current and upcoming activities across the country. Stretching their re-sources to all area’s and corners of South African society, the C.E.M. thusmissionised ardently to position its brand of religious values at the foundationfor all forms of educational instruction within the nation.

At UCT, however, if we consider the May 13th meeting to be the institu-tional conception of the department, then it took 11 more years of gestation


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before it was to be officially birthed. As such, the initial enthusiasm and speedyexpedition of the special sub-committee was a moot indicator of the real tediumof the process. In some ways the bureaucratic wheels within UCT merely groundto a halt. Summarizing the situation in 1969, the finance officer informed theprincipal, that since the May 1959 meeting and roughly April of 1964, “nothingseems to have happened”.15 In Christian terms, the Immaculate Conception, formsa central tenet of the faith as it narrates the divine transcendence of the biologi-cal fact of impregnation through sexual union: in the case of the new depart-ment, though, the financial plan calculated by the C.E.M. simply was not able totranscend financial reality. As the principal, J.P. Duminy, put it in a letter to theC.E.M’s Organizing Secretary in 1964, “the establishment of the Chair dependsvery largely on whether financial arrangements can be made to endow it”.16

Clearly, the blame for the bureaucratic stagnation has to be placed at UCT’s feetsince, as we recall, the sub-committee expressly divorced the university from anyformal affiliation with the C.E.M., a move which at the same time inadvertentlyshifted the proposed department out of the neat financial scaffold the organisa-tion had devised. It is this initial lack of calculation that had the most signifi-cant attenuative effect on the pace of the new department’s inception.

To recap, the C.E.M.’s financial scheme was premised on funds from churchesas well as from a government subsidy, which was based on what was called theHolloway formula. The Holloway formula, however, was calculated accordingto its provision of funds for courses and departments in the study of Divinity;Religious studies as conceived by UCT did not factor into this formula. AsUCT’s finance officer put it “the basic department should be called “Departmentof Divinity”.17 As such, “the decisions of the Senate [would be] difficult toreconcile in their present form with the subsidy requirements set” down by Gov-ernment at the time.18 Expressing its institutional prerogative from the outset, thesub-committee opposed the title of Divinity Studies, or Chair of Divinity be-cause of its distinctive Christocentric overtones. As we recall, they opted ratherfor the more open title of “Religious Studies”, aligning the new department, orcourse, with the broader, more inclusive ethos of the university. As Professor ErikChisholm, one of the May 1959 sub-committee members, put it some years later:

In a university like ours, which prides itself on being multi-racial and hence multi-religious, with students and staffbelonging to many religions and faiths, does a chair attachedto one branch of faith really meet our requirements? Will itprovide a fair survey of world religions to satisfy those whodo not happen to belong to a reformed Christian church?19

At the outset, it seems the key criterion for members of the UCT sub-committeewas not the availability of finance, funds or funding, but the ethos of the new


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department. Whether funded by religious organisations or merely inspired bythem, the new department had to be a free space, open for the broad study of thesmorgasbord of world religions in an understanding, unbiased manner - traits thesub-committee members believed underwrote UCT as an educational institu-tion. It is the tension within this complex which underwrites the principal’sresponse to the C.E.M. in the mid 1960’s, when he says that “procedures inacademic affairs cannot be expedited beyond the limits imposed by our machin-ery of administration”.20 Clearly, the administrative “machinery” was being ham-pered by the lack of finance caused by Senate’s pursuit of a pedagogical ideal.

Gradually, as the process dragged on during the early 1960’s the C.E.M. andthe various churches aligned and committed to the project started becoming“most anxious that this matter should be brought to some finality”. 21 And whilealways sympathetic to the tedium and complexity of the matter, they subtlystarted applying pressure in the hopes that things would sooner come to conclu-sion. Regularly appearing in the correspondence to the principal, and the uni-versity, during this drawn out liminal period from representatives of church bodiesaligned with the C.E.M., and the C.E.M. are references to their financial stake inthe matter. For example, in his letter to the Registrar in 1962, Reverend Eve, onbehalf of the Cape Peninsula Church Council, which “represent[ed] the churches[that] agreed to sponsor [the] proposed Chair of Divinity”, inquired about the“financial difficulties” they had heard the University had recently been plaguedwith and requested “what increase of guarantees would be involved in overcom-ing” them. 22 In the following year, Ms E.W. Mathews’ (the C.E.M’s OrganisingSecretary at the time) writes to the principal saying:

We as a Committee feel that the need of this Chair is anurgent one; and we know that the representatives of thevarious Church Denominations who have promised to con-tribute towards it feel the same way.23

Sharing little insight into the real dynamics of the matter unfolding on UCT’s end,the C.E.M and their aligned churches probably felt that making their financialstake in the matter more explicit would see their desired outcomes sooner reached.

While the material, on the face of it, suggests the C.E.M and their alignedchurches had seemingly assumed a “concerned outsider’s” position - worried aboutthe constitution of a university department that would have its interests within thescope of its pedagogical ambit - a more critical reading reveals this organisation tohave adopted a “concerned stake-holder’s” position, becoming increasingly “anx-ious” at an apparent deadlock in negotiations over its fundamental role, or claim,upon a university department that in theory and practice would advance its Chris-tian interests. In this way, words like “contribute”, “offer”, “promised” and “sup-port”, come into focus as key terms of reference around which ‘negotiations’


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apparently revolved. Negotiations were thus about the dynamic interplay betweenthe promise of finance and the issue of pedagogical guarantees. For example, asthis 1964 quotation from a letter from Ms E.W. Mathews indicates:

I have been asked to write and ask you whether, in light ofthe fact that the courses and syllabuses are now receivingattention, you would be kind enough to receive a deputa-tion from our committee. We should be very grateful if youwould grant us this opportunity to discuss with you the as-pects of the syllabus which are of particular interest to theChurches who have promised their support in this project.24

The following day, the principal wrote in response:

Many thanks for your letter to hand yesterday morning…Ishall be very glad indeed to make arrangements for a depu-tation from your committee to come and discuss the coursesand syllabuses with us…[Although] this will not take placethis term and possibly not before the end of September. Ishall keep in touch with developments.25

His response seems only to affirm the position the organisation appears to haveadopted. This is a strange move, since, in light of the facts, the C.E.M. wascertainly not a critical stakeholder. But the business of constituting new depart-ments is always precarious, especially when it concerns those things that peoplehold ultimately sacred. In this way, then, despite the fact that the C.E.M. couldmake no hard claim over the way the process was to transpire, the material andcourses that were being developed or who was to teach in the department, cer-tainly their voice needed to be validated. Ethically, excluding them from theprocess would go against the very fundamentals upon which the new departmentwas to be based. Pragmatically, any rash action on the part of the principal couldpotentially result in the organisation’s total alienation from the university, whichcould have had devastating consequences on the department’s actualisation.Impulsivity on UCT’s part could have resulted elicited protest from the C.E.M.,which would obviously and most significantly translate into an immediate re-scinding of funds from churches within the region as well as across the country.Here we can only speculate, but at the time these sentiments, intricately writteninto the correspondence from the C.E.M., must have registered with the univer-sity hierarchy as a latent, yet significant concern. As such, the principal, onbehalf of UCT, had to proceed with a subtlety and finesse that kept the C.E.M.at a careful proximity. A distance that tacitly marked their participation in theinstitution of the new department and validated their contributions towards that


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end, but at the same time preserved the sanctity of UCT’s ideals.UCT maintained this inclusive strategy in relation to other religious organi-

sations and communities as well making sure that the new department reflectedthe concerns and interests of a variety of religions. For example, towards the endof the 1960s when the process rapidly wound to conclusion, UCT not onlyopened its doors to approaches from religious communities, but also activelyapproached various religious communities within Cape Town about what theycould contribute to the new department. Sir Richard Luyt (the then principal),for example, had a more hands-on style in this regard, taking it upon himself toconsult relevant experts on religion in Cape Town, as well as personally receiv-ing and corresponding with prominent members of some of the diverse religiouscommunities in the region. Notably, in this religious reconnaissance Sir RichardLuyt sought the expertise of the previous head of the Department of ColouredAffairs, Dr I.D. Du Plessis. Dr Du Plessis was regarded as an authority on the“Cape Malays’” by segments of the Cape Muslim community as well as academ-ics. He apparently had conducted extensive research on the “Cape Malays”, ashe saw them, whilst studying at UCT during the early part of the twentiethcentury. As a result of this research (of which a central part was qualitativeimmersement in the authentic life of this apparently unique Muslim Commu-nity), Dr Du Plessis had developed significant authoritative contacts in the field(Jeppie, 1989). In light of his bureaucratic pedigree Sir Richard Luyt wrote tohim in 1969 for information on members of the Cape Muslim community whichmight be of assistance to the project:

I have held an exploratory meeting with representatives ofthe Anglican, Baptist, Congregational, Dutch Reformed,Methodist Presbyterian and Roman Catholic Churches andgained support and valuable advice. However, in accord-ance with Senate’s wish that the department should not betied to one particular faith, I propose that meetings shouldalso take place with Jewish and Islamic leaders. It is in re-gard to the latter that I am writing you to seek help.

With your intimate knowledge of the Cape Malay it oc-curred to me that you might be able to advise who wouldbe regarded among members of the Moslem faith as a leaderor leaders with whom the University could hold conversa-tion in the confidence that he or they would carry the gen-eral support of the active Moslem community.26

In a candid hand written letter, Du Plessis responded by suggesting a certainSheikh A. Behardien and a Mr S. Dollie as good and reliable local “contacts”.


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Qualifying his choices du Plessis said of the Sheikh:

He is held in general esteem as the most senior priest in thelocal Malay hierarchy: a very willing helper, a gentle per-sonality and serious scholar, well versed in Arabic and otheroriental languages, as well as in the intricacies of his ownreligion (and there are many!).

While of Mr Dollie he said:

[He was] the first Cape Malay (and non-white) to qualify aschemist (in London). As a member of the City Council herepresented this body on the UCT Council in his day.27

Significantly, while his religious credentials cannot be remarked upon here, MrS. Dollie held a status amongst the Muslim community as a result of his exten-sive experience in local and national politics, a status which certainly justifiedDu Plessis’s recommendation (Lewis, 1987). Nevertheless, the Sheikh and MrDollie were invited to what seems a standardised meeting at the time. Here,simply, the principal would make explicit the university’s vision of the newdepartment, explain the university’s needs in this regard, and extend an invita-tion for contributions from the attendant parties. Contribution in this case had adual significance. In the first instance, it referred most importantly to the “short-fall of some R2, 500 per annum for a period of years from 1971”, while at thesame time it meant building up “courses to be offered in Religious Studies…bycalling upon specialists to lecture in different fields of religion”, referring to thepedagogical assistance parties could bring to the department.28 In these final daysof openness, approaches and inclusion it’s not hard to notice how the processironically echoed the vision of the original memorandum sent by the C.E.M. toUCT some ten years earlier, one which sought to make the future department alocally owned religious institution.

Curricular CalculationsWhile the problem of securing finance was critical, its ominous presence did notseem to blunt the university’s vision. As is evident from Ms E.W. Mathews’ 1964letter regarding courses and syllabi, it seems the finer dynamics of the institu-tional process were already being attended to despite financial hindrances. Hav-ing started rudimentary discussions on courses and syllabi in 1964, by the followingyear Senate had approved an “outline for a syllabus for two qualifying courses”that effectively would constitute the two-year undergraduate experience of reli-gious studies. 29 Here it should be noted that throughout the early 1960s, and the


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institutional process in general, postgraduates and postgraduate study receivedsparse mention in Senate discussions on the department.

Paying closer attention to that initial “syllabus”, in what was most probablythen considered to be the introductory course for first-year students, the univer-sity’s aim seems to have been to school prospective students in the concepts andlanguage of religion from a broad perspective. This untitled preliminary courseis described as placing emphasis on “the socio-cultural background” of religion,which entailed studying “the place of religion in primitive societies; the notionof the sacred; concepts of life and death; priests prophets and mysticism”. Thesecond course offered in the first year was a little more advanced and specific asit placed an emphasis on the “development of religious ideas (a) in Biblicaltimes; the archaeology and geography of Bible lands; Old and New TestamentStudies; (b) in later and recent times”.30 Interestingly, despite its very narrowfocus, the above mentioned course resonates well with a current first-year coursein the Department of Religious Studies which looks at the Ancient Near East,with its rich religious history, and which places special emphasis on the inter-twining beliefs of the Abrahamic faiths.

In the second year of study the syllabus was designed to usher students intothe deeper history of the Christian faith as well as sharpen their analytical vo-cabularies of religion studies. Course I for the year is described as the study of the“development of Judaic and Christian religious concepts; contacts with Hellen-istic culture; patristic and medieval theology; Church schisms; modern Biblicalcriticisms”. Course II of the second year focused on the philosophy of religionwhich was “an objective analysis of the phenomena of religion, illustrated bystudies of the world religions (e.g., Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam)”.31 Providing aglimpse into Senate’s thinking at the time, the memorandum reveals its certaincommitment to the project, on the whole, sticking to their original mandate ofthe open study of religion at the university by tempering the Christocentricaspects of the course with a more pluralist and objective study of the “socio-cultural” and “philosophical” aspects of religion.

Nevertheless, Judeo-Christianity still received the lion’s share of the syllabus.While UCT may have had noble intentions about the way it hoped to approachthe study of religion, the reality of the national educational climate, as well asthe socially accepted norms about religion at the time, still managed to creepinto their plans. Yet, that is not to say that this curricular skeleton was the“revelations” of the future syllabus, since there is a definite lack of clarity onhow these courses would make up or operate in the stream, or streams, of reli-gious studies. Recalling the opening remark to the memorandum, it stated that itrepresented an “outline for a syllabus for two qualifying courses”. In that case weare forced to assume these were whole year courses and that students had theoption of studying religion as either a Judeo-Christian subject, or religion as anobjective, “socio-cultural” and “philosophical” phenomenon. Any further un-


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corroborated speculation on the matter would be false conjecture. As such, wehave to see the 1965 mapping of the undergraduate study of religion as com-prised of four courses, making up two streams, running over two years.

In the wake of the subtle pressure exerted by the C.E.M., after some six yearsof debate and discussion the university managed to produce a rudimentary cur-ricular skeleton of the undergraduate study of religion which represented theinstitution’s long standing vision. But the business of teaching religious studies iscomplex and serious. While it had the authority to critically position one reli-gious organisation’s resolute advances in relation to its teaching aims, and otherslike it, it would be a mistake to assume that UCT as represented by Senate hadcomplete sovereignty over the brand of pedagogy they hoped the departmentwould disseminate. Critically, the final form of the course outline under scrutinyhere would represent the interests of a party that had a more defining influenceover its content: the South African government.

At the same time that it made provision for funds for the inception of newdepartments focussing on religion studies, the state also took an interest in (andfinancially supported) various, similar courses being taught in other departments.“Various” in this case should be understood conservatively since state specifica-tion stipulated that only courses in the fields of “Old Testament Exegesis, NewTestament Exegesis, Philosophy of Religion”, and “History of Religion” wereaccorded funding at tertiary institutions. More precisely, as the finance officerput it, “it is necessary that the courses given should have the names mentionedabove to qualify for the subsidy with any certainty”.32 Clearly, the 1964 courses,which by 1967 had already been named “Religious Studies I and II” respectively,only vaguely matched state funding requirements. A perusal of the wealth ofinformation the finance officer drew on in his analysis and report on the matterin 1967 indicates that the matter had gone thorough consideration at variouslevels of the university:

Decisions of the Senate recorded in Principal’s Circulars 96,120 and 123 are attached.

The report of the Co-ordinating Committee was noted bythe Senate and commended to the Arts Faculty.

The Arts Faculty referred the matter to a Sub-Committeewhich reported on certain stated problems. The report wasaccompanied by reports from the Faculties of Educationand Social Science, and was referred by the Committee ofDeans to the Faculty of Arts, where it is to be considered atthe Faculty meeting in March 1967.33


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At every stage of discussion the conceptual and institutional form of the depart-ment was more and more richly developed, yet consistently the responsibility offunding was postponed or passed on to the next link in what was an intricate butopen bureaucratic web. For example, the minutes of a meeting of the sub-com-mittee appointed by the Board of the Faculty of Arts note that “the questions ofthe cost and of the availability of money had not been taken into considerationby the Faculty Board, only the academic desirability of instituting such a Depart-ment”.34 Charged with the responsibility of calculating a scheme for securing thevaluable resource, the finance officer reported, the final request made by theuniversity and the funding system established by government for this expresspurpose were difficult to “reconcile”. This seemed to be a perennial problem forthe finance officer as in 1965 to virtually the same mandate put before him bySenate he said, “the alternative of seeking special recognition of the course“Religious Studies” is a protracted matter with doubtful chances of success”. 35

The finance officer’s report of 1967, however, was less pessimistic yet it main-tained that since the university remained adamant about its desire in specificterms, special permission was required from the Minister of Education for ap-proval of both subsidies. Adamant that it would not disseminate religious studybased on the brand of Christianity propping the state’s racist political apparatusat the time, UCT was nevertheless vitally dependent on state funding.

At the heart of these negotiations with the state was an interesting irony.While Senate always demanded the independence of their Department of Reli-gious Studies and distanced itself from coercion on the part of various religiousbodies, organisations and communities, the state’s funds were essential to ensur-ing its inception. And so, if tacitly buying into the state’s education policymeant fulfilling that aim then it was a justified move. This signals a significantchange in UCT’s bargaining style. While it was not about to accept funding fromreligious organisations, institutions and communities on the terms that they couldlay some kind of claim to the department, they were willing to accept funds fromthe South African state, thus tacitly agreeing to operate within its overarchingeducational mandate. In one sense, it could be argued that the shift revolvedaround the issue of sovereignty over the new department. UCT could not acceptthe fact that if things had flowed, for example, according to the C.E.M.’s terms,the C.E.M. would most certainly have asserted their authority using their finan-cial resource as a bargaining chip. Considered more critically, as is evident bythe trend throughout the inception of the teaching unit, the issue revolved notso much around sovereignty, but around the sovereign issue of money; morespecifically, to the premium UCT placed on the ethos of the new department.

Simply, the deal with the state seemed a better exchange in securing theiraims than having to submit to the zealous close scrutiny of a religious commu-nity, or communities. Securing the department’s free spirit always meant tradingoff some of the idealism Senate so vigorously guarded. Funding matters plagued


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the project from the outset, yet throughout the process, reading into the apparentsilence, postponement and procrastination around the matter suggests a confi-dence, or faith, that the matter was to see a fruitful conclusion. In some ways, itwas a sort of faith as trust (Pelikan, 1987) premised on the pursuit of an ideal inthe face of sheer and seemingly impossible adversity. In other ways it was a faithpremised on the power of careful calculation and tactful negotiations using theright terms of reference in securing the best deal possible.

Finishing TouchesFrom about the beginning of 1969 the stakes in the Department of ReligiousStudies became less and less vigorously contested. Significantly, this was as aresult of UCT’s administrative “machinery” eventually finalising its institutionaldesires and taking effective action to secure it. A critical aspect of this actionwas the procurement of funding from the state as well as securing a reliable flowof capital from some of the religious communities approached, which includedchurches affiliated with the C.E.M. A very healthy financial blessing from MrC.S. Corder donated in early 1969, significantly aided the university’s cause.36

Once these final strings were tied, an advertisement was developed for theposition of Professor and head of the new department. The candidate wouldhave the responsibility of instituting the new department, as well as be qualifiedin Theology, Comparative Religion, and the History of Religion. As was com-mon with all the matters pertaining to the department, the advertisement washammered into finality through debate and discussion which included contribu-tions from members of the Cape religious community. While the new head ofdepartment “need not necessarily be Christian”, after receiving more than thirtyCurriculum Vitae’s from hopeful candidates, three were short listed for interview,and Professor J.S. Cumpsty, an ordained Christian minister, was chosen for theposition.

Impatient to announce its prized newborn, UCT officially unveiled the De-partment of Religious Studies to the public in the Faculty of Arts and Science’sHandbook of 1970. The outline to the stream of study offered in the departmentread:

It is hoped that the Department of Religious Studies willoffer a first qualifying course for the B.A. degree from 1970onwards and a second qualifying course beginning in 1971.

The syllabus will include study of the phenomenon of reli-gion in broad perspective as well as of particular areas ofreligious thought and history, including biblical studies.37


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It was a fledgling but marked appearance which displayed its ethos as well as itsonly official representative, Professor J. S Cumpsty. As can be seen, the stream ofstudy also markedly represented the syllabus approved by Senate five years ear-lier.

Religious Studies: A Local and Global PictureWhile riddled with unique twists and turns, the trajectory of the founding narra-tive of the Department of Religious Studies at UCT veers very little from thehistorical trend of the field internationally. In the first instance if religious stud-ies is understood to mean the plural, open investigation of religion as a humanphenomenon, then, since its inception it has had complex relations with thestate and religious organisations, particularly the hegemony of Christianity. AsArie Molendijk (1998:70) has remarked, “the history of the field is conceived asa gradual emancipation from the patronizing power of theology”. For example,one of the pivotal moments in the history of the study of religion is consideredto be the institutionalisation of the study of religion in the Dutch Universitysystem in 1877. It meant that “for the first time in Western history, there wereestablished two, parallel possibilities for the study of religion: a humanistic modewithin the secular academy and a theological course of study within the denomi-national seminary” (Smith, 1978: 103). Smith’s synopsis of this shift is a bitnarrow, since the shift concerned the reshaping of the theological faculties andthe practice of theology within the university system, and was motivated byliberal beliefs about the state’s complicity with national religion. The study ofreligion can thus be understood to be “a child of the Enlightenment” (Smith,1978:104).

While the transformation of the Dutch university system stands out as a signifi-cant moment in the history of religious studies, it cannot however be noted as thepivotal moment at which the contemporary discipline was born. Religious studies,or the science of religion as it was phrased during that time, took a form that wasshaped by broader conservative beliefs about religion, education and the power ofthe state. The drive to transform the Dutch university system arose out of theconflict between the secular values in the new Dutch Constitution and the state’sconnections with the Dutch Reformed Church (DRC); the main point of conten-tion being the role of the state in the education of ministers, a liaison which wasincreasingly being perceived as undermining the fundamental separation betweenChurch and State. Yet as Molendijk (1995:73) has pointed out, while the Dutchgovernment and parliament always sought to advance the liberal, democratic val-ues of the Constitution, its relationship with the DRC could not simply be severed.Essentially, at the time, “the religious identity of the Netherlands was framed innon-denominational, broadly Protestant terms, it could not be denied that theDRC had a major contribution to make towards that identity”(ibid). In working


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out the limits of the separation between these spheres, it was concluded “thatnotwithstanding the separation between Church and state, there would always bea close link between religion and the state”, which therefore meant, according toone participant in the debate, “that only a genuinely scholarly theology embeddedwithin the university system could be an antidote against religious separatism onthe one hand, and atheism, on the other” (ibid). In the case of the Netherlands,emphasis should be placed on the word theology, since the kind of “science ofreligion” advanced as a remedy was concerned with the “(Christian) religion”,rather than the panoply of the world’s religions. At this time, then, the science ofreligion certainly did not embody the connotations it does today since it wasfirmly “centered on the transformation of the traditional faculty of theology” andthe practice of that discipline (ibid).

From about the middle of the 19th century we find the liberal study ofreligion increasingly being investigated and implemented in higher educationalinstitutions across Europe. A fledgling and obscure field at this time, with theprogression of the century, the work of eminent scholars in the field subsequentlyopened up the phenomenon of religion to the masses. In so doing, contributed toraising the field out of misty obscurity, adding validity and credibility to thebelief in understanding religion in secular terms. The works of these authorswere to have a significant bearing on the style and face of religious studieswithin Britain from about 1850-1914.

Peter Byrne (1998: 51) argues that religious studies flourished in Britainduring this period primarily for three reasons, namely, because of the healthybook publishing industry, “the role of the Victorian reviews and the endowmentof public lectureships”. As a result of a vibrant intellectual climate characterisedby a largely well-educated, wealthy and inquisitive book buying public and theavailability of funds for the public dissemination of knowledge in the field ofreligion, in the form of the Hibbert and Gifford lectures, British and British-based scholars (Muller, Frazer, Tylor and Lang, for example) could etch theirnames into the history of the field. The public at this time was voracious forknowledge on the subject of religion, purchasing the pedantic works of theseauthors with a zest comparable to the popularity of the romance novel today,and flocked to lecture halls to hear them speak on the subject matter. The rootsof this popularity lie in the gradual emancipation of knowledge from the ortho-dox grip of the Anglican Church and the increasing public enthusiasm and faithin science as the true path to veracity, conditions which were optimal for theadvancement and greater acceptance of the pioneering works of these scholars.The state’s increasing liberalism in the sphere of higher education starting withreforms in the two bastions of British intellectualism, Oxford and Cambridge, inthe 1830s, was another significant move in the eventual proliferation of reli-gious studies in that nation. This is not to say that the field exploded upon thescene and immediately flourished, certainly not, since as practiced in Britain,


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theology still cast a large shadow over the growth of the discipline at the time.Yet, as the century moved forward and took the turn into the next, the accept-ance of the study of religion as a phenomenon at higher institutions was cer-tainly popularly and institutionally gaining strength in Britain as well as acrossEurope. More and more universities saw it as important to have some departmentor sector of their university dedicated to the secular investigation of the phe-nomenon of religion.

However much “the new way” became increasingly entrenched within thepublic and authoritative mind, today the study of religion worldwide fails tobare the hallmarks of its popularity during its years of genesis. If departments ofreligious study - entitled clearly as such, and embodying the title’s suggestion ofapproaching religion from the secular philosophical perspective of egalitarianrespect for all religions as human phenomena, in both ethos and practice – aretaken as indicators of the state of the field at present, then the field is in a dismalstate. For example, despite the flourishing of public interest in religion andreligious study during the late 19th and early 20th centuries in Britain, today onlya few of the 32 departments cited in the Association of University Departmentsof Theology and Religious Studies handbook are specializing in the study ofreligion. The picture in South Africa is not much different, this despite theunique religious diversity of the nation. Michel Clasquin (2005) has pointedout that, at present, there are but three higher institutions with departmentsdedicated to the open exploration of the study of religion, with two other insti-tutions busy increasing their curricular emphasis on the study of religion, and afew others with some courses with religion as their focus. However, in the main,theology still dominates in South Africa as it does globally.

Religious Studies, as a discipline practiced in tertiary institutions, comes tothe fore as a uniquely modern phenomenon, one that remains in complex rela-tionship to the institutions and religious values from which it emerged. As is thecase here, the discipline flourishes in the context of the democratic state, whereChristianity and Christocentric values are well entrenched. Framing the field inthis way begs the assumption that these predominantly Western, Eurocentric val-ues are in place. In this regard, this analysis is narrow-minded and requires thatresearch on the shape and face of religious studies in non-western regions andcountries be taken up. Nevertheless, religious studies as a modern phenomenonrepresents the fundamental internal struggle of the nation-state to at once up-hold its humanistic mandate of the respect for difference, as well as maintain itscoercive control over the many, through religious or other means.

Political Religion; The Politics of ReligionFrom its early origins the Department of Religious Studies has eventually devel-oped into a flourishing teaching, learning and research institution. Today, as part


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of the Humanities Faculty (previously known as the Faculty of Arts), it boaststhree separate research institutions, five journals, and flourishing undergraduateand postgraduate programmes which have produced graduates that have gone onto do great things in South Africa and the world. 38 Yet during the period of itsinception, certainly, Senate could not have foreseen that their intended depart-ment would go on to reach such relative successes. Why then did they persistwith the project in the face of numerous seemingly insurmountable obstacles?Why did they remain adamant about the department’s name, as well as the brandof religious study?

One way of answering these questions is to look at the national politicalsituation during the 1960s and the national policy on education in general, aswell as its considerations for religion specifically. As is common knowledge, atabout the time Senate was implementing measures to institute the new Depart-ment of Religious Studies the apartheid government was implementing radicalsegregatory measures across the country to separate different races and oppresspeople of colour. These measures where effected in all spheres of society and hada significant bearing on educational institutions in the form of racial segregationand academic freedom in terms of a religiously discriminatory Christian Na-tional Education policy first suggested in 1948. Against this background of edu-cational restrictions and racist political and religious oppression, UCT wasrenowned as a liberal university that opposed the state’s racist policies. UCTvociferously lamented and protested against the apartheid state’s restrictions onacademic freedom through the implementation of legislation such as the Exten-sion of the University Education Act, which demanded the establishment ofseparate tertiary institutions for different race groups. Resistance was mobilisedby both students and the academic hierarchy. In the case of students, they mar-shalled protests as well as establishing the TB Davie Memorial lecture, in 1959,“in honour of the previous vice-chancellor’s tireless campaigning for the univer-sity’s academic freedom.”39 While in the same year, the university hierarchy dedi-cated itself and the institution to academic freedom by stating that:

We dedicate ourselves to the tasks that lie ahead: to main-tain our established rights to determine who shall teach,what shall be taught, and how it shall be taught in thisuniversity, and to strive to regain the right to determinewho shall be taught, without regard to any criterion exceptacademic merit.40

In some cases these resistance strategies had real religious overtones. For example,

[a]fter the TB Davie Memorial Lecture on 26 July [1960], atorch symbolising academic freedom is quenched and Hon


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Chief Justice Albert van der Sandt Centlivres unveils a plaquewith a Latin inscription that translates: “This bronze memo-rial dedicated by the Chancellor, records the taking away ofAcademic Freedom which departed in the year 1960 andreturned in the year ... 41

Thus, as a result of this “sustained opposition to apartheid, particularly in highereducation” during the 1960s, 70s and 80s, and its geographical position, over-looking the majestic city of Cape Town from the slopes of Devils peak, “theUniversity of Cape Town earned itself the nickname Moscow on the Hill”.42

In its political tussles with the state, often, it was the principal whom notonly formulated, but also set the tone for the university’s strategy of resistance. Insome cases this meant taking a conservative and cautious approach, while inothers it meant being at the front line of campus political struggles. Commentingon J.P. Duminy’s approach to the political situation during his reign as principalfrom 1959 to1968, the UCT official website states that:

During this time [Duminy] was often criticised for being tooidealistic and conservative in the conflict with the govern-ment over academic freedom: while many urged that theuniversity should seek confrontation with the government,Duminy was aware that the institution was dependent ongovernment financing. 43

In contrast, Sir Richard Luyt, taking up the reigns of principal after Duminy,seems to have been more proactive and more hands-on in his style of dealingwith the political situation on campus:

Sir Richard Luyt led UCT through difficult years in SouthAfrica’s political history, fighting for academic freedom withquiet dignity and vigorously objecting against the banningand detention-without-trial of students and staff who pro-tested against apartheid. At times, he even placed himselfbetween riot police and students demonstrating on campus.44

During the apartheid era then, Senate and other members of the upper echelonsof UCT management actively constructed the university as a space of state resist-ance. But it was a space characterised not by the radical type of resistance that itsnickname of the time may suggest, but was rather more liberal in tone (Erbmann,2005). In some sense, traces of this liberal thinking can be identified in thethought processes behind the institution of the Department of Religious Studies.Keeping in mind that this sentiment might not have been universal, these liberal


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egalitarian feelings must have had an influence on the special Senate commit-tee’s original stipulations on the type of religious instruction they felt the univer-sity needed since it contrasted markedly with the kind of legislative stipulationsmade by the state on education in general. The apartheid educational systemwas geared towards the assertion of difference, discrimination and denigrationwhereas the new department would perpetuate the university’s sentiments ofegalitarianism, openness, freedom and equality. Within UCT, as a cityscape ofresistance, consecrated by a ritual marking the death of academic freedom, thetitle of the new department probably signified the birth of a unique pedagogicalzone of resistance, one which, in character would epitomise the egalitarian po-litical and social values generated and perpetuated by the populous on campus.

