Once Were Radicals

by Irfan Yusuf

  Many of my elders who shared Dad’s sensible and conventional wisdom could not quite understand what it was like to navigate and negotiate your identity in an environment where you looked different, where no one could even pronounce your name and where it was easy to feel marginalised. A large number of my friends from Indo-Pakistani background walked away from both their culture and religion. Others spent much time in their parents’ ‘home country’, struggling to practise a culture they didn’t understand and ending up almost completely confused.

  The uncles could never provide us with activities and gatherings that would keep us within their cultural and religious tent. So it was only a matter of time before we organised our own events. After attending my first camp at Harrietville in 1985, I joined the Islamic Youth Association (IYA). I was happy to hear that my Turkish supervisor Refat was elected IYA President. That same year, Refat married a Turkish-Australian girl whose father was a prominent writer in Turkey. Most of the kids from the camp went to the wedding, and I was most upset that Mum and Dad made me go to some Pakistani uncle’s house instead.

  I looked up to Refat as a kind of religious leader, though Refat never regarded himself as such. He never claimed to be a sheikh and never put on a pious act, even if he did lead our weekly usra (discussion circle) at Lakemba where we would read and discuss an English translation of the same Maududi book of village sermons I read when I was younger.

  The IYA was a place where I felt I could grow in my Islam. This was a more authentic Islam, less focused on South Asian culture and more on actual religious texts. After my first camp, I didn’t mind that the IYA was less interested in changing the world and ridding it of neo-jahiliyah (ignorance or barbarism, especially pre-Koranic Arabia). It was enough for me to feel part of a group giving young Muslims somewhere they could socialise with other Muslims of all different backgrounds.

  I’d talk about how much fun I had at IYA events to my Indo-Pakistani friends to the point where one of them became sick of hearing me blab on and on about the IYA. ‘Irfan, I reckon the reason you talk about the IYA so much is because it really stands for the “Irfan Yusuf Association”.’

  I missed out on the 1986 camp at the end of Year 11. This camp was organised by Uncle QAA, and it had a more intellectually rigorous program that I would have enjoyed. The education program consisted of a thick set of readings from some names I had familiarised myself with at the university library and in the collections sent by Naani Amma in Karachi. The booklet included articles and book chapters from ideologues of a range of Islamic movements and parties of various Muslim-majority countries, including Maududi, Shariati and Mutaherri, Syed and Muhammad Qutb from the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, and also various Western writers such as Ziauddin Sardar. My next camp was in 1987, after finishing my Year 12 exams.

  This camp was a little closer to home. Jindabyne was an alpine village near Canberra which filled up with ski visitors in winter. That summer, it would become inundated with an out-and-out United Nations of young Muslim kids, two imams, a bunch of middle-aged male organisers and their wives (who also doubled as chefs).

  Our imams this year were Sheikh Fehmi and Dad’s old friend Imam Chami. Both spoke relatively good English. Imam Chami had plenty of experience living in Australia, spoke fluent Arabic and used to often refer to the Arabic commentary of the Koran written by Syed Qutb. Imam Chami was a big fan of the Egyptian Muslim movement called al-Ikhwan al-Muslimeen (‘Muslim Brotherhood’) which had close relations with Pakistan’s Jamaat-i-Islami. Sheikh Fehmi preferred to read from a book called al-Halal wal-Haraam fil Islam (which means ‘The Lawful and the Prohibited in Islam’) written by a modern Egyptian scholar named Dr Yusuf al-Qaradawi.

  I had brought a copy of Qaradawi’s book with me to the camp. I found this to be very helpful in understanding why certain things were allowed and not allowed by Islam’s religious law (known as the sharia). Qaradawi had specifically written the book for Western audiences, and provided not only evidence for his views from religious texts but also rational explanations.

  Qaradawi made Islam sound like a rational religion whose rules were consistent with human nature. He explained how rules were derived from general principles: that things were haraam if they were impure or harmful, that halal things were sufficient while haraam were usually superfluous, that doubtful things are best avoided and that necessity does create exceptions to prohibitions.