In the “New” South Africa, as mentioned, the National Education Depart-ment implemented new policies on religion education, working within a func-tionalist frame of analysis, by recognising the unifying and civilising impactreligion education could have on the nation’s learners. This functionalist char-acteristic of religious study was also recognised more than fifty years ago by theapartheid state when it set about dividing the country along racial lines. Acritical part of the maintenance of these social divisions was to school SouthAfrican scholars into an educational system based on a brand of religion instruc-tion that was religiously divisive, hierarchical and denigrating. In this scheme ofreligion education, entitled Christian National Education, a specific brand ofChristianity was touted as the universal standard of religion, and that the processof learning about other religions required a confession of faith and belief. It wasa system of religious instruction that “[indoctrinated] Christian children and[denigrated] adherents of other religions” (Chidester, 2003: 265). Against thisbackground of religious indoctrination, to Senate, the type of religious studiesthey pursued thus probably also signified an “empathetic understanding andcritical reflection on religious identity and difference” (Chidester, 2003: 264).As envisioned by Senate, the study of religion thus held out the opportunity to,at least in theory, subvert the state’s oppressive pedagogical policies by openinga space for the equal affirmation of religious difference. As such, practising thisbrand of religious instruction, signified by the new department’s title, also signi-fied an active, yet distinctively liberal form of state resistance. Located at “Mos-cow on the Hill”, the Department of Religious Studies could thus be seen as thecentrepiece and epitome of liberal political resistance at UCT.

As a narrative on its own, the new department was at the centre of anotherpolitical struggle, a kind of politics of the sacred, as it emerged out of debatediscussion and negotiations with various parties tussling for a stake in the newdepartment. Looking at the narrative from this religio-political perspective seemsto bring to the fore some of the basic assumptions that underwrite the conven-tional understandings of what may be called the phenomenological approach toreligious studies. Prozesky (1989) mentions that the phenomenological approach


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to the study of religion requires that the enquirer suspends their personal judge-ment about a religious phenomenon, and secondly, that they should adopt adeep sense of empathy and openness to the religious phenomenon under investi-gation. These basic principles indicate that religion is a human phenomenon,one central to human existence, and engaging in religious studies is about ana-lysing and affirming human difference in an egalitarian manner. It is this egali-tarian element, this kernel of freedom at the heart of the study of religion whichis so precious. In the unfolding narrative of the Department of Religious Studiesthis element has emerged not as a given, or a taken for granted aspect of religiousstudy, but as an ideal which was ardently struggled and sacrificed for by Senate.As the above example demonstrates, this egalitarian spirit at the heart of reli-gious studies, I would confidently venture, is always encased within broadersocio-political complexes surrounding the institutions and practitioners of reli-gious study. These complexes significantly, seek to undermine it as well as keepits philosophical boundlessness in check. This struggle emerging out of a com-plex seems to be the uniquely modern characteristic of the contemporary studyof religion. It is this type of egalitarian spirit, or freedom, which opened thespace for the affirmation and acceptance of difference at UCT in the face ofreligio-political tensions during the apartheid era’s reign of religious and racistoppression.

A departmental title can thus have meaning beyond the kind of instructionit apparently embodies. It is not a small thing. Many pages ago, this article beganwith a discussion of the meaning of a nose-stud in contemporary South Africa.That small, uncanny thing was revealed to have potent significance within Southour vibrant religious environment. The Department of Religious Studies at UCT,while successful and flourishing, in the context of other departments within theHumanities Faculty, is small. Despite its relative size the department has emergedas having a significance beyond merely being another academic department,characterised by its history of being firmly positioned at the cross-roads of powerdynamics between the university, the interests of religious communities, the he-gemony of Christianity, and the apartheid state apparatus; as well as its religioneducation policy. The distinctive brand of religious studies it practises, whilelacking the direct implication of employment post-graduation, in some ways,continues to radiate an egalitarian power that cloaks the university in the aura ofacademic liberty struggled for during apartheid. It is the struggle for this kind offreedom which paved the way for Sunnali Pillay being able to express and asserther religious and cultural uniqueness, by wearing her nose-stud, in a way that atthe same time affirmed her membership to South African society with its vibrantreligious and cultural life.


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Notes1 The pedagogical term “learner” has been officially adopted and accepted in South

Africa to replace the term “pupil”.

2 See http://www.concourt.gov.za/site/judgments/judgments.htm.

3 As Michel Clasquin (2005: 20) notes, “many universities in South Africa are knownand referred to by acronym or nickname. ‘UCT’ would generally be understood bySouth Africans as referring to the University of Cape Town”. Similarly, the Univer-sity of Witwatersrand is commonly referred to as Wits, while “Unisa” is universallyrecognised by South Africans as meaning the University of South Africa.

4 I am deeply indebted to Mr Lionel Smidt, the University of Cape Town’s archivist,for finding and availing me the official documentation relating to the institution ofthe Department of Religious Studies.

5 This is the acronym the organisation itself adopted and used in its publications andofficial documentation. At the same time, while the C.E.M. receives extensive cov-erage in this article, I in no way intend to denigrate this organisation or theirrepresentatives, but merely utilise the dominance of their correspondence with UCTin the interests of my overall argument.

6 UCT Senate minutes of 10 September, 1959.

7 Ibid.

8 Ibid.

9 Principal of UCT, J.P. Duminy, to Ms Snell Organizing Secretary of the C.E.M., 5January 1959.

10 Ms Snell on behalf of the C.E.M., 31 December 1958; Principal of UCT, J.P.Duminy, to Ms Snell Organizing Secretary of the C.E.M., 5 January 1959.

11 Sub-committee report of May 13th 1959.

12 Christian Education, Dec 1948, no 26.

13 Christian Education, Dec 1948, no 26: 15.

14 The C.E.M membership subscription form, 1953.

15 Internal memorandum from D.W. Webb to the principal of UCT, Sir Richard Luyt,21 May 1969.

16 Letter from J.P. Duminy to Miss E Mathews, Organising Secretary of the C.E.M., 12May 1964.

17 Finance officer’s report on the “Department of Divinity or Department of ReligiousStudies”, February 1967. Original emphasis.

18 Ibid.

19 Memorandum from Professor Erik Chisholm on the Chair of Divinity, 4th June,

1963.

20 Letter from the principal of UCT, J.P Duminy to the Ms Snell, Organising Secretaryof the C.E.M, 14 October, 1963.

21 Reverend Basil H.M. Brown, organising secretary of the Christian Council of SouthAfrica, to the principal of UCT, J.P. Duminy, 16 May 1963. Emphasis added.


29

22 Letter to the Registrar of UCT, 20th September 1962, from Reverend I.H. Eve on

behalf of the Cape Peninsula Church Council.

23 Letter from Ms E.W. Mathews on behalf of the C.E.M. to the principal of UCTJ.P.Duminy, 7 October 1963. Emphasis added.

24 Letter from Ms E.W. Mathews on behalf of the C.E.M. to the principal of UCT, 16June 1964. Emphasis added.

25 Letter from the principal of UCT to the Organising Secretary of the C.E.M., 17June 1964. Emphasis added.

26 Letter from the principal of UCT, Sir Richard Luyt to Dr I.D. du Plessis, 27 May1969.

27 Letter from Dr I.D. du Plessis to the principal of UCT, Sir Richard Luyt, 31 May1969.

28 Letter from the principal of UCT, Sir Richard Luyt to Mr S. Dollie, 18 June 1969.A very similar letter was sent to Rabbis in the Cape Jewish community, who alsoattended a meeting with the principal.

29 Unmarked letter of 21 May 1969.

30 Ibid.

31 Ibid.

32 Finance officers’ report on the “Department of Divinity or Religious Studies”, Feb-ruary 1967.

33 Ibid.

34 Minutes of the Sub-Committee, appointed by the Board of the Faculty of Arts,meeting of 13 April, 1967.

35 Finance officers report on the Chair of Divinity, 27 August, 1965.

36 See Cape Times, 3 March 1970.

37 Faculty of Arts and Sciences Handbook of the University of Cape Town, 1970. pg.181.

38 See the Religious Studies Departmental website, http://web.uct.ac.za/depts/religion/IE/index.html.

39 http://www.175.uct.ac.za/history/uct_struggle/?f=1&s=0

40 Ibid.

41 Ibid.

42 Ibid.

43 Ibid.

44 Ibid.


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Context”. In Religion in the Making: The Emergence of the Sciences of Religion,45-65. Edited by Arie Molendijk and Peter Pels. Leiden: Brill.

Chidester, David. 2003. “Religion Education in South Africa: Teaching andLearning about Religion, Religions and Religious Diversity”. British Journalof Religious Education, 25, 4, pp. 261-278.

Clasquin, Michel. 2005. “Religious Studies in South(ern) Africa- An Over-view”. Journal for the Study of Religion, 18 ,2, pp.5-22.

Erbmann, Richard. 2005. Conservative Revolutionaries: Anti-Apartheid Activism atthe University of Cape Town. B.A. Hons. Thesis. Oxford University.

Jeppie, Shamiel. 1989. Historical Process and the Constitution of Subjects: I.D. duPlessis and the Reinvention of the “Malay”. B.A. Hons. Thesis. University ofCape Town.

Lewis, Gavin. 1987. Between the Wire and the Wall: A History of South African“Coloured “ Politics. Cape Town: David Phillip.

Molendijk, Arie. 1998. “Transforming Theology: The Institutionalisation of theScience of Religion in the Netherlands”. In Religion in the Making: The Emer-gence of the Sciences of Religion, 67-95. Edited by Arie Molendijk and PeterPels. Leiden: Brill.

Pelikan, Jaroslav. 1987. “Faith”. In The Encyclopaedia of Religion (2nd ed), pp.2954-2959. Edited by Lindsay Jones. New York: McMillan.

Prozesky, Martin. 1989. “Introduction”. In A Southern African Guide to WorldReligions, 1-12. Edited by John de Gruchy and Martin Prozesky. Cape Town:David Phillip.

Smith, Jonathan. Z. 1982. Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown. Chi-cago: University of Chicago Press.


Karanga Religious Perception ofHealth and Well-Being

Tabona ShokoUniversity of Zimbabwe

AbstractThis paper discusses theoretical and practical methods that have beenapplied to the study of the Karanga religion. It offers an “insider” ap-proach based on aspects of the phenomenological method that is, usingthe believer’s first-hand testimony rather than relying on preconceptionsabout the Karanga religion. As a result, I try to show that the principlesformulated by scholars such as W.B. Kristensen, G. van der Leeuw, andJ.C. Bleeker are crucial to the study. I also present the practical methodsof data collection employed in the study. These include the differenttypes of interviews comprising unstructured, free-association and groupinterviews as well as participant observation. The pros and cons of uti-lising such methods are highlighted and recommendations for furtherresearch are made.

IntroductionThis paper constitutes part of an extended study about the Karanga people inMberengwa, a sub-group of the Shona people of Zimbabwe, in which I develop anargument which contends that the core concern of the Karanga religion is healthand well-being, and that this central concern is logical, rational and consistent(Shoko, 1993: 4). The study discusses a methodology that has developed out of,and partly in response to, the scientific approach to the study of religion in the latenineteenth and early twentieth centuries called the phenomenological methodthat sought to identify essential structures within religious phenomena. I com-mence with a section on the philosophical background to phenomenology cen-tred on E. Husserl whose writings influenced, in varying degrees, subsequent


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phenomenologists of religion. I then trace the developments and debates throughthe writings of several scholars in the field of phenomenology like P. D. Chantepie(1848-1920), G.van der Leeuw (1890-1950), W.B.Kristensen (1867-1953),C.J.Bleeker (1899-1983), J.Wach (1898-1955), M.Eliade (1907-1986) andG.Widengren (b.1907), with a view to show that there have been different ap-proaches and understandings of phenomenology and numerous criticisms and que-ries concerning its operation as a research methodology (Shoko, 1993: 11-39). AsC.J. Bleeker has pointed out, “some critics went so far as to deny its right ofexistence” (Bleeker, 1963: 6). However, I will argue that despite its limitations, themethod offers a frame of thinking based on hermeneutics which I adopt and use totest my hypothesis that the core concern of the Karanga religion is the effort toachieve and to maintain a condition of health and well-being both for individualsand the community as a whole (Shoko, 1993: 4).

As part of my argument, I explore the relationship between the phenom-enology of religion, anthropology and sociology in my subject area by reviewingprevious literature on traditional religion and medical practices in Zimbabwe.In doing so, I critically examine the studies of pioneer and contemporary schol-arly writings on the Shona perceptions of illness and health and medical praxis,such as the travellers, colonial administrators, missionaries, anthropologists andsociologists. The works of M.Gelfand, an empathetic medical doctor and layanthropologist; M.F.C. Bourdillon (1976), an anthropologist; H.Bucher (1980),a Roman Catholic Church Bishop’s sociological approach; H. Aschwanden(1987)’s symbolic analysis, G. Chavunduka (1978), a sociologist and M.L.Daneel(1970, 1971, 1974), a missiologist are reviewed (see Shoko, 1993: 40-52). Suchstudies demonstrate, using different approaches, that health and illness behav-iour, as well as health and medical care systems, are not isolated but are inte-grated into a network of beliefs and values that comprise Shona society. Howevercertain ideological and methodological constraints are exposed (Shoko, 1993:40-52). This provides the basis for an alternative methodological approach whichthis paper sets out to explain.

I conclude by presenting the practical methods of data collection in the field.The methods include the different types of interviews comprising open-endedstructured interviews, free-association and group interviews, as well as participantobservation (Shoko, 1993: 52-58). With regards to my own field-research inMberengwa, I will show how the phenomenological approach was employed toexamine key religious phenomena related to illness and health by examining ex-pressions of beliefs, ritual activities and the role of sacred practitioners.

Definition of Key Terms“Core concern” refers to the basic, underlying thrust of the Karanga religion. Itis the essence of religious phenomena under observation (see Bleeker, 1963:136).

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In this case, religion is chiefly orientated towards the achievement of health andwell-being and is of ultimate value in the Karanga religion. The term can also beinterpreted in the study as referring to the defining factor of the Karanga reli-gion. Thus it is being argued that from observing the phenomena, and in factpursuing the stages to be discussed in the phenomenological method, it can bevalidly maintained that the Karanga religion can best be understood in the lightof its pre-occupation with health and well-being.

In the study, “health” does not only refer to the absence of disease or infir-mity (Dubos, 1986: 281) but also a positive state; that which is necessary for themaintenance of physical and spiritual well-being. From this perspective, theKaranga are seen to perceive health as the “normal” state in which individualscan attain their best, thereby contributing towards the greater social good. “Ill-ness”, shall be regarded as that “abnormal” state which hinders an individual toperform his duties as expected by society, or a form of deviance (Herzlich, 1973:10). “Well-being” refers to the state of fulfilment whereby both the individualand society are spared from mental and physical discomfort, and enjoy peace ofmind. For the Karanga religious adherents, it is the harmonious integration ofthe spiritual powers with the will of the living to produce a balanced physicaland cosmological order.

The argument that the core concern of the Karanga is perceived – from aninsider perspective - as “logical”, “rational” and “consistent”, implies an acknowl-edgement of the systematic, meaningful and coherent essence of their religion. Inthis respect, this paper proceeds to discuss the view within a phenomenologicaltheoretical framework, giving primacy to the adherents’ convictions with theaim that the study will also reflect material with which the believer can identify.

A View from the Inside: The Phenomenological ApproachIn order to establish that health and well-being is the central concern of theKaranga religion, I am concerned with looking at the Karanga world from aninsider perspective and have thus drawn on phenomenology, a philosophicalmovement attributed to the German philosopher Edmund Husserl (1859-1938)as well as certain concepts refashioned by Van der Leeuw and other earlyphenomenologists namely epoche and “eidetic vision”. As explained by Eric Sharpe,epoche is derived from the Greek verb epecho, “I hold back”. In effect, it means“stoppage”, suspension of judgement, the exclusion from one’s mind of everypossible presupposition. It is also called “bracketing” an object that is present toconsciousness. Its importance to this study is that it emphasises the need toabstain from every kind of value-judgement, to be “present” to the phenomenain question purely as an impartial observer, unconcerned with questions of truthand falsehood (Sharpe, 1986: 224). According to Sharpe, the concept, “eideticvision” is derived from the Greek noun, to eidos, “that which is seen”, and hence


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refers also to “form”, “shape” or “essence”. This concept refers to the observer’scapacity for seeing the essentials of a situation, or in the case of a phenomenon,its actual essence as opposed to what it has been, or ought to be. Actually,“eidetic vision” means a form of subjectivity - it implies, given the acquisition ofobjective and undistorted data, an intuitive grasp of the essentials of a situationin its wholeness (Sharpe, 1986: 224).

Acknowledging the controversies surrounding the feasibility of epoche and“eidetic intuition” within the study of religion, especially with regards to how asubjective observer finds access to knowledge of an objective phenomena, Iendeavour to maintain the positions of earlier phenomenologists such as C. JourcoBleeker (1963), renowned historian of religions as well as W.Brede Kristensenand Gerardus van der Leeuw who in different ways, saw epoche as a vital tool inavoiding preconceived ideas, theories or pre-judging the phenomena in order tounderstand religion from the inside, the believer (see Cox, 1992: 25). In myresearch, I attempt to see into the very essence of the phenomena themselves byemploying two techniques. Firstly through epoche, in other words, suspendingpreviously held judgments about the Karanga and or Shona world based onacademic theories, personal bias, pre-suppositions and related stances perpetratedby missionaries and explorers during the colonial period. Secondly, through en-gaging “eidetic intuition” whereby only the essential structures of phenomenaare seen. Without overlooking certain practical constraints, that entailed pen-etrating, or “entering into”, phenomena sympathetically in order to unearth themeaning or essential aspects of religion that are true to the Karanga believers. Byobserving phenomena internally, the “essence” of the Karanga religion seems tobe configured around notions of health and well-being. Although my indig-enous status proved a great asset in this context, I certainly admit that beinginsider on one hand and my exposure to Western education on the other hand,had considerable methodological effects.

Methods of Data CollectionInterviews constituted the primary source of data. Only qualitative interviewingmethods were used simply because quantitative procedures proved complex andinvested with numerous problems. In practice, unstructured interviews turnedout to be the most effective (see Sjoberg and Nett, 1968: 211-218). In employ-ing this method, a questionnaire system was used with a general outline of thequestions to guide the interviewer to the required research information. Theunstructured interviews offered considerable freedom in the questioning proce-dure and, at times, the question-and-answer sessions did not differ that muchfrom ordinary conversations. Furthermore, the unstructured interviews upheldthe respondent’s perspectives rather than the researcher’s. Due to the social, po-litical, economic, cultural or intellectual variations between the interviewees, a


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variety of forms of unstructured interviews were obviously used. For example,the free-association interview was based on the tacit assumption that respondentsin the field might hold certain beliefs that they are unconscious of. The free-association method was effective because it encouraged the informants, espe-cially those that were patients, to give “free rein to their thoughts and in theprocess laid bare certain hidden, subconscious mental processes” (Sjoberg andNett, 1968: 212). In executing this method, the interviewer attempted to sus-pend his personal values and beliefs and relied primarily on the interviewee’scritical reflection of his/her own observations (Sjoberg and Nett, 1968: 212). Offundamental importance are the pros and cons posed by the free-associationinterview as a research tool. Firstly, the method enabled the researcher to acquirevalid, sound and reliable data from the Karanga religious adherents. From an-other standpoint, the free-association method exhibited certain flaws in somerespects. Admittedly, it proved, beyond reasonable doubt, that it was excessivelytime consuming. In addition, a significant number of informants would resist, orin some cases, were reluctant to share their experiences within the context of thiskind of interview which sought to probe their subconscious intensively. Also,certain data collected from interviewees was fragmentary.

Group interviews were also conducted in which students, patients and theirrelatives were gathered into discussion groups. This was geared towards promot-ing personal interaction which would, in the final analysis, uphold sharing ofindividual problems and emotional experiences, as well as provide problem-solving devices. Eventually, it was possible to devise a “team strategy” compris-ing school leavers and teachers acting as research assistants. When this methodwas formally employed, the subject persons clearly identified “problems”, “ambi-guities” or “conflicts” inherent in Karanga norms and values, in that the phenom-ena was brought to the level of consciousness only through group discussion(Sjoberg and Nett, 1968: 217). In addition, the researcher set up “semi-struc-tured” group interviews whereby a number of persons were assembled and sys-tematically interviewed. During the course of such a systematic questioning,some fundamental points emerged which might have not come to the surfacehad a single person undergone the interview process. One of the disadvantagesof group interviews was that it encouraged the rise of self-appointed leaders whowould influence the pattern of interchange so that some participants wouldadopt stands that they did not necessarily espouse, or in some cases, stifled theexpression of opinions of others thereby jeopardizing the validity and authentic-ity of the resulting data (Sjoberg and Nett, 1968: 218).

In order to undertake this research method, the researcher obtained first-hand information by observing and engaging in the activities of the persons hewas studying. This helped the researcher to directly experience the phenomenaso as to attain an empathetic explanation of what fundamentally constitutes thesubject phenomena. In doing so, the researcher was able to partake, at a personal


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level, in the therapeutic rituals and other significant experiences. This methodo-logical device required the researcher to see the Karanga medico-religious be-liefs and practices from the point of view of the believers. This was accomplishedthrough constant interaction with the Karanga, assessing their actions and behav-iour, recording their activities by technical devices and drawing up cases ofpeople involved. Of course as a researcher, it was necessary to keep a diary torecord every significant observation during the course of the research. Further-more, the observer would attentively listen to what the people said. As the term“Observer-as-Participant” implies, this research procedure also meant that theresearcher partook in the subjects` activities. Thus he attended to patients inhospitals, participated in religious ceremonies, prayers, meetings, and rituals, aswell as attending social gatherings.

Another technique involved the use of electronic recording devices whichallowed for direct observation without disruption and without adversely affect-ing the researcher/subject. The merits of such a procedure are apparent. Never-theless the use of such technical devices proved detrimental and, in some respects,hindered freedom of expression. Another stricture stemmed from the Karangabelief and value-system. Like in every social order, some quarters tended to besacred and personal. In the circumstances involving sacred phenomena, the re-searcher was, apart from being withdrawn from participating, dissuaded fromrecording his observations. As the observer- as-participant technique was ex-ecuted within a rigid framework and informed by a “special interest in humanmeaning and interaction as viewed from the perspectives of people who areinsiders; a logic and process of inquiry that is open - ended and flexible; per-formance of a participant role that involves establishing relations with indig-enous people; and the use of direct observation along with other methods ofgathering information (Jorgensen 1989: 13-4); it was possible for the researcherto describe all procedural events, the functionaries, time and place for particularevents, as well as how and why a pattern of events occurred. Resulting from thismethod of data collection, a significant number of case studies were compiledand presented in the study. Such cases do not only provide a description but alsoan analysis of individual cases stressing the holistic phenomenon of illness, therapy,and the attached beliefs and practices. Case histories of the ill and bedriddenduring the time of research took a considerably longer time to gather and com-pile than case histories of medical practitioners acquired largely by interviews.

Research ResultsThe research findings documented in the study reveal the causes of illness anddisease as perceived by the Karanga, and disclose moral, religious and naturalfactors as causes of illness and disease. These encompass spiritual forces, witches,sorcerers, social factors and natural conditions (Shoko, 1993: 59- 85). As one


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respondent Kirion Ngara explains, ancestral spirits (vadzimu) and witchcraft (varoyi)cause illness of a complex nature: “Vadzimu are unpredictable. They can bebenevolent as guardians but can be malevolent and cause persistent illnesses”. Inthe case of witchcraft (uroyi), the disease mamhepo (fever) is very common: “Thevictim becomes worried, confused and mentally ill. He complains of seeingzvitupwani (witches crones) and ‘things’ everywhere. The victim convulges andbecomes speechless” (Interviewee, Vengesai Zindoga). As interviewee TariraiShiri explains, in the case of sorcery, chitsinga (physical disorder), an individualintending to cause harm to another can do so either by bringing his/her victiminto direct contact with an object which has been imbued with the power tocause disease (such as a twig, stone, thorn or bone) or magically transmit thedisease-causing object from a distance. Such causal factors are established by ann’anga (diviner), a traditional medical practitioner.

The study explores various techniques that the n’anga makes use such aspossession, dreams, omens, ordeals or a combination of these (Shoko, 1993: 86-103). A diviner, Vengesai Zindoga, explains the diagnostic process: “I take Gataand put on Chirume…we are terrified by this person…Nhokwara Chirume. Willhe survive, or? I then appeal to sight, Chitokwadzima and Kwami. They all comeup and face upwards. They turn and hit two dice…then I read the meaning.”Diagnosis of the illness and disease is the first step in traditional healing. Tradi-tional healing, as a ritual activity, is most conspicuous at birth, death and com-munal rites but is also seen in the treatments administered by the n’anga. Forexample, Interviewee Rapai Chivi describes a ritual meant to neutralise evil:

Some mbanda medicine is burnt and blown in the huts. Thehomestead too is pegged with some medicine. The peopleinvolved are smeared with concoctions. All this occurs inthe evening, under the cover of darkness. The purpose is toward off malignant spirits, witches and familiars (zvitupwani).

A variety of medicines to cure serious illnesses and diseases are at the disposal ofthe Karanga people: chifurofuro cures fontanel; ndongorongo (inflammation ofthe navel) is cured by chifumuro; munhundugwa or gavakava (aloe); hazvieri curesbiripiri (measles); menstrual pain can be cured by jekacheka (Shoko 1993: 123-128). The Karanga also use herbs and medicines that, they claim, can effectivelyreverse symptoms of HIV/AIDS. For illnesses like chipengo (mental illness), heal-ers prescribe “parasite of chirovadundu herb and the seeds of mufute. Then putthe mixture on glowing ambers and let the patient breathe”, explains inter-viewee, Tichagwa Shumba. For chitsinga (rheumatism) and other complex physi-cal disorders caused by sorcerers, informants recommended chafixe herb asthoroughly effective (Shoko, 1993: 126). For home protection,


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medicine is put in a clay pot. The pots are then placedunderground at the various entry points to the home. Thisis done in a ritual called kutsigisa or kupinga musha (strength-ening or fencing the home). Roots of the mutandangozi tree,which means roots of a tree which expels ngozi, are placedin water and the water is used for washing. (Interviewee,Chinembiri Mashura)

In a case study that I presented in the extended study, I also show that Afro-Christian or Independent Churches in the area owe their attraction to this funda-mental concern with health and well-being as exemplified by the St Elijah ChikoroChomweya, an Apostolic church’s views of the causes, diagnosis and therapy ofillness and disease. The church adherents attribute illness and disease to bother-some spirits propelled by Satan, malicious witches, wizards or sorcerers and theirfamiliars, lack of faith in God, and contravening the law of God (Shoko, 1993:146). As one informant, Stephen Shava, explained, it is believed that for one toattain good health and well-being, faith is essential. As such, this becomes thecentre of orientation of both the Karanga traditional religion and the Afro-Christian Church. The research confirms that health and well-being are related,fundamentally, to the central concern of the Karanga that the adherents perceiveit as meaningful and vital to their religious life (Shoko, 1993: 172-4).

ConclusionThe theoretical and practical methodological techniques employed in this pa-per in maintaining an “insider” view throughout the interview and -observer-as-participant procedures, all contributed to collecting and presenting material inthe study which demonstrates that the core concern of the Karanga religion ishealth and well-being. In this study, I have tried to demonstrate that the numer-ous possible causes of ailments, the system of diagnosis by a specialist practi-tioner, and the different prescriptions and therapies applied in a ritual contextsuggest that the Karanga religion is one whose fundamental concern is healthand well-being, and also that such a concern is logical, rational and consistentfrom the believer’s perspective (Shoko, 1993: 162-72).

The spiritual realm features as the main source of illness and disease. It is arealm with benevolent and malevolent potency. In the interviewees’ testimonies,all serious and complex illness and disease are accredited to vadzimu (ancestors)as the cause. However, beliefs in witchcraft and sorcery also account for illness,disease and misfortune. Such beliefs in fact constitute an integral part of theKaranga traditional religious and cultural system. From the onset of illness anddisease, the Karanga contemplate the appropriate means to restore individualand societal health through the mechanism of diagnosis executed by the n’anga


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who employs various techniques to detects and reveal the unknown and hiddencausal elements of illness and disease.

Examining the Karanga therapeutic system more deeply, we realise that ituses available medicines as resources to bring about healing. In line with tradi-tion, the administration and prescription of herbal medicines is the domain ofthe herbalist. What is striking about the traditional therapeutic system is that theherbal nomenclature is apt and meaningful, at least from the believer’s interpre-tation. Although the explanations may sound rather secular, the adherents attachdeep religious significance that relates to the whole understanding of their spir-itual cosmology. For instance, the herb called chifumuro, which is used to cure achronic illness, is derived from the verb kufumura, which means, “to expose toshame”. As such, it is perceived as capable of exposing and thus weakeningillness in a patient. Similarly, the herb used for the treatment of biripiri (measles)is called hazvieri, which means, “unrestricted”. In the Karanga interpretation, thisherb destroys the problem without restrictions. Also, the natural characteristicsor properties of certain species explain the therapeutic value of the herbs.Nhundugwa (shrub) and gavakava (aloe), because of their bitter taste, are re-garded as capable of overcoming ndongorongo (navel inflammation). Likewisejekacheka (sharp-bladed grass) is viewed as effective in eliminating menstrualpain. Here, we unearth a meaningful herbal etymology, which the Karanga con-sider as invested with curative potential. Whilst herbal medicines vary accord-ing to the complaint, a fundamental unity is obtained in the desire to vanquishthe undesirable zvirwere and restore the Karanga individual and subsequentlysocietal utano (health).

From a broader perspective, this study pursues an approach within the sci-ence of religion with a view of liberating the study of religion from social scien-tific biases and assumptions that hinder an “objective” investigation of the“essence” and empirical, visible manifestation of religious phenomena. By utilis-ing the phenomenological approach, it provides an essential mode of empiricalresearch into the study of traditional religions in Africa.

Works CitedBleeker, J.C. 1963. The Sacred Bridge: Researches into the Nature and Structure of

Religion. Leiden: E. Brill.Chavunduka, G. L. 1978. Traditional Healers and the Shona Patient. Gweru: Mambo

Press.Clements, F.E. 1932. “Primitive Concepts of Disease”. Archeology and Ethnology,

32, 2, pp. 185-252.Chitando, E. 1998. “The Phenomenology of Religion in a Zimbabwean Con-

text: To Liberate or to Oppress?” Zambezia: Journal of the University of Zimba-bwe, 15,1, pp. 99-114.