  God didn’t just prohibit things for the sake of them.

  It cannot be that Allah, may He be glorified, would create all these things, give man control over them, count them as His favours upon him, and subsequently inform him that their use is prohibited; how could this be when He created all this for man’s use and benefit? Indeed, He has prohibited only a few things for specific reasons … In Islam the sphere of prohibited things is very small, while that of permissible things is extremely vast. There is only a small number of sound and explicit texts concerning prohibitions …

  However, Qaradawi’s book was regarded as too liberal by many Indo-Pakistani uncles and molvis. They preferred Indian books such as Behistht-i-Zewar (‘Heavenly Ornaments’), an Urdu book written in the early twentieth century by an Indo-Pakistani scholar from the Deoband school named Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanwi. Mum would sometimes read to my sisters and I from the Urdu text of this book. We also had an English translation, but it was of very poor quality and contained some very strict rules such as an absolute prohibition on music. The translation of Behisht-i-Zewar also did not cover as many topics as Qaradawi’s book, and did not provide any reasons or texts supporting its rulings. We were expected to take Maulana’s word about what was halal and haraam.

  Qaradawi’s book, on the other hand, covered a wide range of issues. He provided rules of personal hygiene, family relations, sport, business, relations with non-Muslims and even relations with animals. Qaradawi even wrote about contraception, abortion and sexual relations. Even my stricter uncles didn’t object to Qaradawi’s views on abortion:

  Muslim jurists agree unanimously that after the foetus is completely formed and has been given a soul, aborting it is haraam … However, there is one exceptional situation. If, say the jurists, after the baby is completely formed, it is reliably [established] that the continuation of the pregnancy would necessarily result in the death of the mother, then, in accordance with the general principle of the sharia, that of choosing the lesser of two evils, abortion must be performed.

  For the mother is the origin of the foetus; moreover, she is established in life, with duties and responsibilities, and she is also a pillar of the family. It would not be possible to sacrifice her life for the life of a foetus which has not yet acquired a personality and which has no responsibilities or obligations to fulfil.

  Qaradawi’s book illustrated that the Prophet was interested in making sure his companions understood not just what things were haraam but also why they fell into this category. The book even covered sexual intercourse between husband and wife. Kids like me may have been too prudish to ask our fathers about the birds and the bees, but the companions of the Prophet (including women) had no such scruples. Qaradawi even cites a report in the hadith literature about a woman who asks the Prophet whether she and her husband could engage in ‘vaginal intercourse from the back’.

  Like Qaradawi, Sheikh Fehmi was open to answering any question we threw at him. I approached Sheikh Fehmi once and asked him about the issue of masturbation. At school, my teacher in Personal Development (a polite way of saying sex education) told us that masturbation was perfectly natural and caused no harm. However, some of my Indo-Pakistani uncles told me it was completely forbidden. One uncle, an Indian doctor, had two sons who were complete rascals and would run riot at any house their family was invited to. One of them poured Coca Cola into our swimming pool filter. This uncle was giving a religious talk once, and warned us about the evils of masturbation.

  ‘This thing some of you young boys do with your hand is very bad. You shouldn’t t
ouch down there at all. I forbid my own sons from this.’ One of the more irreverent older boys responded with this pertinent question: ‘Uncle, if that’s the case, why do your sons behave like such wankers?’

  Anyway, I asked Sheikh Fehmi about masturbation. I told him about what my uncles taught. ‘You should follow Qaradawi,’ Sheikh Fehmi said. ‘I will only teach you what Qaradawi teaches. No more and no less.’

  I brought along a few volumes of an English translation of an Urdu commentary of the Koran written by Maududi and titled Tafhim al-Qur’an (or Tafhim for short). I had started reading this commentary in Year 11. Maududi provided lots of historical information in Tafhim. He began each surah (chapter) with information about the circumstances in which it was revealed.

  I already knew that the Koran had been sent down to earth by God via the angel Gabriel to the Prophet Muhammad in instalments of varying lengths over a period of twenty-three years. I also believed the Prophet could not have written it himself as he was illiterate, and its eloquence and the accuracy of its information make it a miracle.

  For me, the ultimate proof of this was some scientific information that verses from the Koran contained. In a book titled The Bible, The Qur’an and Science, French scientist Maurice Bucaille says the Koran contains modern scientific information that the Prophet Muhammad could not have known at his time. This scientific stuff was a basic threshold used by many of us to accept the divine origins of the Koran. But for me, the Koran had also become a book which would help us resolve larger issues. Maududi’s Tafhim commentary showed how the Koran was revealed at various times to suit certain religious purposes but also to further certain political, economic and social goals.

  One strange incident happened early on in the camp. Imam Chami wanted to shorten and join two sets of prayer times in the same manner as Imam Fehmi had done at my first camp at Harrietville. However, after we had finished the early afternoon salaat and immediately stood up to commence the late afternoon salaat, a small group of Turkish Muslims, including Mahmud (the world champion Koran reciter from the first camp) refused to stand up.

  One of the organisers became rather upset and pleaded with the Turks to join us. Another friend from my first camp, Shaf, asked the Turks why they had split from the rest of us. Mahmud said that they were Hanafi, after which Shaf and some of his Yugoslav friends also joined them.

  Apart from this rebel Hanafi group, the rest of us performed our salaat in congregation behind Imam Chami, following him in the various postures of prayer. Afterwards, I could see the two imams discussing and debating the issue along with a few camp organisers and group supervisors. I wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about. Why make such a huge issue over such a minor incident? And what on earth was this thing called Hanafi?

  For me, part of the strength of Islam was that Muslims were relatively united on religious matters even if entire Muslim countries fought over land or politics. Sunni Iraq (or so we thought back then) and Shia Iran may have been killing each other in war, but Sunni and Shia Muslims had few religious differences.

  In my early teens, I’d seen Muslim groups dispute over which day to start the fasting lunar month of Ramadan. Some uncles started one day after everyone else, claiming the Prophet Muhammad insisted on sighting the new moon with his naked eye. Other uncles said we could rely on a lunar calendar which was based on astronomical calculations. In this debate, Mum (who made all family decisions related to religion) would always go with the majority view. Mum said that God would never allow a majority of Muslims to get things wrong. Yet here at my second camp, I saw my elders arguing over a minor religious issue. To make matters worse, Shaf told me that I was also part of this rebel group called Hanafi.

  Eventually the imams reached an agreement. We would perform five shortened prayers each day. The Hanafi rebels had won. Imam Chami stood up in front of us and explained the reason for the decision. He said that Imam Abu Hanifa, who was born some sixty years after the Prophet passed away, had taught that we couldn’t join four of the five daily prayers when travelling and could only shorten them. Other imams contemporary to Abu Hanifa taught that we could both join and shorten. Readers unfamiliar with all this needn’t worry if they can’t understand—I certainly couldn’t understand at the time. I’d never heard we had to blindly or rigidly obey eighth-century religious scholars like Abu Hanifa. Qaradawi said that the views of these Imams were very influential but not binding.

  Mahmud sat a group of us down and taught us that each act of worship and each religious act would fit somewhere in a spectrum from fardh (compulsory) at one end to nafl (barely recommended and not compulsory) at the other. This in our five daily prayers, some cycles of prayer were fardh while others were described as waajib (slightly less than compulsory) while others were sunnah (important but not quite compulsory) and others were nafl (extra and not compulsory but would still earn savaab or spiritual currency).

  That’s acts of worship. What about other deeds? Mahmud then told us of Qaradawi’s spectrum—from halal (permitted) at one end to haraam (absolutely forbidden) at the other. Between these two poles were varying levels of permissibility, including acts termed mubah (neutral).