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Chitando, E. “‘Insiders and Outsiders’ in the Study of African Traditional Reli-gions: One More Time!”. Missionalia, 29, 1, pp. 43-54.

Cox, J.L. 1992. Expressing the Sacred: An Introduction to the Phenomenology ofReligion. Harare: University of Zimbabwe.

Dubos, R. 1986. “Determinants of Health and Disease”. Britannica Perspectives, 1, p. 281.Flood, G., 1999.Beyond Phenomenology of Religion: Rethinking the Study of Reli-

gion. London: Cassell.Gothoni, R. 1995. “Principles of Studying Religion”. Temenos: Studies in

Comparative Religion, 31, pp. 37-54.Hacket, R. I. J. 2001. “Field Envy: Or, the Perils and Pleasures of Doing Field

Work”. Method and Theory in the Study of Religion, 13, pp. 98-109.Herzlich, C. 1973. Health and Illness. London: Academic Press.Hinnels, J. (ed.) 1984. A Handbook of Living Religions. Hammondsworth: Penguin.Husserl, E. 1965. Phenomenology and the Crisis of Philosophy. New York: Harper

and Row.Husserl E. 1969. Formal and Transcendental Logic. The Hague: Marthinus Nijhoff.Janzen, J. M. 1978. The Quest for Therapy in Lower Zaire. Berkeley: University of

California Press.Jorgensen, D. 1989. Participant Observation. London: Sage Publications.Kiev, A. (Ed) 1964. Magic, Faith and Healing. New York: The Free Press of

Glencoe.Kleinman, A. 1980. Patients and Healers in the Context of Culture. Berkeley:

University of California Press.King, U. 1983. ‘Historical and Phenomenological Approaches to the Study of

Religion”. In Contemporary Approaches to the Study of Religion. Edited by F.Whaling. Berlin: Mouton.

Mishler, E.G. 1981. The Social Context of Health, Illness and Patient Care. Cam-bridge: C.U.P.

McCutcheon, R.T. 1999. “Introduction”. In The Insider/Outsider Problem in theStudy of Religion: A Reader, pp. 1-11. Edited by R. T. McCutcheon, London:Cassell.

Mutambirwa, J. 1989. “Health Problems in Rural Communities, Zimbabwe”. SocialScience and Medicine, 29, 8, pp. 927-932.

Platinga, R. J. 1989. “W.B. Kristensen and the Study of Religion”. Numen, 36, 2,p. 173-188.

Prozesky, M. 1984. Religion and Ultimate Well-Being: An Explanatory Theory. Lon-don: Macmillan.

Pummer, R., 1975. “Recent Publications on the Methodology of the Science ofReligion”. Numen, 22, 3.

Sharpe, E. 1986. Comparative Religion. London: Duckworth.Sjoberg, G. and R. Nett. 1968. A Methodology for Social Research. New York:

Harper and Row.Smart, N. 1973. The Phenomenon of Religion. New York: Seabury Press.Sontag, S. 1979. Illness as Metaphor. London: Lane.Spiegelberg, H. 1982. The Phenomenological Movement. The Hague: Marthinus

Nijhoff.Shoko, T. 1993. Health and well-being: A Phenomenological Quest for the Essence of

the Karanga Religion. Unpublished DPhil Thesis, University of Zimbabwe.


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Sjoberg, G. and R. Nett. 1968. A Methodology for Social Research. New York:Harper and Row Publishers.

Waardenburg, J. 1972. “Religion between Reality and Idea”. Numen, 19, pp.128-203.

Waardenburg, J. 1973. Classical Approaches to the Study of Religions. Vol. 1. TheHague: Mouton,

Waardenburg, J. 1978. Reflections on the Study of Religion. The Hague: Mouton.Warren, D.M 1974. Disease, Medicine, and Religion Among the Techiman Bono of

Ghana. Doctoral Dissertation, Indiana University.Westerlund, D. 1985. African Religion in African Scholarship: A Preliminary Analy-

sis of the Religious and Political Background. Stockholm: Almqvist and WikselInternational.

Wiebe, D. 1981. Religion and Truth: Towards an Alternative Paradigm for the Studyof Religion. The Hague: Mouton Publishers.

Yoder, P. S. (Ed) 1982. African Health and Healing Systems: Proceedings of aSymposium. Los Angeles: Crossroads Press.


Urbanism and the “Death of Religion”:Strategies of Religious Manifestation

in Modern Society1

P. Pratap KumarUniversity of KwaZulu Natal

AbstractSome scholars have argued that as modern society becomes increasinglycomplex through processes of urbanisation and technological advance-ment there will be greater deviation from traditional forms of socialcohesion. Generally speaking, the rise of secular lifestyles is linked tothis modern phenomenon; that is, the notion that traditional belief sys-tems and religious institutions will, inevitably, become less relevant.This paper presents a counter-argument to this thesis by drawing on twocase studies from the Hindu community in Natal, South Africa andanalyses the way in which religious values are transmitted from onegeneration to the other within the Hindu Diaspora.

IntroductionAlthough there has been much opposition to the notion that “God is dead” (seeLuckmann, 1967) by those who have argued that secularism has not necessarilyundermined the role of religion in modern society; recently, scholars such asSteve Bruce (1992; 2002) have reasserted the argument that modernity impedesthe transmission of religious and other traditional values, and will therefore,eventually, lead to the demise of religion. Generally, it is true that in modernand technologically developed societies such as Britain, Europe and NorthAmerica, religious practice has been drastically affected in that there are lesspeople attending churches, less people raising their children with religious up-bringing and so on. It is interesting to note that this has been accompanied by arise in spiritualism and a growing interest in New Religious Movements2 but


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some scholars have argued that it is less likely that these kinds of religious valueswill be passed on to the next generation (as in the case of conventional forms ofreligious transmission) as these new forms tend to be individualistic and centeredaround a personal spiritual quest. If the trend of modern society’s inability totransmit religious values continues, even if there is a rise of individual basedspiritualities, it should be cause for concern to those who are optimistic aboutsecularism’s failure to eradicate religion from modern life.

Since the assumption regarding the “death of religion” is based on the obser-vation that, in modern society the transmission of conventional forms of beliefsis gradually breaking down in the face of growing number of options for indi-viduals, it is important to test this transmission thesis in other contexts and see ifthere is a global trend in this regard. Steve Bruce’s analysis is largely based ondata from Britain and North America where religious belonging is perhaps morecommon than religious practice. In this paper, I look at two case studies from theHindu Diaspora in Natal, South Africa and analyse the various strategies thatthis religious community has used to transmit its beliefs and values to the nextgeneration. I will argue that the transmission thesis, before it can be accepted atface value, has to take into account the subtle strategies engaged by social groupsto maintain their religious and cultural traditions. Before proceeding on to theactual case studies, I would like to make some preliminary comments on twoimportant and related aspects: the first one deals with conventional strategiesthat religious institutions use to transmit their beliefs and worldviews; the secondis the relationship that exists between religion and culture. These two aspectswill illuminate the basic argument of this essay.

Conventional Strategies of Religious InstitutionsReligious institutions follow certain methods to propagate and ensure that theirbeliefs and practices are continued into the future. In this regard, two areas ofreligion are important, namely, ritual and doctrine. Every religion has certainpractices that are considered religious, or sacred, and particular to that tradition.For instance, in the case of Christianity the rituals of baptism and attendingchurch every Sunday constitute some of the most central religious acts that allChristians are expected to follow in order to be a Christian. Likewise, in the caseof Hindus, the performing of religious acts such as the lighting of the lamp in themorning before their chosen deity, or meditating on the chosen deity at sun rise,going to the temple on certain days in the week and offering flowers and fruits tothe deity, constitute some of the religious acts that Hindus perform in order to beHindu. These religious acts are the means through which religious worldviewsare transmitted from one generation to the other. In a traditional society, thesereligious acts are followed with a certain routine and any deviation from such aroutine is easily noticed by others who might frown upon this. Also, in order for

URBANISM AND THE “DEATH OF RELIGION”

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such a routine of religious activities to be followed, it is assumed that there is acertain degree of homogeneity within the social group. In other words, in atypical Christian village/suburb in Britain or a Hindu village in India, one wouldnot find it difficult to follow the routine of religious activities because of thepresence of a distinct religious and cultural ethos, as well as relevant institu-tional structures such as churches or temples.

Part of the assumption outlined in the above scenario is, that in urban andmodern societies where diversity is a central feature, religious practice becomesmore difficult in the absence of a homogeneous religious and cultural ethos, andthe availability of institutional structures in the area. This is compounded by thefact that modern life is much more complex than traditional lifestyles of thepast. Since modern life with all its many dimensions and aspects that pervadeboth work and leisure time, individuals and their families tend to be more dis-connected from each other than they were in the past. With the increasing de-mand on their time, both adults and children are preoccupied with the thingsthat they are generally attracted to or interested in. In the market place of mod-ern life where there is no shortage of activities, traditional activities such asgoing to a sacred place to perform a ritual becomes less interesting to a modernperson. In general, individuals are less preoccupied with religious ideals anddesires than with the daily activities of going to work, attending meetings andearning a living in the competing job market. Naturally, the desire for going toa religious occasion is only secondary to the desire to going to a music concert ora gym. This means that the general religious consciousness that is assumed to bepresent in traditional society is absent in the modern society. As such, the trans-mission of religious rituals and doctrines becomes more difficult.

From the scenario outlined above it is no wonder secularist theorists havepredicted the gradual disappearance of religion from modern society. David Mar-tin’s useful narrative provides some clues to the ideological underpinnings of thesecularism theory and documents how sociology – a discipline inextricable frommodernity - considered it out of fashion to be dabbling in religion; even in themid 20th century when some sociologists showed interest in religion, it was treatedas a remnant from the past (Martin, 1995: 296-297). When interest was shown, itwas assumed that it was non-European societies that needed to be understoodwith some reference to religion. The rise of the religious right in America and itsrole in the most recent presidential election might make such assumptions vacu-ous. Martin was one of the first scholars who recognised in his 1978 study, AGeneral Theory of Secularisation that, secularism happened differently in differentplaces and it was not an inevitable phenomenon that happened in modern soci-ety everywhere. Although secularism has happened differently in different partsof the world, even in places like the USA, Steve Bruce (2002: 227) has shownthat,


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mainstream Christian churches are declining in popularityand the conservative Protestant churches are losing theirdoctrinal and behavioural distinctiveness. Privatization, in-dividualism and relativism are now affecting the US churchesin the way they did the British churches in the middle ofthe twentieth century.

It seems to me that the transmission thesis forwarded by scholars such as SteveBruce has taken into account modern society’s prerogatives and tendencies (seeBruce 1996: 29ff; 1990: 29). Whereas Thomas Luckmann (1967) attributed thedecline of religion in modern society to the privatisation of religion (i.e. thequest for inward spirituality) Steve Bruce attributes it to the inability of modernsociety to pass social aspects of religion, such as ritual, on to the next generation.Bruce argues, “[C]rucial to the fate of liberal, diffuse, denominational religion issuccess in transmitting it to the next generation” (Bruce, 2002: 239). 3 It is truethat, by and large, in urban societies there is a decline in attendance at religiousmeetings and functions, especially by people who have a higher level of educa-tion and higher levels of income which allows them access to more elite socialhabits such as leisure and sporting clubs, intellectual associations and so on.Although it might be a little too simplistic to generalise as such, one might beable to make the assumption that the more people move in elite social groupsthe less interested they are in religious activities, such as practicing rituals andadhering to religious doctrines. This does not have anything to do with theirbeing elite, but rather as Steve Bruce has argued, that the cultural and religiouspluralism that is characteristic of modern society presents greater choice (Bruce,2002: 236f), which, as Peter Berger has pointed out, undermines any certaintyregarding ones belief (Berger, 1998). In general, in modern, Western societiestoday there is the tendency among people to abstain from religious places andfrequent other social spaces that reflect their daily life. Some of them mightentertain a belief in God, but such belief is not necessarily linked to any institu-tional form of religion with their associated rituals and doctrines. This phenom-enon might be noticed not only in the modern West but also in countries thatare thought to be highly religious in nature, such as India. Scholars who sawsecularism as a way of life that would eventually preclude a place for religion inmodern society have generally assumed that such a vague belief in God is not asufficient variable that would significantly contribute to the sustaining of reli-gion as an institution in modern society. What is important and necessary forreligion to continue into the future as an important institution of human life isto have strategies that would make it possible. The transmission thesis impliesthat these strategies need to include a strong dimension of ritual participation bythe adherents of religion. In other words, by participating in a ritualised lifestyleand by ensuring that the present religious orientation and worldview is passed


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on. Secular society has made it difficult for the transmission of ritual and therebythe possibility of its continuation into the future.

What both the transmission and secularist theorists do not take into account isthat modern society might present new opportunities for religious people to per-petuate their worldview in ways other than conventional ones, such as attendingchurch/temple, the performance of rituals and so on. Also, modern and urbanisedpeople might engage in religious activities for other reasons than religious. In otherwords, the transmission thesis might assume that to perform religious activities onehas to be religious; as exemplified in Bruce’s example of the marriage between aliberal protestant and non-practicing Jew (see Bruce, 2002: 239), there is littlepossibility for a sustained religious transmission in this situation. Or to put it differ-ently, it assumes a co-relation between performing religious activities and beingreligious. My argument is that in modern society the two need not be related.4

Those who rely too heavily on the argument that modern society has to be able totransmit religious rituals and doctrines to the next generation in order for religionto survive seem to ignore the intrinsic relationship between religion and culture,and that religion provides people with identity.

The Relationship between Religion and CultureAll religions were born in a specific social, historical and political context. Jewishreligion emerged from a Semitic worldview, Christianity initially grew out of anexpectation of the coming of a messiah forecast in the Jewish prophetic traditionand Islam grew out of a claim that Mohammed was the final prophet — all thesethree great religions have a Semitic worldview as their common cultural back-ground. Likewise, one could look at all the religions that grew out of India5 suchas Hinduism, Jainism and Buddhism as well as innumerable variants of tribal reli-gions—all of them have a common cultural ethos within which theconceptualisation of various philosophical and theological positions were articu-lated. Whether ultimately there is a transcendental or transempirical reality be-yond the perceived world might be a moot point between those who believe andthose who do not, the issue of how people articulate their worldviews is withoutdoubt a culturally constructed process. Cultures within a social and political con-text provide the necessary conceptual tools for expressing those worldviews, doc-trines, rituals, myths and so on. Without those conceptual tools various religionscannot be made sense of. Despite Christian missiologists’ attempts to universaliseChristianity, they were the ones who most acutely conceded this close relationshipbetween culture and religion. Thus, as one scholar in the field of the sociology ofreligion put it “[the] relationship between culture and religious expression is veryclose, in many cases indissoluble. A religious current loses its vitality if it ceases tobe rooted in the cultural reality of a people” (De Santa Ana, 1995: 99).

If the relationship between religion and culture is so intrinsic, then what is


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conducted in the name of religion could not be radically separated from theallegiance that people have for their respective cultures. Performing religious ritu-als and adherence to religious beliefs, albeit that people do so for religious reasons,cannot entirely be seen in isolation from their affinity for, and their desire to,perpetuate what they have received from their descendants. In other words, suchacts more often than not are intrinsic to who they are and where they came from,and their desire to pass on to the next generation. When people are driven by theirdesire to perpetuate and pass on their beliefs and practices to the next generation,they do so in many ingenious ways that often result in new inventions of ritualsand narratives about their past. Even in the face of modernity when individualsare less inclined to go to religious places and institutions for religious reasons, theystill gather in great numbers when festivals and other communally-based religiousceremonies occur as such events invoke their past. In my view, such events enablepeople to preserve and sustain their past traditions either in a meticulously pre-served manner and with close attention to detail, even if they do not fully compre-hend the meaning of it; or in some instances they devise many new ways andinvent new rules and procedures to preserve something of their past. When thesocial and cultural location remains unaffected, i.e. when people continue to livein the same location and within the same cultural milieu, religious communitiescan preserve their traditions for many centuries, as illustrated by the NambudiriBrahmins in south India who continued to perform their ancient Vedic ritualsoften unknown to the rest of the world (Staal, 1983). On the other hand, there arecases where rituals are reinvented or modified to suit the new context in whichpeople live. This is clearly illustrated by Diaspora communities who move fromtheir original homeland and create a completely different cultural and social con-text within their adopted home (Kumar, 2000). In either case, in many societies itis common to observe people wanting to preserve their traditions through ritualsand belief systems that belonged to their cultural past. I think it is in the verydesire of people to preserve their past lies the raison de etre for the continuation ofancient belief systems. Continuation of religious beliefs is therefore tied to thisdesire to preserve the past and often has nothing to do with one’s religiosity orspiritual quest. The foregoing generation may pass on to the next generation someof their values not necessarily through regular temple or church based ritual activi-ties, but by simply creating occasions such as festivals that contribute to the sus-taining of a cultural ethos. That is why, for instance, Christians may not all attendchurch on a regular basis but most will observe a Christian festival such as Christ-mas or Easter. Similarly, most Hindus celebrate Divali, the Festival of Lights, eventhose that do not consider themselves as very religious Hindus. My point, there-fore, is that the survival of religion is no longer tied to visits to temples andchurches (although there is still not overwhelming evidence that temples, mosquesand churches are not filling up, at least in the less affluent countries) but rather inthe desire of cultural groups to publicly celebrate their rituals in the context of a


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pluralistic society. This does not mean that people do not perpetuate their beliefsdue to religious convictions. The examples of Mariamman and Draupadi Ammanrituals indicate that faithfully performing those rituals enables succeeding genera-tions to imbibe those beliefs and practices, and see them as solutions to theirpsycho-physical and social needs. Despite gaining higher education and becomingmore scientific in terms of their worldview, even the very same educated people inmost societies continue to value traditional knowledge systems that they havebeen received through cultural and religious beliefs; especially in times of crisis.

Much of the discussion on the survival of religion and secularisation isbased on the distinction between religious belonging and religious practice (Davie,2000; Martikainen, 2006). Religious belonging assumes that people may belongto a religion but may not practice it and hence do not actively pass on thosebeliefs and practices to the next generation. Such an assumption ignores thepossibility that even though one does not practice religion, it still providesavailable resources for public transmission of beliefs and practices. The prolif-eration of temples and organisations among Hindus in South Africa is testimonyto this. Even in the European context, for instance, studies in religious pluralismin the Diaspora context reveal that in the last decade of the 20th century, asubstantial number of religious organisations from non-Western societies wereestablished in Finland (Martikainen, 2006)6. The example of the Festival ofChariots, in Durban, is a case in point in that not everyone who comes to thefestival is a keen devotee; some are barely interested in the religious aspect andcome simply to enjoy the spectacle. Such festivals not only fulfill the religiousaims of devotees but, more importantly, serve to generate social awareness of thereligious group’s presence. In multicultural societies, the desire to create aware-ness among outsiders is not to be considered, by any means, less important. It isan important tool for a religious group to gain social acceptance and legitimacy.It is for this reason that the involvement of government officials and politiciansin various ceremonies is noteworthy.

I shall now identify and explore two innovative strategies that modern Hin-dus in South Africa have used to sustain their traditional worldview, namely, theinvention of homogeneity and through public performances.

Inventing HomogeneityOne important clarification needs to be made at the outset, that is, the peoplewhom we refer to as “Hindu” did not come to South Africa as a homogenousgroup. Rather they came from a variety of locations, mainly rural areas and witha variety of traditions and cultural beliefs. I do not need to make the point herethat the category “Hindu” is an outsider one, as much scholarly literature existson this issue. The people whom we as scholars, as well as practitioners them-selves, refer to as Hindus are characterised by their heterogeneity in that they


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practiced seemingly diverse beliefs and rituals as is evident in the context ofSouth Africa. There are mainly four linguistic groups identified in South Africa:Tamil, Telugu, Hindi and Gujarati- speakers who can each be distinguished bytheir particular denominational, sectarian and cultural beliefs. Generally, Tamilpeople are identified as worshippers of Shiva and his cognate gods; the Telugushave been worshippers of Vishnu and his cognate deities although they havebecome integrated into the Tamil community over time by assimilating theirbeliefs and practices. The Hindi-speaking people generally worshipped Vishnuand Rama who is considered an incarnation of Vishnu.

The Hindus who came from various villages in India in the 19th century had acertain homogenous worldview belonging to their respective village traditions.So, when they left India and boarded ships to Natal their homogeneity began todisintegrate as they had to mix and live among other Indians from north and southwith their different linguistic, cultural and religious beliefs. For the first time, theirsense of being “other” began to dawn on them. When they eventually reachedNatal, the plantation owners selected the Indian labourers not on the basis of theirlinguistic and cultural unity, but rather on the basis of their knowledge and abilityas sugarcane farmers. As such, they lived on farms not as homogenous communitiesbut made new alliances and bonds with other Indians who did not necessarilyspeak the same language or perform the same rituals. When they freed themselvesfrom the indenture contract, they began to regroup on the basis of the same lan-guage and culture, this time in the proximity of urban locations. They began tobuy small landholdings nearer the urban areas in order to be able to reach towneasily and sell the fruits and vegetables that they started growing on those smallfarms. For Indians, this marked the beginning of their desire to forge a new identityin a new land. It seems to me, that fundamental to this new identity was a sense ofhomogeneity that they began to invent. Since their original homogenous life worldhad collapsed, it was incumbent upon them to find new ways of finding this newhomogeneity, which they did through the religious, cultural and linguistic institu-tions that they began to build. Their original village-based and language-basedcultural identity began to give way to a broader sense of being either a southIndian or north Indian. The Tamils and Telugu-speaking people began to oscillatetowards becoming integrated into one cultural group and, in a similar process, thenorth Indian linguistic communities eventually became integrated into what iscommonly known today as the Hindi-speaking community. This meant that, forinstance, the south Indian communities integrated their various village-based ritualpractices into their new temples and shrines that they began to build from as earlyas the 1870s. The rituals associated with Kavadi, (fire walking), and Mariammanworship became part of their new programme of homogeneity. The temples beganto integrate different worship patterns and deities within the same complex. Inother words, the inclusion of shrines with the images of Vishnu, Shiva, Muruga andMariamman or Draupadi has become the norm to cater to the different ritual


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traditions of south Indians. The mixing of such diverse ritual traditions in templesand shrines in India is rather uncommon, but in South Africa it became a tool tobe deployed in the reinvention of a new homogeneity for south Indians. By thesecond and third generation, even north Indian communities began to assimilatesuch new ritual traditions to the extent that, today, there exists a pan South Afri-can, Indian ritual tradition. As each temple developed its own character aroundthe priests, elders and families that worshipped in it, new rules of ritual procedures,conventions and even local legends as to how a temple came to be in that loca-tion had to be invented. For instance, unlike in the case of India, anyone whoknew how to perform the rituals and not necessarily the one who belonged to thecaste of Brahmins with all its sub-groupings could assume the role of the Brahmin(priest) in the South African Hindu community (Kumar, 2000:35). Over time,new rules and conventions became norms, for example, a coconut cannot be bro-ken in the temple as it happens in temples in India because of local health restric-tions and had less to do with ritual procedure, therefore it is something that Hindushad to invent to accommodate local municipal laws.

In the South African Hindu Diaspora, a new social structure also began toemerge, as caste rules that guided social life could not be observed anymore inthe new context due to their inability to live in single and homogenous castegroups. Some Hindus were able to elevate their caste status by acquiring newcaste names and by observing new rituals. Cognate caste groups began to enterinto marriage alliances which gave rise to a new social organisation in whichcaste, for all intents and purposes, gave way to a broad cultural unity. Thisprocess of the homogenisation of different ritual practices and caste identitiesprovided Hindus with a sense of belonging to a community. As such, discoveringa new way of finding homogeneity was fundamental to their survival in a newplace. Hindus in South Africa dug deep into their old cultural and religiouspractices and integrated them in ways that would make sense to their own con-text. The succeeding generations followed suit. For the new generations, the oldinventions, assimilations and integrations became a tradition that they couldcall South African Hinduism. These are expressed in their many religious insti-tutions that they had built during the last one and half centuries in South Africa.Their proclivity for building temples and religious institutions or organisationsis part of their ongoing homogenising strategy. In his study of the south AsianDiaspora in Germany, Baumann (2002: 95-98) has pointed out that religiousinstitutions are the most commonly built social organisations within the Diasporaand, in my view, is an attempt to pass on ancient beliefs and practices to the nextgeneration. Such an invented homogeneity does not always mean that Hindusdo not pursue their specific forms of worship. The three different festivals out-lined below indeed reflect diversity amongst South African Hindus.


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Public Performances as Transmissions of BeliefsDuring the Easter weekend in the greater Durban area, three festivals associatedwith Hinduism take place. While the three festivals, in isolation, may not haveanything in common, each represent different social groups within Hindu soci-ety who wish to ensure their beliefs and practices are transmitted to future gen-erations. These festivals are: the Festival of Chariots celebrated by the InternationalSociety for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON), the Mariamman Festival, and theFire Walking Festival dedicated to the worship of the Hindu goddess, Draupadi.

The case of ISKCON in South Africa is an example of how a religiousinstitution uses its public dimensions, such as festivals, to ensure that their beliefsand practices are widely spread and are continued into the next generation. Forthe last eighteen years the Hare Krishnas in Durban have been organising theannual Festival of Chariots (Rathayatra) on the beachfront. The selection of thebeachfront during the Easter season beginning on Good Friday is interesting as itis the central location of many sporting activities sponsored by the major cellu-lar phone industries in the country. The television coverage of these events isextensive and it in the midst of these “materialistic” pursuits or activities, thatISKCON locates its festival in an effort to bring to the people, what they call,“Krishna Consciousness”. Billboards boldly advertise the focus of their festival,the words: “Yoga, Mantra, Astrology and Philosophy” appear on the one side andon the other: “Food, Fashion, Vedic Art and Meditation”. The classical and theancient on the one hand, and the modern and contemporary on the other seemto indicate ISKON’s ability to make itself relevant to contemporary society. Thefusion of traditional and contemporary culture is reflected in their opening danceperformances which includes classical Indian dance forms as well as modernfusion dance and African rhythms. Various stalls are set up offering a range ofactivities from spiritual aspects to material products—stalls for meditation, Krishnaartworks, question and answer sessions, devotional music stall, stalls for food anddrinks, Eastern wear, gifts and souvenirs, Krishna Seva stall (service to Krishna)— all of these are put together to produce a heightened consciousness of Krishna.The sacred chant of “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama” is emblazoned on the banners atthe entrance and is chanted continuously to the accompanying music.

The festival begins on Good Friday evening with the gathering of some ofthe high-ranking monks of ISKCON from around the world. The various activi-ties and celebrations attract a large and diverse crowd: some are devotees, someare visitors, some are tourists who happen to be on the beach and some arehomeless people who come for the free food. Everyone is encouraged to partakein the free food offered in the name of Krishna. On the following Saturday, theprocession carrying the chariot of Krishna begins at the City Hall with the CityManger opening the event. The procession’s route is marked out, and the localpolice and the traffic department are on hand to ensure that the processionproceeds smoothly. The chariot is decorated with symbols associated with Krishna


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and the image of Swami Prabhupada is seated in the chariot. Singers and dancersaccompanied by hundreds of devotees pull the chariot across the streets of thecity along the demarcated route. Ahead of the main chariot is a smaller cartcarrying the image of Lord Chaitanya, who began the movement of Krishnadevotion, in Bengal, in the 15th century. Many centuries later, Swami Prabhupadain the mid 1960s took the movement to the West and reinvented it as a popularand modern one known today as the International Society for Krishna Con-sciousness. The massive success and popularity of the movement is attributed toits ability to transmit their philosophical and religious ideas throughout theworld through festivals and public chanting of the name of Krishna. In the lasttwo decades of its existence in South Africa and especially in Durban, ISKONhas managed to raise enormous resources, both human and material, to becomeone of the most successful religious organisations in the modern world.

The Mariamman festival takes place in a number of local temples solely dedi-cated to the worship of Mariamman. The most famous being the one that is organ-ised in the south of Durban at a place called Isipingo. The other one is held at atemple which is over a hundred years old, and is located on the sugar estate at Mt.Edgecombe, another Indian suburb. There are two older temples built here, one isfor the worship of Mariamman, a village goddess still worshipped in many parts ofsouth India; the other one is a small shrine of Kali. The Kali shrine may have beenestablished by the Hindi speaking north Indian Hindus, but has now been appro-priated by the Tamils. The red flags, which are usually associated with Hindi-speakers, hoisted at the Kali temple hints at its earlier association. While theMariamman temple has a male non-Brahman priest, the Kali temple has a femalenon-Brahman priest. Both temples are also marked with the presence of the anthill,which is usually associated with village goddess worship in India. At both places,worship includes both vegetarian and non-vegetarian offerings such as chicken,eggs and goats or sheep. Some devotees slaughter the animals, prepare food anddistribute it to the devotees that come to these temples during the festival period.In general, there are no outsiders who come to this festival, as it is highly regulatedand restricted through various ritual rules. At the Mariamman temple, however, in2006, as part of the festival the organisers felt it appropriate to have a debatingcontest for the youth. The topic of the debate was “Public Speaking and CriticalThinking” and was organised in cooperation with the local African National Con-gress (ANC) members. Mrs. Ela Gandhi, the grand daughter of Mahatma Gandhiwas the guest of honour. The debate included both black and Indian participants.

The Fire Walking festival is celebrated at the temple in the old suburb knownas Cato Manor on the banks of the Umgeni River. This former township wasinhabited, initially, by indentured Indians as well as blacks until the apartheidgovernment, under the Group Areas Act, forcibly removed all its inhabitants.Although the apartheid government intended to turn it into a whites-only settle-ment, it remained unoccupied for decades, until recently. The temple that was


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built at Cato Manor for the worship of the goddess Draupadi remained untouchedalong with the small shrine of the goddess Gangamma on the roadside of Bellairroad which is the main road to reach Cato Manor. Fire walking is an annual ritualthat takes place at the Draupadi Amman temple. Devotees take vows during timesof need such as in the case of a financial or family crisis, or when illness hasaffected themselves or their loved ones. They fast for a period of ten days beforethe fire walking ritual and abstain from non-vegetarian foods, alcohol, cigarettes,sex and other activities that are considered non-conducive to their spiritual growth.On Good Friday, the Fire Walking festival takes place during which devotees putthemselves through extremely painful rituals that involve the piercing of theirbodies with sharp hooks. Some pull festival carts with these hooks. The devoteesare said to enter into a trance state and do not feel the pain. The festival culmi-nates in the final event of walking on the hot coals that have been burning duringthe day. The devotees who have taken vows are the only ones allowed to walk onthe fire. One of the devotees interviewed by a local journalist says, “[y]our state ofmind is altered and all you focus is the Mother. Your body is numb and you do notfeel any pain when you are pierced, or when you are crossing the fire” (SundayTribune, April 16, 2006). The festival is attended mainly by devotees but it doesattract a fair number of visitors, tourists and Hindus who come to see the spectaclerather than to participate in the ritual of walking on hot coals.

Like ISKON’s Festival of Chariots, these festivals also attract a great number ofdevotees, but they are characterised by the specific groups of Hindus who attendthese rituals and festivals and they are located within the temple complex, unlikethe Festival of Chariots which ventures out on to the beach. Such public manifes-tation of religious ceremonies and festivals, albeit driven by religious devotion,are clearly organised ways to ensure their survival into the future. The Festival ofChariots, Mariamman and Kali worship, and the Fire Walking ritual may not havemuch in common from a theological point of view, but they do represent themultifaceted Hinduism that we find in the Diaspora. A caveat needs to be made.It is perhaps assumed that everyone who attends these festivals is a religiouslyinclined devotee. The various activities provided at the Festival of Chariots donot necessarily attract only devout Hindus, but a whole range of people—fromcurious ones to serious ones. Modern, urbanised transmission strategies of religiousgroups attract people from all walks of life and there is no evidence to suggest thateveryone participating in the festivals is doing so for spiritual nourishment. Inorder for the secularisation thesis and the accompanying transmission thesis to beconclusively proved, the instances that I have cited above need to be taken intoaccount. The continued relevance of these rituals in the lives of people dependson their motivation to pass them on to the next generation as values from theirpast. It is unlikely that this sense of the past will simply vanish in the increasinglyscientific and modern world despite the many options that modernity might present.If anything the return to traditional, ritualised life from time to time may seem


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romantic as modern life becomes more and more complex.As a counterpoint to the “death of religion”, Heelas and Woodhead have

suggested a subjectivisation thesis which can account for the decline of religion(“life-as religion”) on the one hand and growth of spirituality (“subjective-life”)on the other. They have argued that the Durkhemian principle which says, “peopleare more likely to be involved with forms of the sacred which are ‘consistent withtheir ongoing values and beliefs’ than with those which are not” is the basis of theirsubjectivisation thesis. (Heelas and Woodhead, 2004: 78). This would mean thatpeople do not subscribe to beliefs if they are not related to their daily life. My ownstudy indicates that people do not necessarily relate their religious beliefs to theireveryday life. They can easily compartmentalise their lives by pursuing a modernlifestyle, while at the same time, follow their age-old rituals because that is whatprevious generations have passed on to them. With the exception of a few devoutHare Krishnas, the majority who participate in their rituals do not necessarilystructure their lives in accordance with the beliefs of the Krishna Consciousnessphilosophy. Similarly, the Mariamman and Druapadi goddess worshippers do notnecessarily live their everyday life trying to make sense of their activities in linewith their rituals that they perform at these festivals. Nonetheless, they participatein them and thus sustain them, for it is these rituals and practices that give them asense of who they are and where they come from, and which they then pass on totheir next generation. Therefore, my study indicates that both the transmissionthesis and the subjectivisation thesis are problematic in explaining the survival ofreligion in modern society. Religion will survive not because people can or can-not follow what they preach, but rather in their ability to separate their idealisedbeliefs from their daily working lives.

Notes1 Paper Presented at the XVI ISA World Congress of Sociology, Durban, South

Africa, 23-29 July 2006

2 Paul Heelas et al. have argued that there is a correlation between the rise of spiritu-alism and decline of attendance in traditional religious institutions. ( Heelas andWoodhead, 2004).

3 It is important to note that when Steve Bruce refers to decline, he is mainly referringto denominational or mainstream religion.

4 Others have argued that even the classical rituals such as Vedic rituals are performednot with any religious intentionality such as gainng religious merit, but simply toperpetuate cultural continuity, for example, see Frits Staal’s notion of the meaning-lessness of ritual (1979).

5 A new term is in vogue to refer to the religions of India, viz., Indogenic religions. Icame across this term first in a speech given by the president of the Hindu Councilof United Kingdom recently (February 2006).


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6 Although one could site examples from all over Europe to illustrate the recentemergence of religious organizations in Europe, Martikainen’s study is the most re-cent one that is conducted albeit in a relatively less talked about place in Europe.But it does provide a good example in that Finland is a relatively rare exampleregarding immigration of people from non-Western societies.

Works CitedBaumann, Martin. 2002. “Migrant Settlement, Religion and Phases of Diaspora”.

Migration: A European Journal of International Migration and Ethnic Rela-tions, 33/34/35, pp. 93-117.

Berger, Peter L. 1998. “Protestantism and the Quest for Certainty”. The ChristianCentury, August-September, pp. 782-796.

Bruce, Steve. 1988 The Rise and Fall of the New Christian Right: ConservativeProtestant Politics in America 1978-1988. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

______. 1989. God Save Ulster: the Religion and Politics of Paisleyism. Oxford:Oxford University Press.

______. 1990. A House Divided: Protestantism, Schism, and Secularization. Lon-don: Routledge.

______. 2003. Politics and Religion. Cambridge: Polity Press.______. 1996. Religion in the Modern World: From Cathedrals to Cults. Oxford:

Oxford University Press.______. 2002. God is Dead: Secularization in the West. Malden, Mass.: Blackwell.

Davie, Grace. 2000. Religion in Modern Europe: A Memory Mutates. Oxford:Oxford University Press.

De Santa Ana, Julio. 1995. “Culture in Tension and Dialogue”. InternationalReview of Mission, Vol. LXXXV, 336, pp. 93-102.

Heelas, Paul and Linda Woodhead (2004) The Spiritual Revolution: Why Religionis Giving Way to Spirituality. Oxford: Blackwell.

Kumar, P. Pratap. 2000. Hindus in South Africa: Their Traditions and Beliefs. Dur-ban: University of Durban-Westville.

Luckmann, T. 1967. The Invisible Religion: The Problem of Religion in ModernSociety. New York: Macmillan.

Luckmann, T. 1983. Life-World and Social Realities. London: Heinemann Educa-tional Books.

Martikainen, Tuomas 2006. “Immigrant Settlement and Religious Organisation:The Case of Finland”. In Religious Pluralism and the Diaspora, pp. 335-352.Edited by P. Pratap Kumar. Leiden: Brill.

Martin, David. 1978 A General Theory of Secularisation. Oxford: Blackwell.Martin, David. 1995 “Sociology, Religion and Secularization: an Orientation”.

Religion, 25, pp. 295-303.Staal, Frits. 1979. “The Meaninglessness of Ritual”. Numen: International Review

for the History of Religions, 26, pp. 2-22.Staal, Frits. 1983. Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar. Vols. 1 & 2. Berkeley:

Asian Humanities Press.


Politics of Higher Ordination for Women inSri Lanka: Discussions with Silma\ta\s

Vanessa R. SassonMarianopolis College and McGill University

AbstractThe women of Sri Lanka have long captured the imagination of scholarsaround the world as they have courageously negotiated and re-negoti-ated their place in a tradition that established its roots on the islandmore than two thousand years ago. This negotiation has recently inten-sified, as some women have chosen to take robes that neither the gov-ernment nor most male monastic authorities generally recognise. As aresult of both field research and textual study, this paper examines thechoice made by those who have chosen not to take formal ordination.

IntroductionBriefly, my central question for the non-ordained nuns of the island was, how doyou feel about higher ordination (upasampada\) and are you considering taking itin the future? The responses I encountered often surprised me. As shall be seenbelow, many non-ordained nuns were struggling with the question and somewere quietly moving toward higher ordination while others had decided firmlyagainst it. But for others still, the issue was simply irrelevant. This paper there-fore suggests that, just as there is no one, singular way to practice renunciation,so there can be no one answer to its institutionalisation. There is as much diver-sity and multiplicity of views on this issue as there are female renunciants on theisland of Sri Lanka. In almost every publication on the subject, reference is madeto the unfortunate historical reality that, despite the great efforts by Sanghamittato bring female ordination to Sri Lanka, the lineage was destroyed around the11th century CE as a result of the Cola invasions from the North.1 Not longthereafter, the bhikkhunê lineage disintegrated, leaving women of Therava\da coun-


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tries to wait for the next Buddha to appear and re-instate it. Renunciation there-fore became an exclusively male institution, and women had little opportunityto actively express or embody any potential desire they might have had for arenunciant’s life.2 All this changed when the British took possession of the islandin the early 19th century, as they soon made the decision to release themselves ofreligious responsibilities and thereby placed the dhamma into the hands of soci-ety. Suddenly, Buddhism was liberated from government control and laypeoplewere free to become involved in religious affairs.3 This opened the door to allkinds of revolutions, but the most significant for our purposes was the freedomsuddenly made available to women to practice renunciation regardless of thefuture Buddha Metteyya’s absence. Women took the robes themselves, shavedtheir heads and vowed to live according to the first ten precepts. They were notfull-fledged bhikkhunês, but they were living a life of renunciation that was, untilthat time, impossible for them. These women have come to be known by anumber of different names – the most common being the dasa silma \ta \s (or simplysilma\ta\s for short), meaning “Ten Precept Mothers.” Today, there are thousands ofsilma\ta\s in Sri Lanka (between 3000 and 4000 depending on who you ask),4 andsince they are not bound by the constraints of any official institution – eithergovernmental or monastic – they are free to practice renunciation as they see fit.5

In 1996, ten Sri Lankan women traveled to Sarnath, India and were offi-cially transformed into bhikkhunês by a delegation of monks and nuns from dif-ferent countries. These women, headed by Bhikkhunê Kusuma who is, as a result,referred to by many as the most senior bhikkhunê on the island, believed that theydid not need to continue living unrecognised in their renunciation, but thatthey could take upasampada\ legitimately6 with the help of their Maha\ya \na sistersin Korea and eventually Taiwan.7 They refused to be excluded any longer by themaha\sangha and chose to walk right back into the world Maha \paja \pati andSanghamitta\ had worked so hard to create for them centuries earlier. Neither thegovernment nor most of the monastic authorities recognize them to this day, butaccording to some, it is only a matter of time.

The ethnographic portion of this project was conducted during the summermonths of 2004. Seventeen women were interviewed on the question of higherordination. Many spoke English, but for the rest an interpreter was used. Most ofthese women were silma \ta\s, and all but two were Sri Lankan (the other two wereWestern – one from Germany and the other from America). In most cases, I hadthe opportunity to speak with them on multiple occasions, but a few of theinterviews were limited to just one sitting. My primary objective during theseinterviews was to understand how the subjects viewed ordination. Were theyconsidering going forth with it, was it more advantageous to live without it, orwas it simply inappropriate to take ordination without a Buddha present to re-instate the lineage? No two answers were the same although many were alike,and as a whole they represented a vast spectrum of perspectives. The challenge

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with such research is to accurately reflect this spectrum and not entrap the con-troversy in personal views or overly generalised conclusions.

It is all too easy to present these issues through the lens of feminist rights. Inother words, to assume that women should fight for higher ordination and thatthose who do not are bowing to the pressures of patriarchy. Rita Gross’ BuddhismAfter Patriarchy was groundbreaking on a variety of levels, but it stimulated aperception that Buddhist women should and indeed must make certain demandson what she sees as a patriarchal and unjust system dominating Buddhist Asia.This worldview, which has been instrumental for the development of both Bud-dhist Studies and even Women Studies, nevertheless unintentionally marginalisedAsian Buddhist women. References are scattered throughout Gross’ book thatassume that Asian Buddhist women are neither aware of, nor bothered by, thepatriarchy she believes they are constrained by, which is why she believes that“many of the most significant and necessary developments in Buddhism regard-ing gender issues will first be articulated by Western Buddhists” (Gross, 1993:25). Such statements unfortunately isolate Asian Buddhist women from dialogueand essentialise an Asian-Western dichotomy. Cheng recently gave voice to herfrustration in this regard in her recent book, Buddhist Nuns in Taiwan and SriLanka: A Critique of the Feminist Perspective (2007), arguing that it is all too oftenassumed by Western Buddhist writers that Asian Buddhist women are all thesame — a pattern I sincerely wish to avoid here.

This paper therefore does not advocate for, or against, higher ordination forwomen in Sri Lanka. It is certainly not for me to decide how women in anothercountry ought to conduct their lives. Pressure can take on many forms, andpressuring women to fight for institutional inclusion is just as problematic aspressuring women to stay out of it. This paper does not have as its objective topressure women to do anything. It is, rather, an examination of the views en-countered during my fieldwork which will hopefully provide insight into howsome of the female renunciants of the island engage with the spiritual politics ofhigher ordination. It will, consequently, also explore how they engage with eachother as they find themselves moving toward one or another of the variousfactions of the debate. The silma\ta\s of Sri Lanka each have their own reasons forrenunciation, their own motivations for having taken the kinds of robes theyhave chosen to take, and this paper seeks to reflect the multiplicity of theirvoices rather than to draw overly-generalised conclusions about who they are,either collectively or individually.

It was not difficult to find silma\ta\s, nor was it difficult to have them agree tobeing interviewed. Contrary to popular opinion, the silma \ta\s I encountered werecurious and very open to being interviewed. Indeed, it seemed that they were ascurious about me as I was about them. On a number of occasions, our roles wereeventually reversed, with the silma \ta \s interviewing me rather than the other wayaround. I encountered silma\ta \s in every corner of the small island and engaged in


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a number of informal conversations along with all the formal interviews I con-ducted. I discovered that, just as Bartholomeusz (1994) and Salgado (2004)described in their works, silma\ta\s practice renunciation with tremendous varietyand creativity. There is no right way of being a silma\ta\, no guidebook or formaldoctrine to be followed. There is simply the desire for renunciation and thefreedom to practice this in whatever way suits them best. Such freedom is surelyappealing, but I did not often encounter women citing it as their primary justifi-cation for abstaining from the on-going bhikkhunê revolution in their country.Their reasons were much more complicated, multi-layered and appeared to bethe result of conflicting emotions and realities. Sumedha Silma \ta \, for example,did not seem to care very much about the question. She was over 75 years old,had lived her life and had no interest in pursuing political debates any longer.She broke the mold in her community by taking the robes 60 years earlier andwas now prepared to leave such issues behind. She did mention, however, almostin passing, that she considered herself a fully ordained bhikkhunê today, regard-less of whether or not she was officially initiated into the tradition as such. Shefelt that, after 60 years of practice and service, she had become a kind of honor-ary bhikkhunê. Indeed, she believed that a ceremony could not produce a bhikkhunê– only personal intention and practice could. The monastic life for Sumedhawas a state of mind. This legitimated her practice and life choices and evendiminished – however inadvertently – the efforts made by those who chose tofight for ordination instead. Her views were surely supported by the governmentrecognition she received on her fiftieth anniversary as a silma\ta \ – the photographand memorabilia from the event were proudly displayed in the front hall of hera\rama for all to see. And yet, when I asked her if she would bow to a bhikkhunêwho had been practicing less time than her, she admitted that she would. It wasobviously not a clear-cut issue then: she believed she was a bhikkhunê and thatordination was ultimately irrelevant, but she simultaneously accepted a socialhierarchy that most of the male monastic elite refused to recognise. Likewise, shewas not interested in public ordination and yet she displayed the relics of herinstitutional recognition with pride for all to see. Her ambiguity on the subjectis a perfect example of the ambiguity of the situation.

Sucitta Silma \ta \, her disciple, was younger and much more concerned withthe politics of higher ordination. She did not consider herself an honorarybhikkhunê despite her accumulated twenty-five years of renunciation, and de-bated the question of upasampada \ much more emphatically. She felt that a sig-nificant distinction should be made between silma \ta \s and bhikkhunês, but she wasskeptical about the process and about the kind of women who were willing tochallenge authority so publicly. She spoke with respect about the monks andstated that if they did not recognise the process, they must somehow be right. Sheimagined that there must be a problem with the procedure, that perhaps bhikkhunêswere not following the rules properly, and she had no intention of becoming a


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member of a community that was either lax or inappropriate in any way. Butwhen I asked her how much interaction she had had with bhikkhunês, she admit-ted that she had had virtually none. She did not really know anything about thebhikkhunês of her country, had never spent time with any of them, and thus I canonly assume that her views were based on hearsay. However, she was also clearabout the fact that if the monks ever did officially recognise the bhikkhunêupasampada \, she would move in that direction. In other words, her faith restedon their shoulders. So long as the monks failed to believe in the process, sowould she.

Candra Silma\ta \, a non-ordained nun from a different part of the country,would have agreed with Sucitta in this regard. Candra began the interview byemphatically declaring that no significant differences existed between her lifeand the life of a bhikkhunê. She stated with conviction that upasampada \ was notthe means to awakening. What was important was liberation from the clutches ofsaüsa\ra, and reciting the pa\timokkha was not the way to get there.8 It was thereforevery clear in her mind that too much energy focused on institutionalisation wasa waste of time and that the women who were so eager to change the system weresomehow focusing on all the wrong questions. Indeed, during an emphatic speechabout the irrelevance of ordination, Sucitta concluded that silma\ta \s were spiritu-ally superior to bhikkhunês because silma\ta \s leave the world behind with moresincerity. They are not bothered by questions of outside recognition. And yet,just like Sucitta before her, Candra also admitted that if the monks ever didrecognise higher ordination for women, and thus if the government promised totake care of nuns and financially support them as they do the monks, she wouldfollow suit. In fact, she whispered near the end of one of our interviews that,before his death, her teacher instructed her to take upasampada\ when it becomesofficially recognised.

These women and many others I interviewed all seemed to be deeply im-pressed by the authority of the male monastic institution and were averse tochallenging it in any way. Social hierarchy is largely respected in Sri Lanka, andoverstepping it requires a spirit of conviction and rebellion many women didnot express. It requires, moreover, a great deal of courage as it may entail finan-cial repercussions. Although this was never stated to me directly, it was clear thatmany of the silma \ta\s faced significant economic difficulties – to the point that, aswe shall see below – some were left to fend for themselves with a life of home-lessness. Whatever financial support they did receive – and this varied from onecommunity to the next – was largely the product of lay people’s donations.There was therefore little security in these livelihoods (which I was repeatedlytold was not the case for the bhikkhus), and I suspect that for many of the silma\ta \s,challenging monastic authority carried with it the risk of losing the little bit oflay support they might have managed to procure. The ambiguity expressed bymany of the silma \ta\s interviewed was surely a result of such conflicting realities


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and social concerns, and thus was not limited to philosophical leanings. Morestriking than this ambiguity, however, was the consistent assumption made bynearly all of the silma\ta\s interviewed that the source for all the problems withupasampada \ was to be found in the women taking it. Silma \ta\s consistently andunabashedly condemned the bhikkhunês of their country during our interviews,all the while admitting their interest in the process should the government recog-nise it. There was something disturbingly misogynistic about this. Buddhism hashad to contend with misogyny throughout its history – as have all religioustraditions – and as Janet Gyatso (2005) recently noted, this misogyny has seepedinto female monastic institutions and has been consciously or not, integratedinto monastic mores and customs with tangible effects. It is this very misogyny(or androcentrism) that propelled Rita Gross into the field of Feminist Studiesand led her to become one of the great pioneers of the field. It was therefore notsurprising to encounter such views in this context, but it was difficult to hearnonetheless.

Another example of this female-focused condemnation emerged from thecritiques many of the silma\ta\s made about the rules and regulations bhikkhunêswere believed to be plagued by. Silma \ta\s live according to ten simple precepts,while higher ordination requires 301 more. Silma \ta \s all over the island consist-ently emphasised the merits of a simpler lifestyle, insisting that too many ruleshinder meditation practice.9 Remembering hundreds of rules and abiding bythem faithfully is obviously not the right path for everyone,10 but the consistentlack of reference made to male monks in this regard was noteworthy to say theleast. None of the silma\ta\s interviewed expressed concern that the men mighthave a hard time with the many rules imposed. Although I did not pursue thisquestion in my interviews, I suspect that most of the silma\ta \s had faith that mencould manage monasticism with greater ease. Women, on the other hand, wereassumed to probably be less capable. Although this paper cannot address theissue here, it is likely that a connection exists between these views and thepredominant Buddhist prejudice concerning women and their inferior karma.11

Darsanê Silma\ta \, a bright and energetic 25 year-old, was particularly vocalwith regard to male-female dynamics and monasticism. She was adopted by herteacher Daya when she was a young child after her father died and her motherbecame mentally unstable. The teacher and disciple lived together like motherand daughter in a gentle and affectionate home – a good example of the shadesof grey available to silma\ta\s. Like Sumedha Silma\ta \, Daya was not overly inter-ested in issues of higher ordination, but her young apprentice certainly was.Darsani had very strong feelings against the ordination process, but unlike theother silma\ta \s I have referred to here, this was not out of deference to the monks.In fact, it was quite the opposite actually. First of all, Darsanê was absolutelyconvinced that the rules a bhikkhunê was expected to follow are overwhelming.She believed that a nun could not even extend her right arm without breaking


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a precept. She insisted on this point, continually extending and retracting herright arm for effect. She believed that nuns are imprisoned by their rules and cando nothing for themselves. She passionately argued that they could not sweepthe floor lest they kill a bug, nor can they pick flowers for påja\. They could notcook or clean for themselves, and thus require the world to cater to them. Darsanêwas committed to this view. She did not trust bhikkhunês and certainly did notwant to become one of them (again, despite the fact that she did not know anybhkkhunês directly). She also spoke with conviction against the monks and re-fused to have to answer to them. As a silma \ta\, she felt free to do and practice asshe desired with only Daya to answer to – a woman she obviously loved andtrusted implicitly. But if she were to take ordination, she would have to bow toa monastic institution she had no interest in. She would, in her view, have toconfess to the monks and scrape to the floor every time she approached one.Darsanê was the only silma\ta\ I spoke with who demonstrated such strong viewsagainst the monks and their establishment. Bartholomeusz (1994) seems to haveencountered such opposition regularly in her interviews, but in my work, Darsanêalone was willing to speak against the monks so intensely and was proud to befree of them. Her misconceptions about the bhikkhunês and their limitations,however, were unfortunate. She, along with many other silma\ta\s, had somehowbeen given the impression that bhikkhunês had little to offer. All of the silma\ta \sadmitted that they had virtually no contact with bhikkhunês, and yet they wereconsistently convinced that bhikkhunês were a disappointment and a disgrace. Imust add, however, that Darsanê’s conviction was probably also motivated, atleast in part, by a love for her teacher. Daya meant the world to her, and I believeshe could not imagine living without her. Were she to take higher ordination,she would most likely be expected to leave Daya behind. Cheng (2007) en-countered this issue as well, and reported that many elderly silma\ta\s were con-cerned that if their young disciples took upasampada \, they would eventuallycome to despise them and move away. This was something Darsanê was notprepared to do so long as her teacher was alive. Nevertheless, the fact that shefelt justified couching her decision in misogynistic assumptions about thebhikkhunês reveals an intriguing feature of the social and political climate of thesilma\ta\ experience.

The most extreme views concerning ordination came from a Western silma \ta\named Sama\dhi who had taken the robes four years earlier. She lived in a medi-tation center in the forest under the care of the monks. This is a highly unortho-dox situation for both the monks and for her, as the Vinaya is explicit againstmonks and nuns living in such close proximity. Sama \dhi Silma\ta \ felt that theupasampada\ taken by Sri Lankan bhikkhunês was glaringly illegitimate. She wouldrather wait as a silma \ta \ for Buddha Metteyya to appear and revive the bhikkhunêsa \sana properly. I asked her why she thought the lineage disappeared in the firstplace and she explained that it was because women were “cruel, dangerous and


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manipulative.” Indeed, that is why the Buddha hesitated before giving themordination. He knew how difficult women were and did not want them in hiscommunity. I invited two Sri Lankan silma\ta \s to partake in this interview, as theywere eager to meet a Western silma \ta\. Although they made great efforts to bemindful of their speech, they were even more shocked by her responses than Iwas (which was confirmed with me later in private). Before we began the inter-view with Sama \dhi, she asked us to obtain formal permission from the chiefmonk of the center (the kind of situation Darsanê was rebelling against). Weagreed, kneeled before him together and the Sri Lankan silma\ta\s reverently madeour request. After hearing about my research and intentions, he reluctantly agreed.My interpreter explained to me afterward, however, that just before we stood todepart, he reprimanded the silma \ta\s before him for even broaching the issue ofhigher ordination. He scolded them for their interest in the matter and urgedthem against ever taking it. My interpreter was offended by his manner, but thesilma\ta\s said nothing to me. Sama\dhi’s views against the process were obviouslyinfluenced by the views of a teacher she venerated deeply. Women, she be-lieved, were not to take the robes until the next Buddha in line made his appear-ance. Clearly, institutionalised monasticism was currently inappropriate for womenand that the most women could hope for was to sit at the feet of the much morefortunate men.

For all of the above silma \ta\s, and many more, ordination was a question to benegotiated seriously. Whether they were quietly considering it or believed it tobe thoroughly inappropriate, bhikkhunê upasampada \ was on their minds. But formany others, ordination was thoroughly irrelevant. Bodhimitta Silma\ta\, for ex-ample, lived in a world all her own where ordination meant nothing. She was ahousewife and mother before she became a silma\ta\ and she remained a house-holder after too. She lived at home with her children and their families – some-thing that directly contradicts the concept of renunciation for most. She worethe orange robes and shaved her head, but slept at home at night in the very bedshe shared with her husband while he was alive, surrounded by her family mem-bers. For Bodhimitta, renunciation was not a philosophical pursuit. She did nottake the robes as a result of any kind of insight or realisation about humansuffering. Rather, renunciation was, for her, a command given from above: ananonymous god appeared to her in her dreams and insisted she become a silma \ta\.Her husband was unfortunately opposed to her renunciation. Consequently, ac-cording to her interpretation of the events, her anonymous god eliminated himfrom the equation - he was caught making an illegal purchase and was sent toprison. Bodhimitta was thus free to embark upon the journey she was beinginstructed to take, which began with a vow to perform the fire walk annually ata local festival for the next 21 years. When her husband returned from jail manyyears later, the couple discovered that they had even less in common than be-fore. They fought often and he eventually committed suicide by hanging himself


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in their home. Bodhimitta insisted that this event did not cause her any sense ofloss or suffering. He opposed her renunciation and, in her view, was punishedaccordingly by the gods above. From that day forward, Bodhimitta was free tolive a life of renunciation at home, which in her books primarily involvedchanneling gods and the spirits of the dead for her clients. She did not seem toknow very much about Buddhism and certainly did not ascribe to the popularWestern misconception of Buddhism functioning exclusively as a philosophy.For her, Buddhism was first and foremost an issue of exorcism and deity appease-ment.

When I initially approached Bodhimitta, she assumed I was there for herservices. She immediately spoke to me of a dead grandfather who was the causebehind my financial difficulties. I explained that I had no financial problems.She then assumed I was there for help with an angry husband, but I promised herthat my husband was by no means an angry man. It took her quite some time torelease herself of her channeling habits and realise that I was there to ask herquestions. But even after she settled down for the interview, she continued tospeak in circles invoking gods and goddesses, and explaining the world in termsof the celestial characters she was surrounded by in her imagination. Bodhimittawas a fascinating woman who lived in the world and yet was uninterested by it.She was a householder and a nun all at once. She was practical and involved inher community, took care of her home and her family members, and at the sametime lived in a cosmic universe that only she could see. Bodhimitta was very farfrom the classical image of a Buddhist nun and served as a good reminder thatBuddhism cannot be essentialised as a purely philosophical pursuit. Ordinationand monastic recognition were completely dismissed by her as beside the point.

Homeless silma\ta\s were similarly uninterested in the subject. I came acrosssuch women all over Sri Lanka, but predominantly in Kataragama andAnura\dhapura. These women roam about the island without a roof to call theirown. They are, in fact, to all intents and purposes, the most extreme renunciantsI encountered during my research, for they had renounced everything withoutexception. The only difference between them and the Buddhist ideal was thatthe world around them had renounced them back. I spent a few days with agroup of homeless silma\ta\s living beneath Sri Maha\bodhi in Anura\dhapura. Thesewomen seemed to know very little about Buddhism and were more often hungrythan concerned with the politics of ordination. They seemed to have a profounddevotional practice, but could barely function much of the time for lack of foodor support. I never even asked them about upasampada \ as it did not seem appro-priate. The little shack they once lived in just outside Sri Maha\bodhi was bull-dozed a few years earlier by the chief monk of the area and they were stillwaiting for him to fulfill his promise of rebuilding it. This was a much moreimportant topic for them than ordination, as they faced sleeping outside beneaththe trees every night where rape was a concern, not even permitted to remain


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within the safe walls of Sri Maha\bodhi after 10 pm (while he, so I was told bynumerous people in the area, lived in palatial comfort and provided lay donorswith dana menus). These women shared everything together – a common hunger,daily fears and insecurities, and for some, a painful history. One silma\ta\, for ex-ample, took the robes after her husband tried to kill her. She ran away and chosethe life of a wandering silma\ta \ as her only realistic alternative. When I asked herwhy she did not join a a\rama, her answer was that she did not have any money tomake an entry offering, and thus was condemned to a life of homelessness due toher poverty. Another silma\ta\ was widowed at a very young age and renouncedthe world when no other option presented itself.12 She provided me with thesame financial explanation about why she had not joined a a\rama. I was told ofother silma\ta \s with similar tales, although one in particular proudly distinguishedherself from her companions in this regard: she claimed to have become a silma\ta\when she was fifteen for religious reasons and chose her life of homelessnessspecifically, and not because she had nowhere else to go. According to hercalculations, she was at the time of the interview eighty years old.

Despite their homelessness and perhaps even mental instability in some cases,it was clear that these women shared a very intense devotion for the tree underwhich they lived. They all repeatedly proclaimed that, despite their sufferingand hunger, they felt proud and honored to live by the tree of the Buddha’sawakening. They insisted that their suffering paled in comparison with the joythey felt for being able to remain so close to it, and affirmed, repeatedly, thatthey were in fact living very much as the Buddha had lived: wandering and free.The homeless silma\ta \s were a paradox: on the one hand, they were a tragedy ofSri Lankan Buddhism, and yet on the other, they were inspiring. I could not helpbut notice that, in my time on the island, I never came across a seemingly similarhomeless monk.

Near the end of my work in Sri Lanka, and after having spoken with manysilma\ta\s and heard their views and complaints about ordination, I realised I neededto speak with bhikkhunês as well. I did not have enough time to interview many,but I spoke with three and hope to return to the island soon to continue thediscussion. I wanted to understand what they knew about the silma\ta\s of theircountry – presumably they had each been one before they went forth into higherordination – and why they thought they were being so vilified by them. One ofthe bhikkhunês had never even noticed the homeless silma\ta\s before, but theothers were well aware of them (as were most Sri Lankans I encountered) andthey all repeatedly insisted that they were crazy or at the very least “not realsilma \ta\s”, and that I should not waste my time with them. Many laypeople inAnura\dhapura were concerned that they gave the “real silma \ta\s” of their commu-nity a bad name. The security guards at Sri Maha\bodhi grew increasingly un-comfortable with my visits there. They kept trying to re-direct me to “bettersubjects” for my research. Eventually, the ones I was working with disappeared


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from the site and it was impossible to find them again. When I asked the guardswhere they had gone to, they told me that they never stay long in the same placeand had probably moved along to another area. I could not help but wonder ifthey were not in fact “invited to leave” instead. It was all quite suspicious, but Iwill never know for sure.