  Mahmud taught us that it was necessary (fardh) for Muslims to know which act of worship fitted in what part of the first (fardh to nafl) spectrum. We also needed to know which acts were haraam and to know that all other deeds were basically allowed (less forbidden than haraam and more often than not halal).

  Confused? I certainly was at the time. I was satisfied with Qaradawi’s explanations, and couldn’t understand why Mahmud seemed so obsessed with smaller intricacies of Islamic law as it applied to the life of an individual. I knew Islam’s sacred law had some impact on your relationships with your parents, family and friends, regardless of their religion. But what about the society at large?

  It seemed to me that too much emphasis was being placed on micro issues. We were too focused on transforming ourselves and our families. But I remembered Maududi’s message that Muslims also had a responsibility to change their society. Islam was more than just a religion. Islam was a complete code of life. We needed to broaden our vision. We needed to transplant the agenda of overseas Islamic movements to Australia.

  I put these concerns to Imam Chami. I had heard him frequently referring to the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt, and expected to find a sympathetic ear. ‘Brother Irfan, these issues are not our primary concern at this time. Right now, we need to change ourselves. How can we expect to change our Muslim communities if ordinary Muslims have no understanding of our religion? We are not living in Pakistan or Egypt. We can learn some lessons from Islamic movements over there, but we cannot copy their methodology. We don’t wish to establish an Islamic state here. What we have in Australia allows us to practise our religion more freely than even in Muslim countries.’

  Imam Chami told me stories about Muslim Brotherhood leaders being tortured in Egypt and other Arab countries. One woman named Zainab al-Ghazali was subjected to even more extreme forms of torture by the regime of Egyptian leader Gamal Abdel Nasser than even many men. Imam Chami told me about laws enforced in Tunisia that banned Muslim workers from fasting during Ramadan. He mentioned how mosques in Albania had been turned into museums by the communist regime.

  To my mind, this litany of suffering meant we in Australia had to lead the way in the struggle of the international Islamic movement. ‘If we can turn Australia into an Islamic environment, eventually an Islamic state, we can then stand up to these dictators.’

  Imam Chami disagreed. ‘Brother Irfan, Australia is already Islamic. If you go to England and America, you will see many leaders of al-Ikhwan al-Muslimeen and Jamaat-i-Islami living there. You don’t see them calling to change the West.’

  In my mind, Imam Chami’s reasoning did not tally with what I was reading in books by Maududi, Jameelah and Qutb. Maryam Jameelah had even moved from New York to Pakistan to help in the struggle. Those Islamic movement leaders who had moved to the West di
d so not because the West was Islamic but because the West had liberal asylum laws which these leaders took advantage of.

  Although I disagreed with Imam Chami, it was always an honour for an elder like him to address me as ‘brother’ (or in his case, bruzzer). But then, everyone at the camp (including some of my uncles) addressed each other as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’.

  As usual, we had long and boring lectures from middle-aged male organisers, almost all of whom were executive members of AFIC. One was a chap from Canberra who taught at a university. We used to poke enormous fun at his rather thick Punjabi accent, much to the disturbance of his son and daughter, both of whom attended the camp as participants.

  I brought a large cassette player to the camp, and would frequently play loud hard-rock music. This upset many of the other participants in my cabin, especially the Lebanese and Egyptian kids who preferred wimpy Michael Jackson or Prince songs (I called it ‘wog music’) to my AC/DC, John Cougar Mellencamp and U2. Ironically, one of my English teachers at school referred to my casette player as ‘the wog block’.

  Things came to a head on the night of New Year’s Eve. Our ten-day camp went over New Year’s Eve and into early January 1988, and in past camps a number of participants had run amok to celebrate the end of the year. On this occasion, the group supervisors and organisers took no chances. All participants were made to sit in the main prayer hall by the kitchen. We sat on the prayer mats and prepared ourselves to sing some religious songs in Arabic.