As for the other silma\ta\s and their views of the process, the bhikkhunês I spokewith were not entirely taken aback. They were surprised to hear misconceptionssuch as the notion that bhikkhunês could not sweep the floor or pick flowers, orthat the precepts would impede their progress in meditation and were concernedabout where these views were coming from. But they seemed to have expectedcriticisms concerning their life-choice. One bhikkhunê argued that silma\ta\s are,overall, largely uneducated and ignorant women. She was therefore not surprisedto discover how misconstrued their views were. This issue of education was asore one, as all of the silma\ta \s I encountered – except for Bodhimitta and thehomeless ones – made a point of their education. Sumedha Silma \ta \ introducedme to one of her nuns who was a schoolteacher and emphasised the importanceof education in her a \rama. Daya Silma\ta\ proudly showed me the governmentscholarship Darsanê was awarded for academic excellence. In a government-spon-sored a\rama, the silma\ta\s functioned as the primary educators of the village, teachingclasses for both children and adults alike. Education was an important point inall of these encounters, and the insistence on it by the silma \ta\s revealed howsensitive they were to the charge of their ignorance. And yet, as knowledgeableas they were, their misconceptions about ordination were glaring.13

According to the bhikkhunês interviewed, the sooner silma \ta\s become prop-erly educated the sooner they will realise their mistakes and pursue higher ordi-nation. I suggested that perhaps some of the silma \ta\s will choose to stay outsidethe institution even after it is formally recognised and they become “properlyeducated,” but they all disagreed with me emphatically. One bhikkhunê told methat, once ordination is legitimated and all silma\ta\s are granted an appropriateunderstanding of the process and the precepts they would be expected to follow,all of the silma\ta\s would take upasampada \. The ones who refuse will simplydisappear into the pages of history. In other words, in the very near future, oneway or another, silma \ta\s will no longer exist on the island of Sri Lanka. Theyhave no place in Buddhism, as they are not a category the Buddha envisioned,and thus they will duly evaporate as the feminist embarrassment they are. It didnot appear to occur to these bhikkhunês that some silma\ta\s may in fact, enjoyliving outside social boundaries rather than within them despite their collectivepoverty and lack of recognition.

The question of female ordination in Sri Lanka is not a simple one. Answerswere shaped by a variety of issues, not all of which were philosophical or reli-gious in nature. Financial and social considerations played a significant role, asdid relationships with teachers and the lay community. These layers of motiva-


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tion also seemed to contribute to the conclusions each had drawn concerningthe alternative. The few bhikkhunês I interviewed felt very strongly about thephilosophical and religious “rightness” of their decision to take higher ordina-tion. I do not think it would be an exaggeration to suggest that they were zealousin this regard, championing their position as one of liberation from the confinesof a patriarchal system that the others remained pathetically shackled to. It wasalso clear to me from those interviews, however, that a certain element of ur-gency lay behind their conviction: strength is to be found in numbers. So long asthe majority of silma\ta \s refuse to join the ranks, the ordination movement forwomen remains vulnerable. Silma \ta\s on the other hand seemed at least, to somedegree, threatened by the bhikhhunês because they took steps that might under-mine their own practice and life of renunciation. Bhikkhunês also displayed cour-age and independence which I suspect triggered some emotional response as aresult. If more silma\ta \s walk away from their unrecognised status and choose a lifeof formal ordination instead, the pressure to follow suit will become stronger andit will become more difficult to criticise the movement and its participants fromthe safety of unordained walls. All of these concerns, and surely many more,were brimming beneath the surface when they considered the question of higherordination. And I would be remiss not to suspect that there were even morelayers behind their answers that I was not able to see.

The female renunciants of Sri Lanka are currently facing a tremendous chal-lenge as they are being asked to position themselves along political, social andreligious lines with a variety of consequences awaiting them on the other side.For some of the women, the answer was clear and had to do with religious truth.But for most others, the answer was steeped in uncertainty and ambiguity, as theyfaced potential risks that they may or may not be prepared to take. For manyothers still, the question was irrelevant. For the homeless silma\ta\s and the inde-pendent Bodhimitta, the politics of higher ordination were too far from theirreality to consider. The homeless silma\ta\s were barely surviving, and when sur-vival is at stake, theory is meaningless. However, as Janet Gyatso recently pointedout to me, if the homeless silma\ta\s join their bhikkhunê sisters, they just might findthe clout they are missing to demand that the shack that was bulldozed by thechief monk of the area be rebuilt.14

The support of the Department of Biblical and Religious Study at the University ofthe Free State, Bloemfontein, South Africa where I was a Research Fellow, is grate-fully acknowledged.


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Notes1 For discussions about the historical disappearance of nuns in Sri Lanka, see R. A. L.

H. Gunawardana (1979: 37-39; 1988) and T. Bartholomeusz (1994: 18-22). For adiscussion of nuns in India, see A. Sharma (1978) and for a discussion of theirdisappearance, see N. Auer Falk (1980).

2 The male monastic lineage of Sri Lanka was not, however, untouched by the ravagesof history. It went through multiple phases throughout its history, and changescontinue to this day. For a discussion of this history, see H. Bechert (1970).

3 For an excellent survey of the British response to Buddhism during this period, seeElizabeth J. Harris’ most recent work, Therava \da Buddhism and the British Encounter(2006).

4 According to De Silva (2004) in a written article, there are approximately 4000silma\ta\s on the island. When I interviewed her, however, she suggested that therewere only 3000. It is unlikely that the numbers dropped so radically in such a shorttime. A few years earlier, Salgado (2000) also claimed that there were only about3000, as did Goonatilake (1997). During my time in 2004 in Sri Lanka, I attemptedto obtain the official numbers from government offices in Colombo, but to no avail.

5 For a history of the development of silma\ta\s in Sri Lanka, see T. Bartholomeusz(1994), L. W. Bloss (1987), and R. Gombrich and G. Obeyesekere (1988).

6 Numerous arguments have been put forth in recent years concerning the legitimacy ofreclaiming ordination for women in a Therava\da context. See for example, C. Kabilisingh(1988) and K. Devendra (1988). Most recently, see also W. Cheng, (2007).

7 For description of this event, see R. De Silva (2004). For a description of the 1998ordination ceremony in Bodhgaya, see Y. Li (2000).

8 This viewed was also reflected in Elizabeth J. Harris’ work (1997: 100).

9 Bloss encountered the same response (1987: 19).

10 This is a view Bartholomeusz (1994: 136-37) encountered repeatedly as well.

11 Wei-Yi Cheng addresses this issue at some length in her book (2007: 57-68).

12 This was the first time I heard of such “entry offerings” and, unfortunately, I couldnot pursue the subject with the non-homeless silma\ta\s during my stay. This is aquestion, however, that I would like to pursue upon my return.

13 For further reference to their general lack of education, see Karma Lekshe Tsomo(1999) and Cheng (2007) suggests that, although silma \ta\s may have been largelyuneducated in the 80s and 90s, the situation has improved since then.

14 I gave a version of this paper at the Annual South Asia Conference in 2006, andthis was part of Janet Gyatso’s response. I thank her again for this comment andinsight.


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Works CitedAuer Falk, N. 1980. “The Case of the Vanishing Nuns: The Fruits of Ambiva-

lence in Ancient Buddhism.” In Unspoken Worlds: Women’s Religious Lives inNon-Western Cultures, pp. 206-24. Edited by R. Gross and N. Auer Falk.New York: Harper & Row.

Bartholomeusz, T. 1994. Women Under the Bº Tree. Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-versity Press.

Bechert, H. 1970. “Therava \da Buddhist Sangha: Some General Observations onHistorical and Political Factors in its Development.” The Journal of AsianStudies 29, pp. 761-78.

Bloss, L. W. 1987. “The Female Renunciants of Sri Lanka: The Dasasilmattawa.”Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 10, pp. 7-31.

Cheng, W. 2007. Buddhist Nuns in Taiwan and Sri Lanka: A Critique of the Femi-nist Perspective. New York: Routledge.

De Silva, R. 2004. “Reclaiming the Robe: Reviving the Bhikkhunê Order in SriLanka.” In Buddhist Women and Social Justice: Ideals, Challenges and Achieve-ments, pp. 119-135. Edited by Karma Lekshe Tsomo. New York: SUNY.

Devendra, K. 1988. “Establishment of the Order of Buddhist Nuns and its Devel-opment in Sri Lanka.” In Sakaydhêta\: Daughters of the Buddha, pp. 258-66.Edited by Karma Lekshe Tsomo. Ithaca: Snow Lion.

Gombrich, R. and G. Obeyesekere. 1988. Buddhism Transformed: Religious Changein Sri Lanka. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Goonatilake, H. 1997. “Buddhist Nuns: Protests, Struggle, and the Reinterpreta-tion of Orthodoxy in Sri Lanka.” In Mixed Blessings: Gender and ReligiousFundamentalism Cross Culturally, pp. 25-39. Edited by J. Brink and J. Mencher.New York: Routledge.

Gross, R. 1993. Buddhism After Patriarchy: A Feminist History, Analysis, and Re-construction of Buddhism. New York: SUNY.

Gunawardana, R. A. L. H. 1988. “Subtile Silks of Ferreous Firmness: BuddhistNuns in Ancient and Early Medieval Sri Lanka and Their Role in the Propa-gation of Buddhism.” Sri Lanka Journal of Humanities 14, pp. 1-59

Gunawardana, R. A. L. H. 1979. Robe and Plough: Monasticism and EconomicInterest in Early Medieval Sri Lanka. Arizona: University of Arizona Press.

Gyatso, J. 2005. “Introduction” in Women in Tibet, pp. 1-25. Edited by J. Gyatsoand H. Havnevik. New York: Columbia University Press.

Harris, E. J. 1997. “Reclaiming the Sacred: Buddhist Women in Sri Lanka.”Feminist Theology 15, pp. 83-111

Harris, E. J. 2006. Therava\da Buddhism and the British Encounter: Religious, Mis-sionary and Colonial Experience in Nineteenth Century Sri Lanka. London:Routledge.

Kabilisingh, C. 1988. “The Role of Women in Buddhism.” In Sakaydhêta\: Daugh-ters of the Buddha, pp. 225-35. Edited by Karma Lekshe Tsomo. Ithaca: SnowLion.

Karma Lekshe Tsomo. 1999. “Maha \praja \patê’s Legacy: The Buddhist Women’sMovement.” In Buddhist Women Across Cultures: Realizations, pp. 1-44. Ed-ited by Karma Lekshe Tsomo. New York: SUNY.

Karma Lekshe Tsomo. 1988. “Prospects for an International Bhikùunê Sangha.”


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In Sakaydhêta \: Daughters of the Buddha, pp. 236-57. Edited by Karma LeksheTsomo. Ithaca: Snow Lion.

Li, Y. 2000. “Ordination, Legitimacy, and Sisterhood: The International FullOrdination Ceremony in Bodhgaya.” In Innovative Buddhist Women: Swim-ming Against the Stream, pp. 168-98. Edited by Karma Lekshe Tsomo. Rich-mond: Curzon.

Salgado, N. 2004. “Religious Identities of Buddhist Nuns: Training Precepts,Renunciant Attire, and Nomenclature in Therava\da Buddhism.” Journal ofthe American Academy of Religion 72, 4, pp. 935-53.

Salgado, N. 2000. “Unity and Diversity Among Buddhist Nuns in Sri Lanka.” InInnovative Buddhist Women: Swimming Against the Stream, pp. 30-41. Editedby Karma Lekshe Tsomo. Richmond: Curzon.

Sharma, A. 1978. “How and Why Did the Women of in Ancient India BecomeBuddhist Nuns?” Sociological Analysis 38, pp. 239-51.


Religious Beliefs and Responsibility Attributionsfor Industrial Accidents among Ghanaian Workers

Seth Ayim GyekyeUniversity of Helsinki

Simo SalminenFinnish Institute of Occupational Health

AbstractThe study reported here explored the possible influences of workers’religious beliefs on causal attributions and responsibility assignment inthe work environment. Ghanaian industrial workers affiliated to threemain religious groups (Christianity, Islam, and Traditional African Reli-gion) and who were victims and witnesses of industrial accidents, as-signed causality and responsibility for the misfortune. Their responseswere compared. The major finding was an association between religiousaffiliation and accident responsibility assignment. It was noted that workersaffiliated with Islam and Traditional African religions, more than theirChristian counterparts, tended to emphasise spiritual influence on acci-dent causality and responsibility. Correspondingly, they also offered morecontextual and external attributions. This observation seems to reflectthe fatalistic belief that industrial accidents are beyond human controland occur with inevitability. The study was done within the context ofthe Self-defensive Attribution Hypothesis. The substantial growing in-terest in diversity management in workplaces makes addressing topicson the impact of workers’ religious orientations on organizational be-haviours an essential study.


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IntroductionAttribution theory basically deals with how people explain their social worldand its many phenomena, and conceptualises their causality and responsibilityassignment as either logical or biased. According to the literature on causalattribution and accidents, attributional distortions are quite common in noveland ambiguous situations (Wong & Weiner, 1981) such as occurrences in indus-trial accidents (DeJoy, 1994; Turner & Pidgeon, 1997). As industrial accidentstend to afford fertile grounds for causal and responsibility attributional distor-tions, the work environment seems to be the appropriate domain to examineevidence of these biases and distortions. An example of such attributional dis-tortion occurs when people make use of self-protective mechanisms to projectblame for their personal failures onto external circumstances. This has beenlabelled the Self-defensive Attribution Hypothesis (Shaver, 1970; Walster, 1966).The defensive attribution hypothesis has been confirmed in laboratory studies(see Chaikin & Darley, 1973) and received empirical support from workplaceresearch (Gyekye, 2001; Gyekye & Salminen, 2004; Kouabenan et al., 2001).

Religious Beliefs and Social BehaviourReligion plays an essential role in human meaning system by providing a frameof reference for interpreting a whole range of experiences. For example, a per-son’s religious beliefs impact on his/her personal response to illness, tragedies,accidents and misfortunes. This relationship between religious beliefs and hu-man behaviour has intrigued both the earlier (see Allport, 1953; Durkheim,1951; James, 1902) and contemporary (see Chatters, 2000; Levin, 1997; Levin& Chatters, 1998) researchers in the psychology of religion. By using religiousbeliefs as a framework, researchers have examined and found different personal-ity constructs for adults (Wade & Kirkpatrick, 2002), as well as important linksbetween people’s socio-religious beliefs and their attitudes and behaviour (Levin,1997; Weaver & Agle, 2002). In corroboration with these findings, researcherson the sociology of religion (Ajzen, 1996; Chatters, 2000; Levin, 1997; Levin &Chatters, 1998; Kenworthy, 2003) have all noted that belief in God plays acausal or explanatory role in human behaviour.

Remarking on the applicability of attribution concepts to the psychology ofreligion, Spilka et al. (1985) have noted that attributional activity consists, inpart, of an individual’s attempt to understand events and interpret them in termsof some broad meaning-belief system. According to these experts, most peoplehave at their disposal three separate explanatory systems: (i) a set of naturalisticor secular schemas, and (ii) a set of religious schemas (e.g., God, Satan, evilactivities) or (iii) to some combination of these two factors, which may or maynot be used in a mutually exclusive manner.

RELIGIOUS BELIEFS AND RESPONSIBILITY ATTRIBUTIONS

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The Current StudyDespite the relevance of religion and its influence on several aspects of socialbehaviour, studies on attribution processes, biases, and distortions have typicallybeen limited to explanations of social behaviour outside the work environment(see Kenworthy, 2003; Weeks & Lupfer, 2000). In effect, socio-religious beliefsthat relate to fatalism, determinism, and beliefs about accident causality, whichall play a central role in attribution theory have therefore not been adequatelyinvestigated. To the degree that belief in God and the supernatural play a causalor explanatory role in behaviour, they necessitate an exploratory examination inaccident causality and responsibility assignment. The current study was thus de-signed to fill in the paucity. Consequently, it examines how religious beliefs, asdimensions of socio-cultural values, are related to the assignment of causalityand responsibility for industrial accidents among Ghanaian industrial workers.Specifically, (i) it compares causality attributions for accident occurrence be-tween workers affiliated with Christianity, Islam and African Traditional Reli-gions and (ii) their accident frequency.

Religiosity in GhanaReligion permeates all aspects of African life and thought. There is no di-chotomy between religion and society in Africa. Religion is therefore an essen-tial tool for understanding and appreciating the behaviour and lifestyle of Africanpeoples. Religion is thus such an integral part of life and culture among Ghana-ians that 98% claim belonging to a religious denomination, and 82% professingregular attendance to churches, mosques and shrines (Gallup International, 2000).Research that has examined the relationship between religion and various as-pects of social behaviour among Ghanaians has found religion to be a signifi-cant predictor of behaviour change: for example, studies indicate a closeassociation between religious affiliation and knowledge of H.I.V. Aids (Takyi,2003), contraceptive use (Addai, 2000) and family planning (Takyi & Addai,2002).

The three main religious groups are Christianity, Islam and Traditional Afri-can Religions. Official figures released by Ghana Statistical Services in 2000puts Christians at 67%, Muslims 18%, Traditionalists 10%, and people of otherand no religions at 5%. All three religious groups have identical religiouslybased views on work. Work-related values among Christians (better known asThe Protestant Work Ethic - PWE) and Muslims (The Islamic Work Ethic - IWE)tend to emphasise hard work, integrity, responsibility, fairness, accountability,commitment and dedication to work (Ali, 1992; Baguma & Furnham, 1993;Weber, 1930; Yousef, 2001). Workers with strong religious convictions haveconsidered work as a vocation and ultimately, an explicit part of their religiousrole identity (Davidson & Caddel. 1994; Hafsi, 1987). Despite the observed


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close association between religious involvement and the centrality of work, re-search on the impact of religious beliefs in the work environment is relativelysparse. The link between workers’ religiosity and causality attributions has drawnlittle interest, and no study was found on the relationship with responsibilityassignment for workplace accidents. The current study was thus designed to fillthe gap.

Hypothesis and MethodologyGiven the lack of empirical research on the association between workers’ religi-osity and causality attributions, no formal research hypothesis was offered. Thecurrent study is part of a larger empirical study that examined the causal andresponsibility attributions for industrial accidents in Ghana’s work environment(Gyekye, 2001). The participants were actual victims, witnesses and supervisorsinvolved in workplace accidents, and comprised 320 Ghanaian industrial work-ers from mines and factories. Of these, 120 were accident victims, 118 witnesses(or co-workers) and 82 supervisors. Their average ages were as follows: accidentvictims 37 years (std = 9.71), witnesses (co-workers) 35 years (std = 8.22), andsupervisors 44 years (std = 6.80). A general profile of the sample is presented inTable 1. The main observation is that the distribution in the subgroups and theoverall group was similar, with Christianity being the predominant religion.

Table 1 Religious Distribution of the Participants

*A small group of religious adherents (Buddhists, Shintos and atheists)who do not fit into the three main groups

All accident victims and supervisors were men, whereas 14% of the witnesses(co-workers) were women. To ensure the accident severity dimension that iscrucially needed in self-defensive attributions (Kouabenan et al., 2001; Shaver,1970), all reported cases in this study were among those classified as serious bythe Factories and Mines Inspectorates. Temporary injuries in which victims wereabsent for less than 3 days of work activity were thus excluded from the data. Toencourage forthrightness, the participants were assured that their responses wouldbe handled confidentially and that their organisations would have no access toany information provided. To elicit a fair recall of the accident process, indus-


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trial workers who had been involved in, or witnessed, accident occurrences lessthan 18 months before the research study were selected as respondents.

A structured questionnaire was used in the assessment. Participants respondedto the questionnaire interview during lunch breaks. It consisted of 30 questionswith a five-point response format (1 = Very little to 5 = Very much). These werecausal explanations generated for the accident occurrence, and classified as fac-tors reflecting the dispositional qualities of the accident victims (internal fac-tors), or those of the situational and environmental factors (external factors). Ineffect, all attributions for the accident process were coded as being either inter-nal or external. This allowed the respondents to rate their attributions alongdimensions of external and internal causality factors.

The questionnaire was presented in English. Where respondents were illiter-ate or semi-illiterate and had problems understanding English, the services of aninterpreter were sought and the local dialect was used. The duration varied from15 to 20 minutes, depending on the context in which they were conducted, andon respondents’ level of education. The supervisors were educationally soundand filled in the questionnaire on their own. To ensure accuracy of responses, itwas emphasised that the study was solely for academic purposes and that noperson affiliated with their organisation was in any way involved. Due to thenature of the study, special interest was paid to the participants’ perception ofthe role of supernatural manifestations in the accident occurrence. The internalcoherence and reliability of the External and Internal Causal Scales was testedwith Cronbach’s alpha coefficient. Acceptable coefficients of .89 and .79 wereobtained for the External and Internal causal factors respectively, indicatinghigh inter-item consistency.

Three sets of statistical analyses were employed. First, to assess the partici-pants’ perception of sorcery and witchcraft on the accident occurrence, the re-sponses to two questions that implicated supernatural manifestations for theaccident occurrence were assessed:· Accident victim was a victim of some curse/spell/witchcraft;· Accident victim was a victim of religious beliefs (invincibility from harm).

One-way analysis of variance (ANOVA) and Chi-square test (c²) were cal-culated to assess the workers’ perceptions of supernatural influences on the acci-dent process. It was expected that participants representing a religion that stressesfatalism would place more emphasis on the influence of the supernatural (witch-craft and sorcery) as causal factors. The next step in the statistical analyses in-volved an assessment of the participants’ responsibility assignment for the accidentoccurrence. Responsibility assignment was explored by analysing the partici-pants’ responses to the Responsibility Question: “Who/what do you hold responsi-ble for the accident occurrence?”

The Chi-square test (c²) was used to test for statistically significant differ-ences among the three religious groups’ responsibility attribution. It was antici-


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pated that fatalistically-oriented participants with their high perception of therole of non-personal factors as causal agents would attribute more to Nobody.The final part involved a follow-up analysis that assessed the degree to whichthese three categories of workers evaluated preventive measures. The analysiswas based on the percentile scores of the participants’ responses to the question:”What improvements in occupational safety measures at the workplace could beeffected to curtail the recurrence of such accidents?”

Response alternatives were:(a) Machines & appliances(b) Organisation & distribution of duties(c) Workers’ orientation programmes(d) Workers – management relationship(e) Other, specify.It was anticipated that workers who were fatalistically oriented would tend

to see accident prevention methods more in non-personal factors than as per-sonal responsibilities.

ResultsTable 2 shows the means and standard deviations of workers affiliated with thethree major religious groups. The total scores for the Internal scale was (mean34.01 and standard deviation 5.99), and for the External scale (mean 49.87 andstandard deviation 7.62), respectively. That the workers’ religious beliefs had aneffect on their causality and responsibility attributions is evidenced by the factthat among the 30 causality factors, attributional differences of statistical signifi-cance were recorded only for two items that had spiritual implications for theaccident occurrence. They were by victims: curse/spell/witchcraft (f(3,92) = 13.31,p<.0001), and religious beliefs (f(3,91) = 13.38, p<.0001), and by witnesses:curse/spell/witchcraft (f(3,79) = 3.25, p<.0001), and religious beliefs (f(3,80) = 2.98,p<.0001), and by supervisors: curse/spell/witchcraft (f(3,71) = 2.96, p<.0001), andreligious beliefs (f(3,71) = 5.40, p<.0001). Traditionalists made the highest attri-butions, followed by their counterparts with Islamic and Christian backgrounds.


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Table 2

Further analyses of spiritual influences and the role of supernatural forces in theaccident process confirmed this observation. Chi-square calculation indicatedthat the Traditionalists and the Muslims, more than their Christian counterparts,significantly considered the accident process as having been caused by somesupernatural forces, e.g. curses, spells, witchcraft (c² = 64.77, df = 6, p<.001).Workers’ belief in immunity and invincibility from harm and danger was alsoevidenced (c² = 57.59, df = 6, p<.001). The Traditionalists and Muslims be-lieved that the accident could have been avoided if the victims protected them-selves spiritually. 58% of Traditionalists and 47% of their Muslim counterpartsheld this view. By contrast, relatively few Christian workers (10%) believed inthis form of spiritual immunity. These preliminary observations seem to suggestthat Traditionalists and workers affiliated with Islam seem to display fatalisticinclinations about accident occurrences.

Regarding responsibility assignment, the chi-square analysis pointed out astatistically significant association between religious affiliation and the assign-ment of responsibility for accidents (c² = 45.20, df = 3, p<.001). Traditionalistsand workers affiliated with Islam, more than their Christian counterparts, placedgreater emphasis on non-personal agents as responsible for the accident occur-


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rence. The difference on accident frequency was of statistical significance (f (3,298) = 7.82, p<.0001), and was highest among Traditionalists.

Table 3 showed the correlations between 15 external causal factors. Thehighest correlation coefficient was found between two religious factors: curse/spell/witchcraft and religious faith (r = .87). These factors were also significantlyconnected with low wages and religious faith with inadequate training.

DiscussionOverall, the functional character of religious beliefs and perceptions of accidentcausality are clearly visible in the current data. The major finding was an asso-ciation between religious affiliation and accident responsibility assignment. Thethree categories of workers clearly appeared to arrive at different interpretationsof the accident occurrence. While responsibility for the accident causality amongthe Christian workers seemed to be focused on negligent behaviour on the partof the workers that of Muslims and Traditionalists seemed to be focused onsupernatural influences and sorcery.

The main plausible explanation for this observation could be found in thevarying causal belief system in the differing socio-religious doctrines. Drawingfrom the theory of social cognition, these religious attributions are based on pre-existing causal theories or schemas (Fiske & Neuberg, 1990; Weeks & Lupfer,2000) which is consistent with the religious beliefs they adhere to. For Muslimsand Traditionalists, human activities are mostly controlled by mystical and spir-itual beings that govern the whole of reality. Islam and Traditional Africanreligious spirituality stress fatalism, determinism and belief in the immutabilityof human affairs: a belief that reflects the fatalistic and deterministic view thatevents occur with inevitability and are beyond human control. Causal explana-tions, therefore, especially regarding calamities such as the reported severe indus-trial accidents under study, are usually ascribed to spiritual and supernaturalpowers that are beyond human control (Fisher, 1998; Mbiti, 1990; Sarpong,1974) and therefore tend to carry a fatalistic connotation.

In addition to believing in a creator upon whom ultimately everything inthe universe depends, Traditionalists in particular also believe in deities andspirits to whom public cult is directed (Fisher, 1998; Mbiti, 1990). These godsand ancestral spirits demand worship and obedience from their subjects, and sonot infrequently, devotees go to shrines to propitiate them. In default of this, thespirits allegedly inflict punishment. It is therefore a common belief among thesepractitioners that people’s mischief, particularly those in defiance of taboos orpurification rituals, can call the wrath of the gods upon themselves. Thus, theTraditionalists, in particular, significantly perceived that the accident processwas a result of the victims’ disregard for their spiritual obligations. On the otherhand, when the religious obligations and rites have been performed, adherents


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Table 3


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are assured of spiritual guidance, protection and immunity from accidents. Be-cause these rituals are supposed to ward off danger and help devotees to copewith hazardous situations, the false sense of invincibility provokes one to ignoreor downplay safety precautions leading to risk-taking behaviour, which increasesaccident susceptibility. Consistent with this argument are studies on drivers’ be-haviours in the West African country of Ivory Coast (Kouabenan, 1998) andSouth Africa (Peltzer & Renner, 2003). The observation was that drivers withIslamic and Traditional backgrounds displayed superstitious attitudes and a highdegree of risk-taking behaviour, as they drove more recklessly, disregarded trafficsignals which subsequently increased their vulnerability to accidents.

A major theoretical approach that may also account for the disparity incausality assignment could be deduced from Rotter’s (1966) Internal and Exter-nal Locus of Control: the dimension that describes the extent to which individu-als believe that the outcomes of their actions are determined by either theiractual behaviour or by events beyond their control. While workers affiliatedwith the Christian faith were internally oriented, their Muslim and Traditionalistcounterparts were externally oriented. This explanation is plausible in view ofthe fact that the Muslims and Traditionalists were distinguished by causal attri-butions that implied a lack of control over events in the accident process. Intheir examination of 43 countries using the Rotter Scale, Smith, Trompenaarsand Dugan (1995) observed how a cluster of largely Christian nations was con-centrated along the internal dimension, while East Asian (Oriental) and othernon-Christian nations clustered around the external dimension. Consistent withtheir findings, the conception of internality and externality observed in thecurrent study may to some degree reflect the general attributions in many Chris-tian and non-Christian communities.

A plausible rationale for the regular use of supernatural and sorcery explana-tions by the Traditionalists and workers with Islamist backgrounds could lie inthe realm of defensive and rationalisation mechanisms. According to defensiveattribution theory, witchcraft and sorcery attributions function primarily to sat-isfy people’s need by buffering the psychological impact of negative and oruncontrollable life events (Shaffer, 1984). Because these supernatural forces andphenomena are considered to be awesomely powerful with dominion beyondhuman volitional control and domestication (De Latour, 1995), and are notsubject to normal natural laws, and therefore beyond verifiable measurement,sorcery and witchcraft attributions exonerated the Traditionalist and Muslimaccident perpetrators from responsibility and blame (Weiner, 1995).

Additionally, the observed causal explanations could have been made torestore meaningful belief systems after tragic workplace accidents. A particularlycommon remark noted during the fieldwork was that, it was within Allah’s willthat this should happen; for if Allah had not willed it, it couldn’t have happened. Thusthe accident victims devotedly considered their deprivation and lot as fair and


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just as they and felt that they had not been unjustly victimised. By contrast,while Christians credit God for good fortune and success, they hardly blame Godfor their calamities and misfortunes (Hovemyr, 1998). As noted by Furnham &Brown (1992), Muslims and Jews, followed by Christians, are more likely toendorse theological explanations for misfortunes and sufferings. This approachto rationalisation is consistent with Lerner’s (1980) Just World Theory: the beliefthat people get what they deserve, and deserve what they get. It not only helpssuch victims cope effectively with the psychological stress, but also provides anassurance that makes future catastrophic events endurable and manageable (Blaineet al., 1998; Pargement et al., 1992; Spilka et al., 1985).

Implications for Safety in the Work EnvironmentThe current findings have significant practical implications to workplace safetypersonnel and management, as the degree of workers’ perceptions of control overworkplace situations have great implications for safety-management policies (seeDeJoy 1994). Workers with external orientations may be more likely to downplaythe role of dispositional characteristics that implicate people in accident proc-esses and may therefore not perceive themselves or their actions as crucial inmaintaining safety in the work environment. Such an attitude might keep themfrom engaging in effective preventive practices, thereby endangering their livesand the lives of others. Safety officials might therefore need to pay extra atten-tion to their need for behavioural modifications.

The main limitation relates to the sample composition. The participantswere predominantly male. This is because men are more likely than women toengage in job roles that expose them to injuries and work hazards. The threat ofan adverse impact on accident causal explanations from women’s perspective isminimal, as men and women tend to display the same pattern of attributions(Robins et al., 1996). Notwithstanding, the current findings add to the body ofstudies that have established possible links between religious affiliation andsocial behaviour. Particularly, it is consistent with Spilka et al.’s (1985) attribu-tion theory for the psychology of religion wherein three basic ambitions tend tounderline devotee’s attributions: a sense of meaning, control over future out-comes, and preservation of self-esteem. Within the Ghanaian context, it is con-sistent with Takyi’s (2003) and Addai’s (2000) observations of an associationbetween religious affiliation and health-related behaviour. As this study is amongthe first in attempts to examine the impact of religious beliefs in organizationalbehaviours, additional investigations in this direction will be in order. Furthercomparative analyses involving workers with religious affiliations and those with-out any affiliation will be in the right direction.


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5, pp. 507 - 519,Allport, G. 1953. The Individual and his Religion. New York: Macmillan.Ajzen, I. 1996. “The Directive Influence of Attitudes on Behaviour.” In The

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Baguma, P. & Furnham, A. 1993. “The Protestant work ethic in Great Britainand Uganda.” Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology, 24, pp. 495-507.

Blaine, E. B, Trivedi, P. & Eshleman, A. 1998. “Religious Belief and the Self-Concept: Evaluating the Implications for Psychological Adjustment.” Per-sonality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 24, pp. 1040-1052.

Chatters, L. 2000. “Religion and Health. Public Health Research and Practice.”Annual Review of Public Health, 21, pp. 335-365.

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The Festival of Deepavali as Marks of Traditionand Identity for Working, Married Hindu Women:

Continuity and Change

Sheila ChirkutUniversity of KwaZulu-Natal

AbstractAs a minority group in South Africa, Indians, face all kinds of chal-lenges, one of them being identity: Are we Indians or South AfricanIndians? Apart from a South African identity, our “Indianness” operatesat the level of culture and combines identity patterns such as dress,language, food, religion, culture, music and dance, some of which arefast disappearing. Hindu women are traditionally perceived as “culturalcustodians” and are faced with the challenge to embrace other cultures,while at the same time, maintain their Hindu identity. This paper at-tempts to show how working, married women in the Stanger area ofKwaZulu-Natal in South Africa, choose Hindu festivals - with particu-lar reference to the major festival of Deepavali - to keep alive theHindu value system, culture and tradition and to maintain their culturalidentity.

IntroductionWoven into South Africa’s diverse and rich cultural fabric, Hindus1 maintainand express their own set of beliefs, customs and traditions in the form of festi-vals such as Deepavali (festival of lights). My attention in this paper is focused onthe awareness of Hindu working, married women and how they represent them-selves during the major Hindu festival of Deepavali to maintain their culturalidentity. Cultural identity in this sense encompasses religion, culture and tradi-tions. My close contact with Hindu women in the Stanger area revealed that the


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identity of “Indianness” has been progressively built in by including many iden-tity patterns relating to dress, language, food, religion, culture, music and dancewhich are fast disappearing. This maybe so because of lack of documentationand also because indigenous knowledge has been orally transmitted from genera-tion to generation. Interaction of Hindus with people of other cultures has re-sulted in changes and modifications of tradition.

Hindu women are traditionally perceived as “cultural custodians” and arethus faced with the challenge to maintain their Hindu identity. Tradition andculture has undergone transformation due to social, political and economic forces(Kuppusami, 1983). My hypothesis is that although Hindu women maybe West-ern in their outlook, many select religio-cultural festivals such as Deepavali as ameans of constructing a distinctly Hindu, Indian identity. Numerous scholars(Duley and Edwards, 1986; Mohanlal, 1998; Mukhopadhayay, 1995; Sweetman,1995) claim that Hindu religion and culture are intertwined, interdependentand inseparable. Mukhopadhayay (1995) further explains that assumptions aboutculture and gender are rooted in religious concerns and focus on cultural prac-tices such as religio-cultural functions, which reinforce the power of men byappealing to tradition.

The Arrival of Indians to South AfricaMany of the colonial era immigrants, who arrived from 1860 onwards, learntorally of legends, folklore and epics from their forebears. This they passed on totheir children in the same oral tradition (Chirkut, 1993). Coming from smallvillages, they brought with them to the South African Diaspora, in their memo-ries, knowledge of their religio-cultural practices and festivals that prevailed intheir villages. The indentured Indians were a highly heterogeneous population.The majority of them were either Hindi-speaking Hindus from the NorthernProvinces of India who emigrated through the port of Calcutta, Tamil-speakersfrom South India, or Telugu-speaking Hindus from the Southern Provinces whocame by way of Madras (Chirkut, 1993). From 1875 onwards, a second stream ofimmigrants, the so-called “Passenger Indians” or traders followed the indenturedlabourers. The “Passenger Indians” were predominantly Gujarati speaking Hin-dus and Muslims, Gujarati being the language spoken by Gujaratis as well asMuslims who came from Bombay and Surat in Western India, and Urdu-speakers(language mainly spoken by Muslims with many Persian words).

Research Methodology and Theoretical FrameworkThis section presents data from participant observation and in-depth interviewswith Hindu working, married women in the Stanger area on the North Coast ofKwaZulu-Natal in South Africa that has a predominantly Indian population. I

THE FESTIVAL OF DEEPAVALI

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chose to base my research in Stanger because, firstly, it’s where I reside whichmade it easier for me to work in a much smaller fieldwork area and thus savedtime, labour and expense. Secondly, my close contact with the community re-vealed that almost all the Hindus are descendents of the indentured labourers(Hindis, Tamils and Telugus) and the voluntary “Passenger” Indians (Gujaratis).Generation is a major factor in continuity and change with regards to Hinducultural activities in the South African context. All the Hindi, Tamil and Teluguinterviewees were of third, fourth and fifth generation while the Gujarati womenwere of second and third generation.

Twenty-four women, in the age range of twenty five to sixty years (equallyrepresented) from the different linguistic groups (Hindi, Tamil, Telugu andGujarati) in the research made up a purposeful sample. They were particularlyselected for inclusion in the study on the basis of accessibility and their willing-ness to respond. Of the twenty four interviewees, only one had grade 10 level ofeducation, seven had matriculation level of education and sixteen of the inter-viewees had some form of tertiary education. Over the years, many Hindu womenin South Africa have progressed educationally, professionally, socially and eco-nomically through hard work and perseverance despite years of oppression anddiscrimination during the apartheid era with particular reference to the Stangerarea. Thus the interviewees are currently in various fields of employment such aseducation, law, commerce and medicine, with some participants being self-em-ployed. Through their narratives they provided detailed reflections of their reli-gious beliefs and the significance of the Deepavali festival in relation to theirHindu identity.

In any empirical research, the interviewees selected should be representativeof the total population as possible of the concerned society. Data collectedthrough in-depth interviews can be representative of the greater population ofHindu women in the South African Diaspora so that conclusions can be drawnfrom that population (Rudestam and Newton, 1992). The interviews that con-sisted of open-ended questions were conducted in English and took approxi-mately one, to one and a half hours were tape-recorded and subsequentlytranscribed verbatim and checked for accuracy. Analysis and interpretations weredone to major themes and patterns in the study. I procured first-hand informationthrough participant observation of the Deepavali celebration at community level.This method enabled me to establish the religio-cultural attitudes and activitiesof the community towards the festival. The observable data was then reflectedupon to ensure correctness and incorporated into the analysis.

Weedon (1987) suggests that poststructuralist theory provides a suitable frame-work to understand and analyse the impact of culture on the cultural identity ofHindu married women and also offers mechanisms for understanding gender,gender roles and power relations which has informed my understanding of theDeepavali festival and its impact on the cultural identity of Hindu women. Hindu


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women having grown up within a particular system of meanings and values suchas the Hindu patriarchal system, which may well be contradictory, may findthemselves resisting alternatives. Poststructuralism outlines that as one moves outof familiar circles, through education or politics for example, they can be ex-posed to ways of constituting the meanings of their experiences. Thus in this waythrough the process of discovery it can lead to a positive change in social prac-tices such as during the festival of Deepavali.

Deepavali: Tradition and RitualThe Hindu indentured labourers who came to South Africa, listened to thestories from the great epics and classics, told and retold by their forebears, whichwere also associated with their festivals (Chirkut, 1993). They brought withthem traditions, legends and stories specific to those parts from whence theycame. It is therefore appropriate to discuss how Deepavali was initially celebratedwithin the context of each linguistic group with its regional variants in ritualsand traditions as compared to the present. The characteristics of Deepavali aremore or less applicable to its celebration in India. However, even conservativeHindus do not observe Deepavali in its entirety in the present period in thiscountry. Although almost all Hindus celebrate Deepavali regardless of their lin-guistic background, there are regional variants in actual rituals and practices.

Of all the festivals, Deepavali is said to be the most widely celebrated byHindus throughout the world and involves elaborate preparations. Deepavali is aSanskrit word, Deepa, meaning “light” and Aval, meaning “a row”. Thus Deepavalitranslates as a “row of lights” and, indeed, illumination forms the basis of itsobservance. It has been suggested that the impact of various factors within theSouth African context such as multiculturalism, education, the general socialmilieu and the multi-racial composition of our population has had an effect onHindus modifying their rituals and traditions in the observance of Deepavali.

Although it is unclear, the origin of Deepavali can be traced back to ancientIndia, when it was probably an important harvest festival (Vedalankar, 1978;Marchant, 1996). But as the Hindu religion developed, various mythological sto-ries and explanations were attributed to the festival to give it a religious sanction.Today, this historical explanation is all but lost among the many legends andfolklore linked with the origin of the festival. While drawing on the historicalbackground of Deepavali traditions in India, I shall discuss the story of Deepavali inthe South African context as well. Deepavali falls on the night of the amavasya(darkest night) in the month of Kartika (October or November) according to theHindu calendar when the nights are cold, long and dark (in India). The celebra-tions are spread over five days in India and each day has a significance related toa number of legends and beliefs. However, the second and third days are of greaterimportance in the South African context (Vedalankar, 1978).


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Deepavali is celebrated for various reasons all over India because differentdeities or personalities are honoured in different areas. According to Ganeri(1997) and Marchant (1996), the first day of Deepavali is called Dhanteras whichfalls on the 13th day of the Kartika month. The word Dhan means “wealth”. Assuch, this day is of great importance for the mercantile Gujarati community ofwestern India. Houses and business premises are cleaned and entrances are madecolourful with attractive traditional designs called rangoli to welcome the god-dess of wealth and prosperity, Lakshmi. Lamps are kept burning all through thenight. Devotion and acts of ritual worship, puja, is performed in the eveningwhen divas or diyas (small clay lamps used mainly during Deepavali) are lit. Gujaratisopen new account books and present them to Goddess Lakshmi and they alsoleave gifts of money and jewellery on the altar for her.

The second day of Deepavali is called Narak Chaturdasi, which falls on the14th day of the month of Kartika. As the story goes, in certain parts of India,especially in the south, the occasion is attributed to the destruction of the de-mon, Narakasura. It is believed that on this day, Lord Krishna (8th incarnation ofGod Vishnu) killed this tyrannical demon king (Vedalankar, 1978). Kuppusami(1982) gives details of the exploits of Narakasura, which represents him as afearful demon who kidnapped a large number of maidens and had them impris-oned in a semi-dark dungeon. It is believed that God came in the form ofKrishna, killed the demon king and freed the maidens to the inexpressible joy oftheir parents. Thousands of divas were lit to express the great deliverance.Kuppusami (1982) further explains that the demon is possibly the south westmonsoons which cause havoc by flooding a good part of India and therefore,Deepavali which comes at the end of the monsoon, was celebrated in ancientIndia to express the joyous relief from the tyranny of the deluge.

Traditionally the second day of Deepavali is of significance to the Tamil andTelugu communities in South Africa. While some of the south Indian interview-ees knew the story of the destruction of Narakasura, they were more familiar withthe association of Deepavali with the story of Lord Rama (7th incarnation of GodVishnu) in the great Hindu epic, Ramayana. With the result that the SouthIndian community celebrates Deepavali a day earlier than the north Indians be-cause it is believed that Lord Rama and his wife Sita, when returning fromLanka (present Sri Lanka), passed through south India first. But in South Africaall Hindus celebrate Deepavali on one day. Another striking feature is that manyTamils and Telugus still follow the tradition of purifying themselves on Deepavalimorning with an oil bath using three different kinds of oil. However, a carefulobservation of the general pattern of rituals and celebrations amongst the Tamilsand Telugus reveals an interesting structure. Based on the oral information fromthe interviewees and observations, it is evident that due to the cultural contactbetween the Tamils and Telugus, a certain amount of cultural fusion has takenplace between these two south Indian communities. The impact of this blending


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is evident in the similarities between their rituals.An interesting ritual is performed by the Hindi-speaking community, both in

South Africa and in India on the night before Deepavali (second night). An oldclay lamp is lit and placed on a refuse heap some distance away from the home.Kuppusami (1983) points out that the Hindi-speaking community in South Af-rica place an old lamp outside in honour of Yama (the god of death) who willnot visit the household. But on the contrary, Marchant (1996) offers anotherversion of this belief in India. She says that on the evening before Deepavali, onelamp is lit to welcome Yama as Deepavali is the only time when he is honouredand the spirits of the dead can return to earth. It is believed that the single lampwill help the souls of the dead to find their former earthly homes. However,irrespective of what the myths and legends are, the one lamp is always lit inhonour of Yama except if someone in the family, or dear to the family, has diedin the course of the previous year.

Another important and very popular origin of Deepavali is professed by theHindi-speakers of north India who worship Lord Vishnu as the supreme deity, agreat Hindu deity believed to be the “Preserver”. This falls on the third day ofthe celebrations. Legends about Vishnu tell how he incarnated in a human formwhenever there was chaos on earth to bring about righteousness. Marchant (1996)explains this favourite Deepavali story about Vishnu taken from the Hindu epic,the Ramayana. Rama was the eldest son of a king in north India but his step-mother wanted her son to become king instead, so she exiled Rama into theforest for fourteen years. One day a demon king called Ravana kidnapped Rama’swife, Sita. In order to rescue his wife, Rama killed Ravana. By then Rama’s exilewas over and, to welcome him, people lit clay lamps along the roads and win-dows. It is believed that Rama returned to Ayodhya (his kingdom in north India)on amavasya night. This custom and tradition of lighting divas has continuedsince then. Kuppusami (1982) believes that Rama’s glorious reign as king subse-quently marked the removal of the spiritual darkness from the world, which gaveway to light.

The third day of Deepavali is the most important day for Lakshmi puja and isdevoted to the propitiation of the goddess by all Hindus. Despite the fact thatthis day falls on amavasya, the day is regarded as most auspicious. It is believedthat when Lakshmi was born from the ocean, abundant treasures emerged fromthe waters. Hindus leave all the doors and windows open and make sure thereare shining lights at every door and window so that Lakshmi can easily findthem. This self-enlightenment is expressed through the twinkling divas that illu-minate the homes of the wealthy and the poor. When the sun sets and the cer-emonial worship completed, sweetmeats are offered to the goddess. Gifts areexchanged, men, women and children dress in new clothes, some go to templesand others visit friends and family. To the Hindi community in South Africa,Deepavali is both a sacred, devotional act to Lakshmi and symbolic of the return


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of Rama and Sita from their exile. Based on the narratives of the interviewees,while Lakshmi puja was common to all the interviewees in the study, it was morespecial to the Hindi and Gujarati interviewees. On the basis of my observations,the study points out that almost all Hindus in South Africa celebrate Deepavali.

The fourth day of Deepavali is Govardhan puja (performed mostly in northIndia), which is associated with Lord Krishna. As Marchant (1996) recounts, thepeople of Gokul, the place where it is believed that Krishna spent most of histime, used to celebrate a festival in honour of Lord Indra, the god of rain. How-ever, Krishna discouraged this practice and Indra, in great anger, sent a deluge tosubmerge Gokul. But Krishna saved Gokul by lifting up the Govardhan Moun-tain and holding it over the people as an umbrella. Today, Hindus in north Indiabuild cow dung hillocks, decorate them with flowers and worship them.

It is imperative to note that only a few of the interviewees knew the legendof the Govardhan puja. Although a north Indian tradition, Govardhan puja wasnot observed by the north Indians in Stanger. One of my interviewees suggestedthat perhaps one reason why it was not observed was that our forefathers did notsee it as important to perpetuate this tradition because of time and their socio-economic status. However, an interesting finding identified during the in-depthinterview was that Govardhan puja was observed by only one of the women inthe study who is a Hare Krishna devotee. She explained that she did not observethe Govardhan puja at home but attended the function at the Hare Krishnatemple in Durban. She pointed out that the puja was not observed in the tradi-tional manner but a cake in the form of the Govardhan Mountain is worshippedand later eaten as prasadam (consecrated food offered to Krishna). The HareKrishna Movement observes all festivals associated with Lord Krishna. The dayafter Deepavali (fourth day) is of much significance to the Gujaratis for whom thenew year begins and is marked with prayer and rejoicing.

The fifth and final day of the Deepavali festival is known as Bhaiya Duj. Asthe legend goes, Yama, visited his sister, Yami on this day. She put the auspicioustilak (red dot) on Yama’s forehead, garlanded him, fed him special dishes andthey enjoyed themselves to their hearts content (Marchant, 1996). While part-ing, the siblings exchanged gifts. Since then, this day is observed as a symbol oflove between brothers and sisters. To almost all the interviewees, the fifth daystory of Bhaiya Duj was unknown. This finding prompts me to state that, giventhe specific socio-economic situation of Hindu immigrants, it is quite under-standable why this tradition was not perpetuated or for the simple reason thatperhaps they found it irrelevant. Thus, it is necessary to mention that accordingto documentation and observation, Deepavali is observed over five days in India,while in South Africa Tamils and Telugus observe it for one day, Hindis observeit over two days and Gujaratis over three days.

There are many myths and legends explaining the origins of Deepavali andmany share common elements such as the triumph of good over evil, new begin-


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nings and prosperity. The principal characteristic of Deepavali is the lighting ofclay lamps. Various kinds of sweetmeats are prepared and exchanged with friendsand family. Hindus believe that gifts of sweets encourage people to think sweetthings about them. A variety of vegetarian food is prepared as most Hindus arevegetarian on this day. For Deepavali, homes and yards are cleaned and decorated.In many homes brightly coloured designs called rangoli are created at the entrance.The festival heralds joy and merriment for children and adults, men and women,and the rich and the poor when enmities are forgotten; family and friends meetand enjoy the feeling of closeness brought about by the celebrations.

Traditions and Rituals in TransitionThe themes of Deepavali convey what Hindus believe to be important in religionand culture. Moreover, Hinduism centres on the worship of God by prayer andby celebrating festivals such as Deepavali. The interviewees responded to thequestion on some of the similarities between Deepavali as observed in the pastand how it is celebrated presently. All the women in the study share similarperceptions about the festival, as expressed by Interviewee A:

Deepavali brings back good memories. I still remember howwe celebrated Deepavali when I was a little girl. Although itis not the same anymore, I am still very particular in main-taining certain traditions. I make sure that I light the onelamp, the evening before Deepavali. I am also particular aboutthe rituals when preparing the prayer place, cleaning anddressing the images of the Gods and praying together as afamily. All these are important to me as a Hindu marriedwoman for my identity, as to who I am and where I comefrom.

Discussing the basic rituals, Interviewee B explains:

Deepavali celebrations are not the same anymore like how itused to be in the past. The festivities are no more spreadover two to three days but it is for one day only. Whendoing my Deepavali prayer, I make sure that I follow thebasic rituals. I clean, dress and anoint all the idols in myshrine and pray together with my family, with offerings ofmilk, fruit and sweetmeats to the deities.

The observations of the interviewees point out that Deepavali celebrations donot go on for three days but are confined to just one day. All the Hindi women


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in the study explained that the central, common practice is the lighting of theone clay lamp in the evening before Deepavali. Marchant (1996:13) maintainsthat this is to welcome Yama, the god of death, as Deepavali is the only time whenYama is honoured and with accorded respect.

The study reveals that observing the basic rituals and traditions duringDeepavali has a unique influence on the perceived identity of Hindu women inthe Stanger area. The women in the study believe that cleaning their immediateenvironment and decorating the entrance of their homes with rangoli will wel-come the gods and bring good fortune. Praying together with the family helps topromote feelings of unity and instils a sense of security and belonging. Thesewomen’s experiences show that they prioritise, and take pride in, following thebasic rituals and traditions as they see it as a commitment towards their culture,thus maintaining their group identity and gendered status. I believe that the fearof loss of identity compels Hindu women to strive for the preservation of theircultural identity. Similar findings revealed in previous studies by Metha (1970)and Mohanlal (1998) support the present findings where Hindus identify them-selves by observing rituals and traditions during festivals to retain their culturalidentity, revive Hindu culture and keep it alive.

Because of Hindu women’s socialisation, the women in the study believethat this is how their forefathers institutionalised gender roles. Feministpoststructuralism offers insight into understanding how these women see theirgender roles and make use of festivals as a way of maintaining their culturalidentity. It also offers a useful framework for understanding gender roles andpower relations in the family and how they identify themselves through thecelebration of festivals within their various role frameworks. Feministpoststructuralism is a useful theoretical tool in that it exposes strategies em-ployed by men to sustain male hegemony, as hegemonic relations in the familiesof the interviewees are representative of what prevails in the majority of Hindufamilies. The study revealed that the practice of rituals and traditions are genderedwith Hindu women being the primary transmitters of culture and religion which,in turn, leads to greater participation by them in festivals as an essential compo-nent of their cultural identity. The majority of the interviewees came from fami-lies where patriarchy is both institutionalised and internalised.

A striking similarity amongst all the interviewees that emerged from thestudy was the observance of Lakshmi puja for Deepavali. Apart from the mythsand legends pertaining to the festival, the interviewees cited Lakshmi puja asbeing of paramount significance. However, there are variations in the rituals andworship patterns by the different linguistic groups. Only two of the Gujaratiinterviewees observed Lakshmi puja on the first day, which is known as Dhanteras.One of the interviewees who came from a business background described theprocess: a few coins are dotted with kum kum (vermillion powder used in wor-ship), together with some gold jewellery, rice and flower petals are offered to the


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goddess Lakshmi, and left at the shrine for three days. After three days havepassed, the money is put away until the following year to be used in prayer andthe jewellery is worn. On this day, divas are lit and placed at the entrance of thehouse both at the front and back doors to welcome Lakshmi.

On the third day of Deepavali which is celebrated by the Stanger communityas Deepavali Day, all the Hindi interviewees perform Lakshmi puja in the eveningwith milk, fruit and sweetmeats. Gifts of clothing and money are left on the altarfor the goddess. The Tamils and Telugus also worship Lakshmi on this day butwith no elaborate rituals, and make simple offerings of fruit or sweetmeats. WhileLakshmi puja is common to all linguistic groups among the Hindus, one findsthat the Gujaratis and Hindis worship her more fervently during Deepavali. Thefindings revealed that Tamils and Telugus place a greater emphasis on Lakshmiday, which is observed sometime in the month of August.

The setting off of fireworks in the evening of the festival is one importantcommon practice that has survived amongst all Hindus with minimal change.The change is that its variety and effects have become technologically advanced.From a gender perspective, the tasks of purchasing, organising and the displayingof fireworks are allocated to the men and boys in the family. The handling offireworks by males in the family suggests that females are the weaker sex andreinforce the assumption that men are braver than women. Clearly, tradition andculture is used to legitimise gender roles and stress the difference between thebiological make-up of men and women.

Changes in Cultural PracticesAlthough many cultural norms and traditions continue to be honoured, thestudy reveals that certain practices in the celebration of Deepavali are rapidlychanging. Below are some of the responses of interviewees as well as rationale formodifying and changing some of their cultural practices when observing thefestivals. One significant change in the celebration of Deepavali, as mentionedearlier, is that the festivities are now confined to one day only. As Deepavali isnot a national holiday in South Africa as it is in India, Interviewee C is contentwith celebrating the festival for only one day:

It is a good idea that all Hindus celebrate Deepavali on oneday only. We are given one day away from work for Deepavali.I feel one day is sufficient for the basic prayers and thefestivities. We are not living in India and times have changednow. Festivals, particularly Deepavali can be quite expen-sive to celebrate. The elaborate preparations for rituals, cloth-ing, food and fireworks does cost a lot of money.


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Hindus in their workplaces, schools and universities are allocated one day’s leaveof absence to celebrate Deepavali. Being working wives and mothers, and livingin a multicultural environment, the interviewees agreed that it was impracticalto celebrate Deepavali for more than a day, as time was one of the main con-straints. Another reason cited by the interviewees for the celebration of Deepavalito be confined to one day was that of finance. Exploring the reasons as to whyDeepavali is celebrated on one day only, the findings revealed that some of theinterviewees did not know much about the myths, legends and beliefs (thoughthey knew the most important ones) related to Deepavali. They were not awarethat in India and in some places in the Diaspora, it is celebrated for five continu-ous days that are linked to a number of related stories, myths and legends. Thiscan be understood against the background of the historical context of the arrivalof Hindus from India. Most of the immigrant Hindus came with their memoriesfilled with what had been told to them by their parents and grandparents aboutrituals, ceremonies and festivals. Due to the socio-economic status of South Af-ricans, as a result of government policy, immigrant Hindus could not adequatelysustain religio-cultural ties with India. This led to their ignorance of religio-cultural reforms at the time of their immigration that was at the beginning of theneo-Hindu period (Prabhakaran, 1994). The indentured Hindus did not havethe socio-economic resources nor the time to celebrate their religio-cultural fes-tivals and to adhere to all the rituals and practices on a large scale. However, thisdoes not mean that Hindus who wanted to follow the rituals and traditions fortwo or three days (with particular reference to the Hindis and Gujaratis) couldnot do so.

All the interviewees said that they endeavoured to maintain the essentialrituals on the one day, which they regarded as more important than engaging infestivities over a number of days. Taking into consideration the level of educa-tion amongst the interviewees (the lowest level of education was grade ten whilemany had tertiary level), all the women were knowledgeable and respectful oftheir religious traditions, but also displayed confidence in rejecting what theyfelt was outdated and irrelevant. What is significant is that they had the desire toperform the appropriate rituals and prayers at this auspicious time. Althoughmany of the interviewees do not follow the same rigour of the homes they camefrom, due to their Western education, they are not emotionally alienated fromHindu values and way of life in celebrating festivals that give them their cul-tural identity.

Deepavali CuisineMany Hindus prepare vast amounts of food as visitors are expected throughoutthe festival. The most important Deepavali fare is sweetmeats that are alwaysserved on auspicious or festive occasions such as religio-cultural festivals. Ac-


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cording to the interviewees, changes and modifications have been brought aboutin the making of sweetmeats as Interviewee D recalls:

When I was at school, the making of sweetmeats for Deepavaliwas a big occasion. My mum, aunts and cousins usually gottogether to start making sweetmeats a week or two beforeDeepavali. There was a lot of excitement while learning andat the same time making the sweetmeats. Now I have cutdown on making too much sweetmeats as I do not have thetime. However, I do get some assistance though minimal,from my husband especially in preparing the ingredients. Ialso buy some to supplement the quantity I make.

Many of the interviewees (sixteen out of the twenty four) said that because theywere working, they did not have the time to make all their sweetmeats and hadto buy some if required. However, eight of the interviewees did try to find timeto make all their sweetmeats a week ahead and enjoyed it to some extent. Inci-dentally, these were the older women in the age group of forty-five to fifty-fiveyears. Sweetmeat making was, in the past, seen as something that contributed tothe atmosphere and feeling of the auspicious day. The narratives and experi-ences in the above passage, and of many of the other women in the study, indi-cate that the traditional practice of sweetmeat making for Deepavali is changing.These findings are new in contrast to previous practices and can be attributed tothe nuclear family. The majority of Hindu women are now working and livingin nuclear families and have very little time to make their sweetmeats as itentails a lot of work and is very time consuming. However, four of the interview-ees indicated that they did get some assistance from their husbands, though mini-mal. This change can be seen as one of gender role transformation to someextent. Nowadays, many housewives make varieties of sweetmeats at home andsome supplement the family income by making and selling sweetmeats. Sweet-meat making is a highly specialised skill, and an interesting new phenomenon isthat in some higher socio-economic households, sweetmeat making has becomecompetitive and is a mark of status.

Another change is that traditionally, only vegetarian ingredients are used tomake sweetmeats. Interviewees revealed that many Hindu women have begun toreplace traditional sweetmeats with cakes and biscuits which contain eggs. Four ofthe interviewees (Tamil and Telugu speaking) also admitted that they resort to thispractice. One the interviewees indicated, as a departure from sweetmeats, that thelatest trend in Deepavali gifts is chocolates. Bhargava (2004) points out that speci-ality chocolates in the shape of Deepavali-related symbols, filled with traditionalsweetmeat mixtures is not new. Most Indians, particularly those living in the West,have been giving chocolates at Deepavali for some time and the trend is now fast


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growing in South Africa as well. Hence, we see a significant change in chocolatescomplementing traditional sweetmeats which, to some extent, reduces the tradi-tional identity of women in the field of cuisine. The cultural practice of thedistribution of sweetmeats to family and friends as a gesture of goodwill is alsowaning. However, the majority of the interviewees did distribute some sweetmeatsto close family and friends but not as much as in the past.

The study revealed that it is primarily women who are involved in preparingfor Deepavali and the making of sweetmeats. These women have little or noopportunity to rest or relax because of the multiplicity of their roles in compari-son to men.2 Performance of domestic chores such as cooking (in this casesweetmeat making) is considered to be traditionally feminine. Despite daily do-mestic chores, many of the working women interviewed expressed some degreeof satisfaction with the task of making sweetmeats. Findings show that many ofthe interviewees aspired to sustain and adhered to distinct gender roles as a wayof maintaining their Hindu, cultural identity.

Absence of the Joint Family SystemOne of the reasons cited by the interviewees for the changes and modificationsof cultural practices in the observance of Deepavali is the absence of the jointfamily system. Reflecting on the absence of the extended family, Interviewee Ecomments:

We were familiar with stories from the epics because beforeDeepavali or any other festival for that matter, my grand-mother would tell us why the festival was celebrated. I re-member her telling the stories of Rama and Sita, Lord Krishna,why we pray to Goddess Lakshmi and many other legendsof the mythological past. It was very interesting as it madeDeepavali more meaningful. Now we are living in nuclearfamilies. I wonder how much of the traditions and customswill be carried forth by our children?

Including Interviewee E, eighteen out of the twenty-four interviewees had grownup within an extended family environment. Whilst some did not live in thesame house as their extended relatives, they kept in close contact with them andremained part of a closely-knit family unit. Older members of the extendedfamily (especially the women) talked of the meanings of rituals and recountedthe myths so that everyone was aware why the day was sacred. What was appar-ent in the narratives of the older women (fifty to sixty years of age), in particular,was that during their childhood, the female members in the extended familycreated the Deepavali atmosphere. We see a greater involvement of women in


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their role as guardians of cultural traditions in Hindu families, Rayaprol’s, (2000)findings throw some light on the contention that it is the women in Hindufamilies who are entrusted with the task of passing on the cultural value systemto the next generation. Many of the women in the study also indicated thatDeepavali was not the same as it used to be when it was celebrated together in thejoint family system. Against the background of these new findings, my interpre-tation is that this atmosphere is lacking in homes of nuclear families where thereis neither the same contact with relatives, nor the presence of older family mem-bers. The interviewees felt that more than just one or two people are needed tofoster the kind of persuasion and influence needed to create the traditionalatmosphere. Some of the interviewees who came from extended families learntthe rituals and prayers through observation, as Interviewee F recollects:

Through observing my mother and grandmother, I not onlylearnt the rituals, but gained knowledge of the practice andalso got a feeling for them which I never lost. The knowl-edge I gained did not mean classical or metaphysical con-cepts of Hinduism but just expressions of the way eldersworshipped the Gods and Goddesses.

The above interviewee’s experiences indicate that knowledge of the rituals aloneis not enough to integrate them into a way of life. Those interviewees who hadacquired knowledge about traditional rituals by emulation supported this view.However, some of the interviewees said that in spite of knowing the significanceof many of the rituals, it was no longer possible to incorporate them into thedaily routine of their lives as working women because they found that some ofthe Deepavali rituals practised in the past were not applicable in the present day.These rituals included, amongst others, the oil bath which is no longer practisedby many Hindus of south Indian origin as well as lighting less clay lamps andmore wax lamps. Here I see the nuclear basis of the family as isolating and notconducive to the traditional discipline. This isolation can be aggravated if oneis living in a multicultural society. The above finding, which is new to previousresearch, will contribute to the body of literature in the South African context.

Deepavali AttireThe narratives of many of the interviewees reveals that the daily dress code forworking Hindu women is generally Western but the majority still wear the tradi-tional attire of Hindu women: the sari or salwaar kameej 3, especially for religio-cultural functions such as Deepavali. Interviewee G shares her experience regardingtraditional dressing for the festival:


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I believe dressing in traditional clothes for Deepavali. I lookforward to shopping for Deepavali clothes for myself and formy daughters and it is always Eastern outfits. Deepavali is aspecial occasion when we women can express our culturalidentity in the true sense and one way of doing this is bywearing traditional clothes that are very symbolic. We wearWestern clothes every day and as a mark of respect for ourreligion and culture, I believe in wearing a sari, especiallyto perform the rituals and prayers.

The above interviewee’s views, which were shared by all the interviewees, revealthat working Hindu married women are generally loyal to their traditional attireand take pride in wearing them but circumstances do not always allow them todo so on a daily basis. Socio-economic considerations demand that women findemployment and they often dress in what is comfortable or prescribed by theemployer. Traditional Hindus are always conscious of religio-cultural dress hab-its. The tradition, particularly in performing rituals is to wear full-length piecesof clothes. Hindu women usually wear a sari, which expresses a certain kind ofspirituality (Srikantha, 2001). There are some variations in these dresses but full-length covering of the body especially during religious functions is importantaccording to Hinduism. Traditional clothes worn during Deepavali for many Hinduwomen, it seems, is an external symbol of an inner divine experience. The rela-tive importance of the traditional Indian attire can be seen as an outward repre-sentation of respect for their religion. Still used widely by Hindu females, the sariand salwaar kameej, particularly during festivals like Deepavali constitute a com-plex heritage of Hinduism that the Hindu immigrants brought with them to-gether with the cultural mores of their homeland and therefore the appropriationof this historical dress can also be seen as a form of social expression. Hinduwomen have developed its usage, attaching to it an encoded vocabulary thatsignifies their Hindu identity, gender and adherence to belief. Hindu women’straditional attire serves as a visual representation of their cultural identity.

The reason for changes of traditional dress differed among the interviewees.Some of the interviewees indicated that when important festivals like Deepavaliare celebrated, in some cases, the emphasis is on the superficial display of wealth,especially amongst the higher socio-economic group. Identities in the Diaspora,like in South Africa can become blurred in the multicultural terrain. Here wesee how identity has been transformed and reconstructed in clothes. To whatextent is visual identification a matter of belief by those who employ them, orare they the subjects of considered choice? It can be said that traditional attire islargely constructed and to some extent valorised in the form of culture. One ofthe concerns expressed by the interviewees was, to what extent the youth (futureHindu women) will retain the traditional attire particularly during festivals.


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On the other hand, though the majority of Hindu women wear the sari forDeepavali, the men can be found in Western clothing. The study of gender is alsoa study of power in Hinduism, and religious and cultural meanings are inter-twined with the understanding of gender dynamics. Gender identities have beencreated and valued in the Hindu cultural context. Thus Hindu men are notexpected to adhere to traditional dress code for Deepavali. The dress code of menis a complex issue: even in India, urbanised men use shirts and pants while thewomen remain in their traditional attire. Men do sometimes make a point ofwearing traditional kurtas/pyjamas on festive occasions. For many Hindu women,traditional dress for Deepavali is primarily a religious and cultural identity.

Deepavali in the Socio-Cultural ContextTraditionally, the focus of Deepavali is the home and not the temple. It is a timefor family gatherings, exchange of gifts and greetings, and entertaining friends.Findings of the study however, contradict this as it was found that this culturalaspect is not much adhered to and is becoming obsolete. Reflecting on extendedfamily relationships, Interviewee H says:

I have observed that the tradition of visiting and greetingfamily and friends for Deepavali is dying away. Many peoplekeep to themselves. Young married couples do not attachtraditional obligations to older members of the extendedfamily. There is not much of families getting together forfamily lunches. I remember my mum and aunts (those wholived close by), getting together at our house and preparingbiryani (rice dish served on important and auspicious occa-sions) for the annual Deepavali lunch for all the aunts, un-cles and cousins, living near by. But now I find it difficultmyself to call on family and friends as preparations have tobe made for the evening prayer and the lighting of the lamps.Many of our immediate families are not living close by, butI do wish them telephonically.

The above passage explains that in the present time when pressing problems areteeming, it is difficult to nurture the goodwill amongst the family that existed inthe past. In the past, members of the extended family lived in close proximity.But over the last forty to fifty years, Indian families have been exposed to proc-esses (such as the Group Areas Act) that have disintegrated the joint familysystem and given way to nuclear families. I see two further factors that haveplayed an important role in this connection: first, contact with Western societyand Western education, and secondly the process of urbanisation which has


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contributed much to the relative increase in the proportion of women as wageearners. Career pursuits and educational status have contributed to younger fam-ily members settling in other provinces or even other countries. Hence one cansee the decline of direct contact with members of the extended family. On theother hand, several of the interviewees mentioned that, though the extendedfamily had shrunk, they only visited close relatives. Uncles and aunts were notreally regarded as members of the extended family. These women indicated thatthey did not feel obligated to maintain relationships and that it was impossibleto treat all members in the extended family with honour and the same status.Some of the interviewees said that wherever possible, they tried to maintain thissocial practice but expressed regret that it was phasing out as an inevitableconsequence of the nuclear basis of family life, as well as new expectationswithin the nuclear family. Findings revealed that the cultural practice of strength-ening family ties during Deepavali is in the process of transformation. Singh’s(2004) and Mohanlal’s (1998) research on Hindu women supports the experi-ences of the women in the study that the extended family has become consider-ably eroded in South Africa, due largely to Westernisation and education. Thenew findings throw some light on the transformation of this social institution.This can be seen as being bound up with the attainment of socio-cultural free-dom by women when isolated from the patriarchal extended family to maketheir own reasonable and practical decisions. From the poststructuralist point ofview, these women because of Western influences, education and work patterns,through the process of discovery have introduced changes in socio-cultural prac-tices relating to Deepavali in consonance with altered circumstances as well astheir priorities.

Lights and CandlesIn the early days, the lighting of clay lamps called diyas, or divas, marked thefestival of Deepavali. The lamps were lit and arranged in rows to illuminate theentire surrounding. Divas filled with oil and wicks were a common sight to sig-nify the symbol of the triumph of good over evil. However, the celebrationshave undergone several modifications in South Africa with clay lamps beingreplaced by candle or wax lamps. Like many of the women in the study, Inter-viewee I explains:

I find it a pleasure to use ready-made candle lamps forDeepavali instead of the traditional clay lamps. I also usestainless steel lamps. But I do buy at least a dozen or twoclay lamps to keep at the prayer place for Lakshmi puja andinside the house as well. I believe it is very symbolic tomaintain the use of traditional clay lamps to mark the ob-


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servance of Deepavali. Use of clay lamps gives me a sense oftraditional Hindu identity as wife and mother. But I preferto keep candle lamps at the windows, doors and around thehouse because no wick or oil is required and it is not messyat all.

The above statement reflects sentiments that are shared by the majority of thewomen in the study, and shows that they perceive the lighting of the clay lampsas an important religio-cultural practice because it is the most auspicious day forLakshmi puja. Lighting the clay lamps plays a significant role in the lives of theinterviewees in maintaining the traditional Deepavali atmosphere in the home. Italso gives them a sense of identity as Hindu married women in accomplishingtheir role as wives and mothers.

Present findings indicate Deepavali celebrations have been altered by mod-ern commercialism. The majority of the interviewees said that they preferredusing candles or stainless steel lamps but they continue to use a few clay lampsfor traditional reasons. Here we see a touch of modernity in the celebration ofthe festival of lights, as candles are becoming commonplace these days. Marchant(1996) asserts that multi-coloured electric lights are now used to decorate streetsin towns in India as well as in the Hindu Diaspora in countries such as Canada,the United Kingdom and South Africa. My findings revealed that women preferwax lamps as they are economical, convenient, tidy, timesaving and of coursevery practical and easy to handle. Here one can see the fluidity of culture asHindu women have departed from the traditional cultural practice of using claylamps according to the needs and requirements of their changing environmentand circumstances. But on the other hand, they have still managed to maintainmany of their basic rituals and traditions. From a feminist poststructuralist per-spective, Hindu women have brought about a positive change in the religio-cultural practice, replacing traditional clay lamps with candle lamps. Two out ofthe twenty-four interviewees (age group fifty to sixty years) said that they do notuse any candles, only clay lamps. They believe that the emphasis of Deepavali ison illumination, which means to light the road for the goddess Lakshmi withtraditional clay lamps. Despite the emphasis on their careers and the impact ofeducation, there are still some Hindu women who are traditionalist in theirbeliefs.

The lighting of Deepavali lamps is gendered as it women who usually lightthe traditional lamps. This is a traditional pattern among the Hindu communityand has been handed down for generations. Thus it can be said that Hinduwomen are constantly conscious of their domestic responsibility with particularreference to Deepavali and fulfil their gendered roles.


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The Assimilation of Western NormsA radical change revealed by the interviewees through their observations is theeating of meat and consuming of liquor amongst the younger generation ofHindus. The observations of some of the interviewees represent the interviewees’general viewpoints. According to Interviewee J:

In present times, it seems that Deepavali means different thingsto different people. To some Hindus (particularly the youngergeneration), celebrating Deepavali means eating meat anddrinking alcohol. I have observed this in the nearby Indiantownship where some Hindu families have meat dishes andsome men have strong drinks on Deepavali day. I have alsoobserved some older men in my extended family havingliquor on Deepavali evening in the name of celebration.Such practices attach a very negative feeling for this impor-tant auspicious day.

The picture presented in the above passage, and by all the interviewees, is one ofconcern about the lack of religious and traditional feelings by some Hindus forthe observance of Deepavali. The interviewees’ observations indicated that oncethe morning prayer had been performed on Deepavali day some Hindus, particu-larly the male youth, do not continue to observe the auspicious day in thetraditional manner. This means that once their religious duty is complete, thefestivities proceed by eating meat and drinking alcohol. The interviewees attrib-uted this to them not being appropriately educated in relation to Hindu culturalpractices. The interviewees’ observations conveyed that these changes are inex-tricably bound up with notions of changing lifestyle due to modernisation andWesternisation where alcohol is seen as complementing any celebration. Thiswas not practised by Hindus of the earlier generation. Since Deepavali is a cel-ebration, people express this by eating meat in addition to consuming liquor. Insome cases, Hindus entertain friends from different cultural backgrounds duringDeepavali, and therefore often have barbecues, which is a Western influence.Bridgraj’s (2001) studies reveal that our youth are ashamed of their culture andtraditions and claims that they are becoming too Westernised. This, in my opin-ion, points to the urgent need for instruction about culture and religious obser-vations.

Waves of Change: Celebration of Deepavaliwith the CommunityThe festival of Deepavali is becoming increasingly attractive to people outside ofthe Hindu religious community. Surendra (2001) asserts that the social and cul-


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tural context in which festivals were celebrated in the past is changing rapidlyalong with the communities and people who celebrate it. This is due to theimpact of environmental, social, economical and political influences. Presently,Deepavali is becoming a multicultural South African community affair. Moreo-ver, the general community, at least in the Durban metropolitan region and othersmaller towns such as Stanger are being more and more drawn into the celebra-tion of Deepavali. Local government authorities are hosting Deepavali for theentire community. I envisage this as an important instrument for harmoniouscommunity relationship.

In Stanger, celebrations at community level were started ten years ago by theDeepavali Committee and is supported by all the religio-cultural organisationsin the area. The annual function is celebrated on a grand scale at the StangerManor Sports Ground to accommodate the massive crowd that turns up for theevent. Similar events are hosted in most major cities and towns (particularly inKwaZulu-Natal and Gauteng where the largest number of Hindus reside) acrossSouth Africa. The Deepavali celebration in Stanger also has an official imprint asleading officials of the government participate in the celebrations. The celebra-tions in Stanger take place on the Saturday before Deepavali because on Deepavaliday the focus is on the home and family. It offers an opportunity for people ofdifferent religious and cultural persuasions, different races and diverse personalinterests to come together and strengthen their bonds of friendship. The start ofthe function is the switching on of the special street-lights a week before thecelebration. The street leading to the grounds and the pedestrian bridge on theMaphumulo Highway is lit up by decorative lights symbolising Deepavali. Thecelebration begins in the morning at about ten o’clock with a colourful streetprocession that almost brings the town to a standstill. In a glittering array ofcolourfully displayed floats, the procession makes its way through the town. As itis customary at all Hindu functions, the performance of the havan which in-volves offering of grains, ghee and petals into the fire, is essential and begins atabout two o’clock. On a personal note, I felt very pleased by the presence of fourlocal priests from the different linguistic groups (Hindi, Tamil, Telugu andGujarati) who were given the opportunity to perform the havan. This I believe isto ensure the spirit of unity to prevail in the community.

Entertainment has always been an integral part of the celebration. A suitableand well-integrated programme, catering for all linguistic groups and for people ofdifferent cultures is put together. The classical dances display traditional Hinduculture, while Bollywood-style singing and dancing reflects contemporary Hinduculture with elements of Western influences. Many of the interviewees acceptedthe assimilation of Eastern and Western elements in the programme. As the charac-ter of Deepavali changes, some traditions have become redundant. The resultingloss of culture and alienation is bound to be compensated by other forms of cul-tural expressions i.e. a new culture which has a carnival-like theme.4 It is interest-


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ing to note that the views of all the interviewees in the study concur with thefindings that explore the changes in the celebration of Deepavali over the years.

Despite the celebration taking on a Western flavour, I experienced a strongsense of goodwill and togetherness. As mentioned by the interviewees, I couldsee that everyone was enjoying the music, glitter and glamour of the celebration.The Hindu community, while identifying themselves specifically as Hindus, wereat the same time identifying themselves with the larger South African commu-nity. In my view, this acceptance and respect for the cultural system of differentgroups of people in the Stanger area is a positive development. Over the yearsthe committee has ensured that distinguished speakers who are experts in thefield of religion and culture are invited to deliver talks at the function. How-ever, I need to stress that over the last ten years, there has only ever been one,woman guest-speaker. Traditionally, management of such functions in the Hinducommunity lies in the hands of males but over the past few years, there has beenthe conspicuous presence of women on the Deepavali committee. The researchrevealed that women have begun to play a central role in the management andorganisation together with the men. Here one sees the renegotiation of public/private spheres of Hindu women. In short, the public face of the Deepavali cel-ebration is often that of both men and women. Women are well represented onthe committee (about 40%). They play central roles in the religious, culturaland catering sub-committees such as drawing up the cultural entertainment pro-gramme, choice of items and interviewing artists, something that is quite rare inmany such organisations.

ConclusionThe findings of the study revealed that working, married women are preservingHindu traditions and rituals when celebrating the festival of Deepavali. Weedon(1987) suggests that according to poststructuralist theory, culture opens up tochange and identifies strategies for change. Thus it is significant to note thatalthough the basic traditions and rituals are still performed by Hindu women,simplification, changes and modifications have taken place over the years dueto social, educational, political and economic influences. Because of Westerncultural influences, Hindu women have merged certain aspects of Western cul-ture and incorporated them into their socio-cultural and religio-cultural traits.For instance, these changes among others include traditional outfits being re-placed by Western attire and candles are used instead of traditional clay lamps.The making and distribution of sweetmeats is not fully practised today, and lackof time means that the coming together with family and friends to exchange giftsis becoming less of a feature of the celebration. As much as Deepavali tradition-ally focuses on the home and family, it is now also celebrated at communitylevel on a vast scale, bringing people of different cultures together. It is evident


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that Hindu women are trying to nurture and maintain their group cohesivenessand Hindu identity through religio-cultural festivals that contribute towards themaintenance of Hinduism as well as their cultural identity within the largermulticultural community.

Notes1. In an academic study of this nature, clarification of some of the concepts involved is

essential. According to Prabhakaran (1994), Vedalankar (1972) and Zaehner (1962),a person who is a Hindu, follows the Hindu religion, which is Hinduism and believesin God and is able to understand, discover and worship God through the medium offestivals, ceremonies and rituals.

2 What is also significant is that men are usually assigned with the task of distributingthe sweetmeats while the women remain at home.

3 A long, loose dress worn over pyjama like pants

4 See www.hindunet.com

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Times October 15, pg.5Bridgraj, A. 1998. “Traditions Tend Towards Transition”. http://www.

hinduismtoday.com/archieves/1998/8/1998-8-10.shtml.Chirkut, S. 1993. Hindi Instruction in the Indian Primary Schools in South Africa.

MA.Thesis, University of Durban-Westville.Duley, M. I. & Edwards, M. I. (Eds). 1986. The Cross Cultural Study of Women. A

Comprehensive Guide. New York: The Feminist Press.Ganeri, A. 1997. Beliefs and Cultures: Hindu. London: Watts Books.Kumar, P. P. 2000. Hindus in South Africa: Their Traditions and Beliefs. University

of Durban-Westville.Kuppusami, C. 1983. Religions, Customs and Practices of South African Indians.

Durban: Sunray.Marchant, K. 1996. Diwali Festival. United Kingdom: Wayland Publishers Ltd.Metha, R. 1970. The Western Educated Hindu Woman. London: Asia Publishing

House.Mohanlal, S. N. 1998. The Emergent Hindu Women in a Changing South Africa.

MA.Thesis, University of Durban-Westville.Mukhopadhayay, M. 1995. “NGO’S Gender Relations, Development and Cul-

ture”. In Women and Culture. Oxfam: Oxford.Penney, S. 1993. Introducing Religion: Hinduism. Glasgow: Bath Press Colour Books.Prabhakaran, V. 1994. The Religio-Cultural Dynamics of the Hindu Andhras in the

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Journal of Contemporary Sociology , 29, 6, pp. 837-83.Rudestam, K. E. & Newton, R. R. 1992. Surviving Your Research: A Comprehensive

Guide to Content and Process. London: Sage Publications.Singh, C. 2004. Symbolism and Patterns of Tradition of South African Hindu Women

of the New Millenium in the Greater Durban Area. PhDThesis, University ofDurban-Westville.

Srikantha, N. 2001. “Fashion: Stylish Hindu Outfits”.http://www.hindusimtoday.com/archives/2001/9-10/86_digital.shtml.

Surendra, P. 2001. “Fear in the Air”. http://www.hinduonnet.com/thehindu/mag/2001/12/02/stories/2001120200130400.htm..

Vedalankar, N. 1979. Essential Teachings of Hinduism. Durban: Vedaniketan.Zaehner, R. C. 1962. Hinduism. London: Oxford University Press.


Veiling, Secularism and Islamism:Gender Constructions in France and Iran

Nina Hoel and Sa’diyya ShaikhUniversity of Cape Town

AbstractDominant discourses on the veiling of Muslim women have becomepart of a larger Western debate on the assumed “threat of Islamic funda-mentalism”.1 Veiling is often invoked as an icon of traditional religiousidentity that represents opposition to the modern world. Ironically, thediverse positions in the Muslim world on the nature of relationships totradition do not challenge the view of Islam as a fundamentalist entity.In the West many discussions on the “veiled woman” frequently assume,either implicitly or explicitly, that Muslim women are mute, victimised,often without personal agency, and ultimately incapable of self-defini-tion. On the other hand, the Muslim woman who has discarded her veil,or chosen not to veil, is repeatedly depicted as a fully integrated freehuman being. The dichotomies – veiled/unveiled and imprisoned/free– are problematic categories that need critical re-consideration.

In this article we will explore the politicisation of the ubiquitous Mus-lim veil within a French and Iranian context respectively. We will ex-amine how the prevailing political discourses in both these contextsconstruct particular representations and realities for Muslim women.Despite different ideological structures and contexts, both France andIran impose laws and regulations that reduce many Muslim women’scapacity for agency and self-expression in the public sphere. We identifycertain parallels in how seemingly disparate cultural and national politi-cal discourses in these two contexts instrumentalise images of Muslimwomen for specific ideological agendas. We note how in these verydifferent contexts, dominant discourses on veiling continue to objectifyMuslim women and do not engage with Muslim women dialogically assubjects capable of agency and self-definition.


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France: Pursuing Laïcité or Legalizing Xenophobia?Towards the end of the 20th century the veil has emerged as a highly politicisedsymbol, and often acts as a visible boundary marker between what characterisesthe West and Islam.2 In many Western societies the overriding association of theveil with oppressed Muslim women has had a negative impact on understandingsof Islam as a whole. Especially post- September 11th 2001, the view of Muslimwomen as both supporting an inherently violent religion, and as subordinatedmembers of the self-same religion has increasingly gained currency in the West.In many Western contexts, the veiled Muslim woman has come to symboliseIslam’s “otherness” and its irreconcilable differences from post-enlightenmentWestern cultures.

In France where Islam is a minority religion, the hijab (head-scarf) was pro-hibited in all public schools by law on 10th February 2004.3 Along with other“obvious” religious symbols such as the Jewish kippa and “flashy” Christian crosses,the hijab was seen as a public symbol of strong religious commitment (Plesner,2004: 153). Before the prohibition by law, each school could decide whether ornot they wanted to ban the hijab. This led to heated exchanges regarding schoolsthat prohibited the use of hijab. Consequently, the French government imple-mented a law prohibiting the wearing of “obvious” religious symbols at all pub-lic schools (Giddens, 2004: 127). The prohibition unleashed intense and, attimes, furious debates in Europe. There were massive protests against this prohi-bition of the hijab from Muslims living in France and other parts of the world.4

The apparent reason for the prohibition of the Muslim headscarf in publicschools can be found in the French principle of secularisation known as laïcité.5

This principle signifies a separation of church and state as a prerequisite forpeace and national integration. As such, maintaining religious neutrality in civilsociety is seen as central to French secular identity. In this context, the donningof “obvious” religious symbols are perceived as antagonistic to laïcité, fosteringforms of diverse public religiosity that purportedly hinder national integration.Simultaneously, the French constitution clearly states that laïcité also incorpo-rates the individual’s right to religious freedom and the equality of all citizensregardless of origin, race or religion. The right to equal treatment despite reli-gious conviction principally presents a challenge to the prohibition of religioussymbols in public schools (Plesner, 2004: 150-160). The application of laïcitéreveals that there are deep ambiguities in relation to the multilayered meaningof this concept. For some laïcité is understood as a commitment of passive neu-trality and non-intervention within the private religious realm, while upholdingthe principle of non-discrimination in public sphere. For others laïcité can beunderstood to mean an overriding obligation to protect secularism, a fundamen-tal assurance of the nation’s sovereign independence from religious authorities.In practical terms however for some Muslim women, laïcité has translated into acoercive removal of hijab in public schools.

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A Muslim woman that wears the hijab in France is often understood, in thepublic and political sphere, to strongly advocate a Muslim identity. This com-mitment to a religious identity is further assumed to increase the isolation ofMuslims from integration into the French society (ibid: 171). Politicians in Francehave contended that the principle of laïcité is threatened since Muslims distin-guish themselves from the “unified” majority (ibid: 164). The argument con-cerning lack of integration with respect to the increasing enclaves of Muslims isparalleled by a public discourse reflecting an underlying fear of a greater “threat”– Islamic fundamentalism. The French parliamentary speaker, Jean-Louis Debré,a member of the ruling Union for a Popular Movement Party (UMP), explicitlyraised the sceptre of Islamic fundamentalism during the passage of the prohibi-tion bill. He triumphantly stated that the prohibition reinforced that a publicschool “is a place for learning and not for militant activity or proselytism”.6 Byassociating militancy to a particular type of sartorial norm among some Muslimwomen, the speaker in fact reveals his own prejudices. Xenophobic attitudesagainst Muslims appear to be as significant in the hijab debacle as are difficultquestions on the nature of integration of a religious minority.

Various strategies pertaining to acculturation and integration have been im-posed on minority communities across Europe, at times to the detriment of thosegroups that are ethnically and visually distinct minorities. Humayun Ansari,Professor of Islam and Cultural Diversity points out that integration and accul-turation was often understood as “a process in which language, customs andinstitutions of the adopted country are internalised by the settler body” (Ansari,2004: 209). However as migration to Europe from various parts of the worldbecame more diverse from the 1960s onwards, with the influx of migrant work-ers, related family reunifications and increased cases of political asylums seekers,the idea of acculturation was transformed. Previous views of acculturation withassumptions of a monolithic immigrant identity were replaced by the ideas ofintegration and multiculturalism (Baxter, 2006: 168-69). The new approach didnevertheless allow for the majority to “retain the right to question, if not con-demn, the minority’s religious and cultural practices” (ibid: 170). Consequently,as we have seen in France, and various other European countries, rules andregulations, or proposed new bills that deal with the veil/hijab in public spacehave been imposed. As such, European countries partake in different nationalmodes of engagement, that predominantly have repercussions for Muslim mi-norities and the ideal of multiculturalism.7

Did France prohibit the use of hijab in public schools to improve integra-tion, or did they want to assure assimilation and a uniform national identity?The French concept of integration as it relates to the hijab prohibition carrieswith it a certain authoritarian and majority-rule attitude that leads one to askquestions pertaining to public interest. What is the public interest for France inbanning religious symbols? In the aftermath of 9/11 there has been a tendency


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among Western nations to restrict the use of religious symbols in schools and atthe workplace. Are the rules and regulations, with respect to the prohibition ofhijab, implemented across various European countries because they are all con-cerned about the lack of integration? Or, is it the fear of the spread of Islamicfundamentalism in Europe assumed to be symbolised through Muslim women’sdress? Is there a link between veiled women and Islamic fundamentalism? Is therea tacit assumption that the more veiled women in the streets, the more power tothe Islamic fundamentalists?

When surveying the political debates just prior to the prohibition, it wasfirst and foremost the hijab as opposed to religious symbols in general that thegovernment wanted to ban. As such, Islamic religiosity was singled out andportrayed as a danger to French secular nationalism. In the media the hijab emergedas a religious symbol that restricts women’s agency and self-definitions. Christiancrosses and Jewish kippas did not receive the same attention. Hence the debatelargely focused around how Muslim women in particular represent a sense of“otherness”, and at the same time their inferiority under a misogynist religiousideology. Subsequently, the French government’s discourse often assumed anddepicted Muslim women as voiceless, victimised and lacking agency. The prohi-bition can be seen as both an attempt to “liberate” these mute Muslim women,and also to restrict the power of Islam.

The hijab-prohibition pertains to two separate but related issues. Firstly, theFrench government assumed that a prohibition would improve the situation ofveiled Muslim women. Secondly, as a consequence of the unveiling, Muslimwomen would now participate in the community as “free” women - somethingthat would increase social integration or assimilation, since the Muslim womennow are the “same as us”. All these positions were expounded by the Frenchgovernment without any significant or wide-ranging discussion with Muslimwomen. In a typical colonial manner, Muslim women’s views and voices werenot considered. Public discourses both in form and content reflected prejudicesand patronising cultural stereotypes against Muslims.

Researchers predict that the prohibition will, in fact, lead to the formationof several Muslim private schools and thereby increase segregation (Plesner, 2004:168-69). The coercive removal of the veil from public schools will, in all like-lihood, exacerbate Muslim isolation in France. By regulating Muslim women’sclothing through state policy, the French government adheres to a certain secularfundamentalism. It uses draconian means to uphold the nation’s secularity whenit comes to creating particular national identities of sameness that work in ac-cordance with the dominant political ideology. In fact there are direct discursiveparallels between coercive state policies of unveiling and those of enforcedveiling as in Iran, which we will discuss in the next part of this paper. Thecoercive veiling or unveiling of Muslim women is often perceived as an attackon identity and individuality with serious consequences for possibilities of self-


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representation. Coercive prohibition of hijab discriminates against French Mus-lims albeit under the political ticket of integration. As a consequence, manymore Muslim women may adopt the hijab in public spaces as a form of politicaland social protest. Muslim women activists have criticised coercive unveilingand its relationship to secular Western norms. Some Muslim women’s self-defini-tions are clearly related to religious ideology and the possibility to represent acounterculture to Western modernisation.

The hijab-ban created enormous attention in the French media: MichelaArdizzoni investigated the debates in the daily newspaper Le Monde, and twoweeklies L’Express and Le Point. She found that the debates were entirely articu-lated by men whether they were politicians, school principals, or religious lead-ers (Ardizzoni, 2004: 634). Consequently, Muslim women’s voices were notrecorded in the French press as represented by these three newspapers. The prin-ciple of laïcité was investigated by the Stasi Commission, a commission that wasestablished by President Chirac prior to the hijab-prohibition, and whose mainobjective was to investigate the implementation of secular values. The StasiCommission also examined whether a law that prohibited religious symbols wasrequired. Only one Muslim woman wearing the veil, Saida Kada, was invited tospeak to the Commission - revealing the lack of broad-based and genuine con-sultation with Muslim women at the national decision-making level. Saida Kadastated that she thought her “presence was used as a charade” (Bauer, 2004:12).8

Muslim women’s voices were vociferous when it came to protesting againstthe prohibition in the streets of Paris. The first demonstration in December 2003took place before the implementation of the ban and was more than 3000 peo-ple strong. On January 18th, 2004, tens of thousands of people from varyingbackgrounds rallied all over the world to show their opposition to the prohibi-tion of hijab and other ostentatious religious symbols in public schools.9 In France,signs and banners were carried proudly with slogans such as: “Reservedness is aright, the headscarf is my honor” and “[n]either fear, nor husband, the headscarfis my choice”. Other Muslim women expressed: “Mr. Chirac, our headscarf is notan aggression to the Republic,” and “France you are my country, hijab you are mylife” (Wing and Smith, 2006: 765). The demonstrations pointed to the centralmatter of women’s choices, and also on the importance of the hijab as a symbol ofasserting an identity as both French as well as Muslim (ibid).

Against the background of the hijab-ban in France and parts of Germany, theinternational network Assembly for the Protection of Hijab (or Pro-Hijab) was es-tablished. Their vision encompasses the need to “campaign nationally and inter-nationally for the protection of every Muslim woman’s right to wear the Hijab inaccordance with her beliefs and for the protection of every woman’s right todress as modestly and as comfortably as she pleases”.10 The Assembly for the Protec-tion of Hijab represents an important channel for Muslim women to conveyopinions and views regarding modest dress and hijab. Their work also includes


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projects that evolve around the rejection of Western negative stereotypes ofMuslim women, as well as the need to fight racial, religious or sexual discrimina-tion.

Eurocentric assumptions around a specific racialised, national identity isthreatening the idea of multiculturalism. The racial and national identity crisisin Europe is a reality. Both second- and also third-generation immigrants are stillcharacterised as immigrants. This implies that not only is a “foreign” religion seenas alienating, but also race is an indicator of “otherness”. So it does not reallymatter if you are born and raised in a European country, neither does it matterthat you speak the country’s language just as fluently as any “European”. It doesnot matter if you have been going through the “European” education system,been employed in a “European” company, participating in the community, oridentify yourself as “European”. Real “Europeans” are actually Caucasian andwill, therefore, still see you as an immigrant.11 Anti-immigration political partiesin Europe are continuously growing in strength. Mainstream conservatives areadvocating assimilation as the main objective for a possible future coexistence(ibid). Angela Merkel, opposition leader in Germany stated that, “the idea of amulticultural society cannot succeed. It is prone to failure from the start.Multiculturalism is not integration” (ibid: 30). However, immigrants will alwaysbe seen as immigrants, no matter how assimilated or integrated they are – andveiled Muslim women symbolise an immigrant “other” most starkly in the Frenchnational imagination. However, many Muslims themselves argue that, in fact,“Islamic ideals can coexist with European values” (ibid: 31).

What do these developments indicate? The hijab-debate in France is foundedon certain secular suppositions from within a particular historical trajectory.Secularisation in Europe presumes a particular form of separation of state andreligion. Underlying much of the French national debates on laïcité and hijab areun-interrogated Eurocentric assumptions relating to the relationship between re-ligion and public life, without sufficient inclusion of the realities of a growingMuslim minority. The European secularisation experience was formulated withinthe context of specific cultural norms and realities. With the influx of Muslimpopulations into Europe, the dominant French culture encounters a cultural,ethnic and religious “other”. Premised on implicit cultural and historical notionsof appropriate female dress, the French government is assuming a specific formof normative “non-religious” appearance in public space. Among other things,the debate is characterised by a lack of critical scrutiny regarding the dominantcultures constructions of what precisely constitutes “religious” as opposed tocultural expression; the assumptions of what “private” and “public” faces of reli-gion actually mean in the context of diverse religious traditions; or how Frenchsecularisation assumes Euro-centric norms for dressing and cultural identity.

The French hijab polemics indicate a lack of genuine respect for culturaldiversity. The French public largely refuse to recognise that normative French


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women’s clothing is simply one form of cultural self-expression, while some Muslimwomen use varying forms of headscarves to reflect other cultural norms and/orreligious beliefs. For instance, a French woman that wears a scarf can often beunderstood as chic by the general public, whereas a Muslim woman with a scarfis assumed to be a threat to civilisation. Implicitly the French culture of clothingis used as a cultural yardstick against which the Muslim “other” is measured.Instead of looking at these cultural particularities and varying forms of religiousexpression, the debate veers off into a discussion on the separation of religionand public space. In addition, such views of secularism also want to renderreligion invisible in the public sphere. The disparity between accepted culturalexpressions in terms of clothing relates not only to ideological and religiousdifferences, but also to issues around race, ethnicity and xenophobia.

Within liberal democracies, individual choice, personal freedom, a concernfor human dignity and religious toleration are purportedly cherished values thatalso promote cultural diversity. The French government’s ban on the headscarfcounters all these values and ideals. By prohibiting the hijab in public schoolsthe French government undermines its symbolic importance for some Muslimwomen’s identity. Wearing the hijab can also be a fundamental part of religiosityand a symbol of religious conviction for some Muslim women, while for othersthe hijab is simply culturally appropriate clothing. Yet others wear the hijab as aresult of a combination of factors in which both religiosity and cultural specificitiesare part of women’s self-representation. As such projecting the binary of separat-ing religion and public life is an outside imposition. Wearing the hijab in publicspace is not automatically a public statement; in essence, the veil does not nec-essarily indicate opposition to the prevailing political ideology or modernisa-tion. For some Muslim women hijab is simply how a woman dresses. In the processof implementing the prohibition of the hijab the French government is alsoeffectively legitimising certain prejudices against Muslim women – prejudicesthat convey the hijab as representative of Muslim women’s inferiority and lack ofautonomy. To the extent that Muslim women donning the hijab still representthe “other”, “they” are not becoming like “us”. To enforce integration into theFrench dominant culture thus results in the implementation of laws and regula-tions that coercively force “them” to become like “us”.

In a Western context the definitions of “Muslim” and the fear of Islamicfundamentalism in the dominant discourses restrict authentic Muslim women’sself-representations. Instead the majority are promoting their own perceptions of“Muslimness”. This lack of dialogical engagement is increasing alienation andxenophobia towards Muslim population in Western contexts. A major challengeto majority groups in Europe is to engage in genuine processes of dialogue thatrender mutual, authentic understandings and accommodation of diverse reli-gious beliefs. The worldwide demonstrations with regards to the hijab-ban high-light the sensitivity of religious issues in our global community.


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The instrumentalization of Muslim women’s dress and image in politicalcontexts is not unique to Europe. The representations of Muslim women’s bodiesand clothing were equally crucial in defining the cultural and political imagina-tion of Khomeini’s Iran, as they are in debates around secular principles andintegration in France. We will now examine how the various constellationswithin an Iranian context have constructed various female identities in relationto a post-revolutionary political ideology.

Iran: Resistance to WestoxicationWithin the Iranian context discourses of veiling are embroiled in broader genderand national politics. In post-revolutionary Iran coercive veiling imposed by thestate has informed the realities of Iranian women. The veil has come to signify awhole constellation of ideological and political agendas enmeshed in the mod-ern history of the Iranian state.

In pre-revolutionary Iran opposition to the Shah reflected a range of ideo-logical positions from Marxism to Islamism, and did not derive essentially fromthe need to establish an Islamic state (Moghadam, 1993: 88).12 Resistance byIranian men and women to the Pahlavi regime was primarily a reaction towardsthe corrupt secular legacy of the Shah who was notorious for nepotism andunfavourable economic policies (Najmabadi, 1991: 64). He was seen as a dicta-tor who promoted a political agenda which did not prioritise the well-being ofIranian people (Tohidi, 1994: 123). Many secular, unveiled women also partici-pated in the Iranian Revolution (1977-79). For the most part, women’s rejectionof the Shah’s regime did not specifically focus on whether a new regime wouldimprove the position of women, but rather on a general opposition to the Shah’sreign. There were, however, also some Iranian women who expressed resistanceto the modernisation ideal of the Shah by donning the hijab in public space(ibid). Historically, groups of Iranian women had risen in protest against theearlier Pahlavi leader, Reza Shah, who imposed a governmental campaign tounveil women in 1937 as part of a Westernisation program (Najmbadi, 1991:49). Reza Shah had linked Iranian women’s traditional dressing to the country’s“backwardness”. According to the Pahlavi rhetoric at the time, veiled Iranianwomen represented the antithesis of modernisation and progress, and thereforetheir way of dress had to be rejected. Critics asserted that the Pahlavi regimeindulged in power structures promoted by earlier colonial empires, and as suchbecame a “puppet government” controlled by Western imperial forces. The “actof unveiling” enacted by the Shah which, subsequently forced women to takeoff the veil before entering public space, became a token of Western dominanceand the submissive Iranian state. So in fact the Shah’s coercive unveiling ofMuslim women was also entangled in a larger ideological agenda to which West-ernisation was central.


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For the anti-Shah revolutionaries, the concept Gharbzadegi (Westoxification)was used to characterise their disillusionment with the Shah’s process of mod-ernisation, and was advocated by secularists and Islamists alike.13 The term al-ludes to the alienation felt by many Iranians concerning the implementation ofthe Shah’s version of Westernisation. It reflects the rejection of this type of ad-ministration and also the dissatisfaction with the reformation that had takenplace during the Pahlavi era.14 The concept of Gharbzadegi also subsequentlybecame a way to describe women influenced by what was perceived to be adegraded Western-type morality. Accordingly, the gharbzadeh woman encompassedsome of the most problematic Western evils: “she was a super-consumer of impe-rialist/dependent-capitalist/foreign goods; she was a propagator of the corruptculture of the West; she was undermining the moral fabric of society; she was aparasite, beyond any type of redemption”.15 For some, like the Islamic militants,the gharbzadeh woman was any woman who was unveiled. For others, the gharbzadehwoman represented “the painted dolls of the Pahlavi regime” (ibid: 65). Never-theless, gharbzadeh woman became the antithesis of the new Islamic woman, andspecific notions of Islamic modesty became the most desirable virtue. AfsanehNajmabadi contends that the ambivalence reflected in the debates concerningfemale identity in Iran can be symbolized by the concepts of “modern-yet-mod-est” used in the Pahlavi period and “Islamic-thus-modest” used in post-revolu-tionary Iran (ibid: 49; 65-66). These concepts represent a shift in the image ofthe ideal woman.

The Pahlavi regime projected an ideal of the Iranian woman as one whowore modern, Western style clothing while remaining modest in terms of thesociety at large. The “modern-yet-modest” ideal became a complicated matterbest mirrored in the concepts of jelf (too loose) and ommol (too traditional)(ibid: 66). In the 1960s Iranian women who adopted Western skirts that were tooshort were seen as jelf and represented a promiscuity that was sexually corruptingIranian society. On the other hand, if their skirt was too long it was understood asommol, reflecting old-fashioned and backward values (ibid: 66). The “modern-yet-modest” ideal became a fountainhead for contentious dualities, and Iranianwomen found themselves in the midst of a learning-by-doing experiment.

As part of their political agenda, the Islamic Republic created new femaleimages to counter the Pahlavi discourse on women. The “Islamic-thus-modest”model and the ideal of Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad wereestablished. Fatima’s life and experiences were understood to illustrate the fe-male ideal particularly through her family responsibilities as wife and mother.The Islamic state, prioritising women’s roles in the domestic sphere, imposedlaws concerning women’s education and professions restricting their participa-tion in public and communal life (Afshar, 1996: 125). As such, their construc-tions of Fatima echoed a state gender ideology that significantly disempoweredIranian women. In July 1980, the compulsory implementation of a particular


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understanding of Islamic dress was introduced. Every part of a woman’s body wasto be covered, except for her hands and face (Poya, 1999: 73). This impositionconstituted an explicit reversal of the Shah’s policy of unveiling and his enforce-ment of a modern Western dress code. “Islamic-thus-modest” implies that Iranianwomen must follow the dress codes established by the Islamic state, which wasequated with female modesty. As such, Iranian women were no longer trappedbetween the concepts of jelf and ommol; a particular form of traditional dressbecame the only acceptable ideal. Ayatollah Khomeini condemned the womenwho protested against the adoption of the Islamic dress, claiming that they hadbeen brainwashed by the Shah’s “Westoxication” and internalised the immoral-ity advocated by the Western world.16 Some women who supported the newregime were seen marching, shouting: “Death to foreign dolls” (Ferdows, 1986:132). The traditionally dressed Iranian woman became “the public face of therevolution”, and the female dress code became a symbol of the first successfulimplementation of an Islamic state (Afshar, 1998: 117-118). Women were usedto signify a broader political and ideological agenda that gained supremacyamong the ruling elite. The coercive female dress code symbolically representedthe re-establishment of the country’s forgotten moral code. “The painted dolls ofthe Shah” was a stage left behind, and only reflected an intrusive eclipse in thehistory of the Iranian society. Once again women were used as voiceless agents,this time to depict a discarded Western image.

The emergence of new security units that policed women’s appearance effec-tively forced women to don the hijab in public space.17 Their objective was tolook after public morality by ensuring that women in public spaces were dressedaccording to the regime’s prescriptions of Islam. The results of these securitystake-outs were that no women dared to enter public space without the appropri-ate dress (Poya, 1999: 73). For Iranian women there was a more immediate,pragmatic and self-preserving rationale for adopting the veil: the security unitswere known to be violent; their methods included amongst other strategies, topour acid over unveiled women (ibid). Veiling was thus not only coerced, butalso violently and aggressively policed. Traditionalist Islamic women, who wererecruited into these security units, were co-opted as part of coercive state ma-chinery. Ironically they actively participated in the realisation of a politicalideology through the suppression of other women. They simultaneously assertedpower while becoming instruments of a patriarchal state apparatus. In the re-gime’s rhetoric Muslim women, representing the antithesis of the Western woman,became the veiled protectors of social morality, and undertook the responsibilityof participation in a “just” society.

Some proponents of the veil argued that it helped to uproot the corruptingbeauty-myth of the West. Nonetheless, the dominant discourses of women’s veil-ing in Iran at the time also assume that women were responsible for men’s moralbehaviour: if women were treated as sex symbols by men, it was their own fault


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because they did not comply with the Islamic rules of modesty.18 At the sametime, the communal wearing of the Islamic dress espoused a certain form of ashared, albeit, coerced national identity. The new Islamic dress code mainlyaffected the modern women in urban cities. Women living in rural areas, whoalways had dressed traditionally (even under the Pahlavis whose policy did notreach or affect the rural community at large) continued to do so. Similarly,traditional middle-class women in urban areas who had rejected the politics ofthe Shah were more likely to identify with the female ideal promoted by thenew regime (Poya, 1999: 74).

In post-revolutionary Iran, the veil acquired yet another layer of meaningduring the Iran-Iraq war. The veiled Iranian woman was now represented asbeing more pious than the Iraqi woman (Shirazi, 2001: 94). Posters depictingveiled Iranian women as mothers, sisters, wives and daughters who supportedtheir sons, brothers, husbands and fathers in the war were displayed everywhere.The ideal of womanhood portrayed on the posters could be seen as representingthe ideal woman Fatima, fundamentally constructed around her relationships ofsupport and assistance to male family members in times of strife (ibid: 96). Theseparticular constructions of women and female ideals were deliberatelyinstrumentalised in the Iran-Iraq war to promote the state’s political and militaryagendas. The Islamic Republic of Iran further embellished the political symbol-ism of the veil by associating veiled women with the rhetoric of jihad. Postersdepicting veiled Iranian women holding guns became widespread. The aim wasto signal that these women supported the war and at the same time fought fortheir religious rights. In essence, Iran embodied true Islam; Iraq did not. Depic-tions of Iranian women who willingly sacrificed their sons in the war supportedthe ideal of martyrdom. Even though martyrdom was a religious ideal uncondi-tionally reserved for men, Iranian women embodied this ideal by representingFatima. Thus the militant image of the veiled Iranian women was part of the warpropaganda at the time, an image that we find resurfacing in current Frenchveiling debates. In reality those Iranian women could not legally participate inthe war and as such not obtain the martyr-ideal (ibid).

Islamist Iran continues to represent the veiled Iranian women as repositoriesof modesty, and Islamic values throughout the world. As such, state discourses ofmorality are simplified by reducing morality almost exclusively to women’s sexualmodesty, behaviour and dress. Morality is in fact a broad category that relates toa number of human relationships. One could argue that a more comprehensiveengagement with the notion of morality would demand a critical interrogationof coercive gender relationships including state-imposed dress codes for women.

From these developments it is clear that Muslim women’s dress has occupieda central symbolic space in the politics of the Islamic state, as it had in the priorPahlavi era.19 The veil has constantly been defined and redefined in the chang-ing political climate and women were used instrumentally by consecutive patri-


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archal political regimes. Iranian women themselves have had limited autonomyand power in relation to the dominant state constructions of female ideals. Dif-ferent governments have controlled and curtailed the existence of women’s or-ganisations and activism, and in an earlier period, also deprived women of theright to vote.20 For women, the political ideologies of both the Pahlavis and theIslamic State have been defined by explicit elements of gendered political coer-cion.

Despite the overwhelming attempt to control women’s agency by the IslamicState, groups of Iranian women have resisted. Two feminist trends namely, secu-lar feminism and Islamic feminism, emerged in response to the gender politicsadvocated by the Islamist regime. Islamic feminism is a discourse that elucidateson the “woman question” from within an Islamic framework (Moghadam,2002:1142).21 According to Afsaneh Najmabadi (1998), Muslim women’s de-bates on issues pertaining to gender and sexuality in Iran have evolved over thelast 25 years. One of the most significant developments in relation to genderpolitics is the changing approach to questions of fundamental gender difference.Whereas previously much of women’s debates in Iran have accepted that menand women’s biological differences justified differential treatment, Islamic femi-nists now argue that the discriminatory treatment of women is due to unjustsocial circumstances. They have adopted an increasingly critical stance againstsupposedly Islamic justifications for a divine basis of gender discrimination (ibid).

A popular platform for Islamic feminist voices is the women’s magazine Zanan,launched in February 1992, which has emerged as a strong site for raising genderconsciousness. Zanan advocates new Shari’a interpretations, and suggests newunderstandings which elucidate equality within the confines of Islam (Mir-Hosseini,1996: 286). Zanan is part of a new discourse which promotes the advancementof women’s choices by prioritizing feminist voices and perspectives. Interpreta-tions include both laws and regulations pertaining to the domestic sphere as wellas to the public domain (ibid: 293). The 1992 Divorce Amendments is a resultof this Islamic feminist engagement and gives women the right to “domesticwages for the work they have done during marriage” (ibid: 286). Iranian femi-nists have made valuable contributions to Islamic scholarship in Iran and inter-nationally.

While secular Iranian feminists focus on the suppressive nature of Islamicideology, and claim that women’s liberation within this framework is unattain-able (Moghadam, 2002: 1151). Mahnaz Afkhami, a Muslim feminist writingfrom exile in Washington D.C., asserts: “I call myself a Muslim and a feminist.I’m not an Islamic feminist – that’s a contradiction in terms” (ibid:1152). Afkhami’sposition reflects the secular feminist stand which argues that a fusion betweenIslamism and feminism is an oxymoron. Another secular Iranian feminist Valen-tine Moghadam questions the one-dimensional view of women’s liberation withinthe Islamic ideology. She claims that by engaging in theological arguments, as


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opposed to questioning cultural and political establishments, Islamist womenwill not achieve results that actually contribute to drastically change their posi-tion in society. Further, she asserts that such a form of gender consciousnessfocussing so extensively on re-interpreting religious texts could lead to the rein-forcement of patriarchal structures embedded within Islamic ideology (ibid: 1158).

Another controversy has emerged among these different groups of feminists.Many secular Iranian feminists chose to live in exile and this reality has becomecontentious. Secular Muslim feminists who still live in Iran claim that theircounterparts chose an easy way out; as such they could be seen as the “Quislings”of Muslim feminism. They argue that these women are sitting on their highhorses criticising everything that is wrong with the Islamic state in relation togender issues without partaking in the actual struggle within the country(Najmabadi 1998:73). On the other hand, secular Muslim feminists in exileclaim that the women presently residing in Iran, calling themselves either Islamicor secular feminists, need their help. They enforce this argument on three ac-counts. Firstly, women residing in Iran are implicitly supporting the present patri-archal regime. Secondly, by supporting the politics of the Iranian state they havecompromised themselves and what they believe in, in order to actively partici-pate in the community, for instance by donning the veil. And thirdly, theiragency is taken away from them by complying with the rules of the regime andthey can thereby be seen as silenced victims in need of “a voice outside” (ibid:73). However, an increased dialogue between these different feminist groups isemerging as reflected in articles that appear in Zanan where opposing argumentshave been presented (ibid: 73).22 Through these debates concerning contempo-rary Muslim feminist establishments, it becomes clear that there is a multiplicityof feminist Iranian voices. Iranian women are not a homogenous group, and it isimperative to recognise the varying and multi-dimensional feminist discoursesthat advocate notions of female agency and empowerment.

ReflectionsDespite the diverse meanings of the hijab in varying Muslim social, religious andcultural contexts, the veil continues to be an increasingly politicised symbol incontemporary Western political discourses. The “clash of civilizations” betweenIslam and the West has become a tiresome mantra in current politics. Images ofveiled Muslim women have been used to reinforce such polarised constructions.In reality these polarised realities are also partly the product of European colo-nial history and the related political encounter between Christianity and Islam.In addition, the terrorist actions performed by small, extreme fundamentalistgroups in the name of Islam have also sharpened the nature of polemical andnegative representations of Islam as a whole. Especially in the aftermath of Sep-tember 11th 2001, xenophobia, racism and religious prejudice have particularly


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affected Muslim women who wear hijab, because of their visibility as Muslims.Within the scope of this paper, we have illustrated how women’s agency and

representation in Iran and France have been and are controlled by authoritarian,patriarchal tropes that result in alienating female ideals. The coerced unveilingimplemented by the French government inscribes competing and contradictoryframes of reference on Muslim women’s bodies. The dominant French discoursetreats Muslim women as objects to be utilised within broader ideological de-bates that ultimately disregard and marginalise Muslim women’s voices and agency.Both the French and the Iranian governments demonstrate, through authoritar-ian laws on veiling/unveiling, direct discursive parallels. Despite all the rhetoricof equality and freedom from oppression (especially in Western discourses), bothFrench and Iranian narratives severely restrict Muslim women’s choices. Ironi-cally, these two discourses that seem to be so opposed to one another are structur-ally dealing with Muslim women in similar ways. The Muslim women who aredirectly affected by these various state machineries and regulations are seldom, ifever, engaged in a genuine dialogical relationship. For the large part, assump-tions are made about these women’s realities, their images are exploited in ideo-logically charged ways and laws are unilaterally imposed on them.

In a more global contemporary context, veiling has neither a unitary mean-ing nor a frozen ahistorical significance. Particularly in countries where Muslimsare a minority, the veil is often part of a broader politics of identity. For somewomen, freely choosing to wear the veil as a symbol of identity in an un-Islamiccontext characterises their individuality. It represents an independent process ofidentity construction reflecting the “modern” characteristic of self-determina-tion. At the same time, there are religious as well as secular Muslim women thatcontest the notion that veiling is necessarily required by Islam. Yet others chal-lenge the coercive imposition of veiling based on sexist gender ideologies. Otherssee the veil as a tool that liberates and empowers instead of imprisons. There arealso cases where some Muslim women become part of a political apparatus thatimpose either veiling or unveiling on their peers. Veiling has multiple significationsreflected in different political and historical contexts that inform varied opin-ions and choices of Muslim women. In order to properly address the contempo-rary debates concerning prohibitions and banning of the veil, it is necessary todeconstruct Western generalisations and universalistic assumptions about the re-alities of Muslim women.

Within the European context, debates pertaining to “obvious” religious sym-bols and secular identity also beg the question about who decides what it meansto be a Muslim? And on what basis does one conclude that the wearing of hijabin public spaces connotes a certain statement in relation to a specific religiousidentity? And how does one arrive at the conclusion that specific forms of reli-gious identity threaten secular ideology and values such as equality and democ-racy? Western political and cultural expressions are informed by values and norms


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that have emerged out of particular histories of secularism and modernisation.Within the hijab debate there is clear evidence of Western authoritarian and pre-conceived notions of sameness imposed on religious and cultural “others”. Assuch the European encounter with Muslim minorities is defined in terms ofprejudices resulting in problematic restrictions of particular forms of religiousand/or cultural visibility in public life.

Many Europeans believe that the veil accentuates identity differentiationand gender stigmatisation. However, if the veil is banned, will this necessarilyimprove the position of Muslim women in a Western context? Muslim women’sparticipation in these debates is imperative when implementing laws that spe-cifically affect the nature of their public presence. By not engaging in dialoguewith Muslim women, those most directly impacted by the hijab prohibitions,Western discourses reflect a colonial narrative that does not recognise the voiceor agency of Muslim women. In a democratic and post-colonial Western contextthe imposition of dominant cultural values on the religious and often ethnic“other” needs to be contested. While Muslim women’s identities in Westerncontexts are varied the projection of the veil as the “new” Islamic icon hasinformed the self-representations of many Muslim women. However, whether theveil is worn or rejected, it is enmeshed in complex symbolic and political matri-ces which cannot be discounted when trying to engage with this phenomenon.The use of hijab in itself is not a symbol that advocates lack of integration. It ispeople’s attitudes that promote this view and the imagined link between don-ning the hijab and isolation. For Muslim women in Europe embracing valuessuch as equality, religious freedom and individual rights while still being seen as“other” is difficult and challenging. It is crucial to address Muslim women as aheterogeneous group with multiple identities and various expressions and mani-festations of these identities.

So what are the possibilities for a future discourse? Multiculturalism andcoexistence have become contested concepts. They are embroiled in a complexpolitics of identity that raise critical questions of the nature of integration and/or assimilation of Muslim minorities in Western societies. Prevailing discoursesconcerning Muslim women must be interrogated since they are often informedby misinformation and prejudices.

There is a need for deeper knowledge and understanding of Islam and fordialogue with Muslim communities. In creating societies characterised by mu-tual understanding and genuine multiculturalism, there needs to be greater opennessto varying forms of self-representation. It is imperative to move away from geo-political essentialisms that positions Muslim women’s bodies as instrumental forbroader political agendas. A significant step towards a transformative, inter-cul-tural dialogue demands among other things to embrace polyvocality and per-sonal narratives – these urge interlocutors to reflect on the fullness of humanexperiences and the complexity of people’s self-understandings.


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Notes1 In this article we will make use of both the words hijab and the veil. Hijab and veil

are concepts that often have been used interchangeably. However, there are differentnuances of meaning when using each of these terms. The word veil, mostly used byWesterners in debates around Muslim female dress, can include reference to a face-veil, a head-scarf and/or a cloak. However in Muslim societies, there are numerousterms used to describe varying forms of modest female clothing depending on coun-try of origin, historical era, class, status and age. The word hijab has also beeninterpreted differently by Muslim scholars. Its multiple meanings allude to seclusion,separation in space (domestic/public, men/women), protection and veiling. See ElGuindi, 1995:108-109.

2 Throughout this article we make use of the categories, Islam and the West withoutassuming that these exist as homogenous, discrete or fixed entities. Rather, we usethese categories descriptively to reflect expressions of shared identity among differentgroups. For a more thorough analysis pertaining to these categories see Edward Said,Orientalism, 1978.

3 An estimation of the Muslim population in France is between 6 and 8 millionpeople, 10-12% of the French population. See Storhaug, 2006:199.

4 The Economist, February 7th-13

th 2004.

5 laicisation n.f. laicization, secularization. laiciser v.t. to laicize, to secularize. laïcité n.f.undenominational character (of schools etc.). See Cassell’s New French-English,English-French Dictionary, 1965.

6 Reported by Reuters in the New York Times, February 10, 2004. “Ban on ReligiousApproval Advances in France.”

7 See http://www.prohijab.net/english/hijabban-news.htm to find out more about ban-ning the hijab in various European countries.

8 Saida Kader is the head of FFEME, a political activist group for French Muslimwomen that assists Muslim girls who have been expelled from school, because of theuse of hijab, back into the academic system.

9 www.greenleft.org.au/2004/568/33122

10 www.prohijab.net, their aims include: “To bring an end to the Hijab ban whereverit has already been imposed; To prevent the spread of the Hijab ban developing anyfurther; To co-ordinate the various efforts being made to end or prevent the Hijabban; To provide a platform for Muslim women to express their views; To expose anddiscourage any false stereotypes which present Muslim women as being oppressed; Toliberate Muslim women from any form of race, religious or sex discrimination whetherit be state, institutional, organisational or individual discrimination”.

11 See also Walt, 2005:31

12 Mohammad Reza Shah came to power in Iran in 1953. References to Reza Shah(the first Pahlavi who ruled from 1925-1941) will be made explicit.

13 Gharbzadegi was the title of a book written in 1964 by Jalal Al-e Ahmad, it reflectedthe anti-Western attitudes conveyed later by Ayatollah Khomeini. See Tohidi, 1994:121.

14 The Pahlavi-era is used to refer to the period of time governed by both Reza Shahand Muhammad Reza Shah.


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15 Najmabadi, 1991:65, Gharbzadeh woman was further illustrated as: “a woman whowore ‘too much’ make-up, ‘too short’ a skirt, ‘too tight’ a pair of pants, ‘too low cut’a shirt, who was ‘too loose’ in her relations with men, who laughed ‘too loudly’,who smoked in public...”

16 In Zan-e Ruz, a women’s magazine published in Teheran, this editorial was publishedin April 1984. It deals with the concerns of the Islamic society: “...Islamic belief andculture provides people of these societies [Islamic societies] with faith andideals...Woman in these societies [are] armed with a shield that protects her againstthe conspiracies aimed at her humanity, honour and chastity. The shield is verily herveil. For this reason...the most immediate and urgent task was seen to beunveiling...Then she became the target of poisonous arrows of corruption, prostitu-tion, nakedness...After this, she was used to disfigure the Islamic culture of thesociety...and drag society in her wake toward corruption, decay and degradation...Todaythe Muslim woman has well understood...that the only way for her social presenceto be healthy and constructive is to use Islamic veil and clothes...”. Najmabadi,1991:68.

17 Examples are: Sarollah (the Blood of God), Ershad Eslami (Islamic Guidance), Komiteh(local Islamic councils) and Pasdaran (the Revolutionary Guards). See Poya, 1999:73.

18 Note that modesty in this context becomes strongly connected to the idea of amodest dress, i.e. the Islamic dress - modesty equals Islamic dress.

19 Through dressing, women became represented as the protectors of the various politi-cal agendas. Three dates can be seen as descriptive for the various political develop-ments. Firstly, in 1927 a woman’s organisation called The Messenger of Prosperityestablished Women’s Day on 8

th March to celebrate the Iranian women without

relating her to any pre-conceived female ideal. However, in 1937 this day was changedunder the first Pahlavi to 7

th January since the latter date marked the implementa-

tion of his campaign to unveil Iranian women and strive towards the ideal unveiledwestern woman. Thirdly, in 1980 Khomeini changed Women’s Day to 6

th May, the

birth of Fatima, the new Iranian ideal presented by the Islamic Republic. Thesethree dates, ironically, reflects the pervading changes in the political domain due tovarying political agendas. See Poya, 1999:67

20 Women’s right to vote in Iran was first granted on 27th February 1963 This was

almost 30 years after the act of unveiling was introduced. See Poya, 1999:50.

21 Adherents of this view are Iranian women like Afsaneh Najmabadi, Nayereh Tohidiand Ziba Mir-Hosseini.

22 For a more thorough discussion on these issues that pertains to increased dialogueread Najmabadi, 1998: 73-77. In Islam, Gender, and Social Change, Yvonne Y. Haddadand John L. Esposito, Eds. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.


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Politics of Higher Ordination For Women in Sri Lanka: Discussions with Silmatas

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