Week 7 Blog Post

Hey everyone, here is my post for week 7:

One of Foucault’s boldest statements was to declare that the homosexual identity type was a modern invention of 19^th century Europe, and that prior acts of homosexuality were defined as just that: acts. It is a commonly accepted proposal that such conceptions of the homosexual identity are not applicable to periods prior to the modern era, and homosexual practices that were observed prior to the conception of a homosexual identity did not constitute anything more than a temporary sexual practice. Both Murray and Najmabadi seek to complicate this understanding of pre-modern homosexual identity. Murray takes a look at the lexicon of different Islamic cultures in an attempt to locate ways of defining homosexual identities that are different from the modern conception of homosexuality, yet still constitute an identity over an act. He focuses specifically, then, on explaining the invisibility of these identities and roles. “Usually in Arab and other Islamic societies, everyone successfully avoids public recognition (let alone discussion!) of deviation from normative standards—sexual or other,” which can be thought of as “the will to not know,” (Murray, 15). Najmabadi uses both Foucault and Murray as inspiration and explores Persian sexualities and identities through conceptions of beauty and love. Both authors work to complicate the notion that homosexual identities are a purely modern phenomenon, but also acknowledge that the modern idea of gay and lesbian are not applicable to these time periods.

                Stephen Murray begins by using a comparison between the “don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t pursue” homosexuals policy of the US military to that of the public sphere in what he refers to as the Mediterranean/Islamic status quo. He outlines the main difference as the lack of a push for respect toward discrete homosexual behavior in the Mediterranean/Islamic status quo. He at first acknowledges the idea that homosexual identities may not have existed prior to the modern era in the form of homosexual acts—however he quickly moves to contest that notion by going into detail about the many different ways that homosexual roles were lexically defined. “Whether or not egalitarian/”gay” homosexuality existed as a covert category earlier and/or elsewhere, terms for homosexual types have long been lexicalized in a range of Islamic societies,” (Murray, 35). Murray launches in to a long list of different words that denote not just acts, but kinds of people that pursue both relationships and acts. While these roles do not line up with modern notions of homosexual identity, Murray seeks to complicate the polarized discourse that would contend that no sort of homosexual identity could have existed in the Mediterranean/Islamic sphere. While there doesn’t appear to be a singular, united definition of homosexuality in the western sense of egalitarian or equal desire, to synthesize his main point would be that homosexual identities do exist in that sphere—however, certain norms prevent the public mobilization of these identities. In other words, the will to not know dominates the public knowledge of these private homosexual relations.

                Afasaneh Najmabadi in “Early Qadjar” expands on Murray’s work in “The Will Not to Know” by looking at conceptions of beauty in Persia and how they reflect identities of sexuality. An interesting note to point out in depictions of beauty would be the androgynous nature of adjectives used to describe male and female beauty, in which the same adjectives are used for both male and female representations (Najmabadi, 11). Another piece to note would be the description of khanith, which “can be read as an intermediate on a continuum between very feminine women and very masculine men,” and were often seen as the object of desire in homosexual roles (Najmabadi, 17). This discussion progresses into a similar point as Murray’s which approaches modern conceptions of the homosexual type as an identity that should not be mapped onto earlier socio-historical periods. But, she contests that “by locating same-sex identification in modern Euro-America, one renders homosexuality external to other places, an alien concept for formation of desire in these other cultures,” (Najmabadi, 19). I believe it is problematic to approach homosexuality as an identity purely belonging to the West because it creates another hierarchy that posits Islamic conceptions of homosexual identity as inferior to the Euro-American notion. Najmabadi continues by concluding that even if a fixed notion of a homosexual identity didn’t exist in this time period, it would be a mistake to think that there were no identifications based on non-standard desire types, which complicates the fixed notion of modern homosexual identity.

                In conclusion, I believe these two authors work well in tandem to elucidate the ways in which homosexual or non-standard sexual identities were formed in the Mediterranean/Islamic sphere. “In the case of Iran and much of the Islamic world, sexual practices were generally not considered fixed into life-long patterns of sexual orientation,” therefor such fixed terminology as the Euro-American homosexual were not necessitated (Najmabadi, 20). It is important to contest the notion that there were no pre-modern conceptions of non-hetero identity, because to accept that could reinforce the east-west hierarchy set in place by colonialism. The notion that there were only homosexual acts, without a homosexual identity plays into the stereotype of the overly sexualized Middle Eastern man that cannot control desire—while at the same time completely ignoring the wealth of lexical and literary evidence of such identity formation. 

Week Seven Memo (Gabe, Hina, Megan)

This week’s readings started delving into the history of sexuallity in relation to Islam, with a strong focus on homosexuality and how it became defined

In Murray’s “The Will Not to Know,” he explores many different words that were used to help make sense of homosexual acts and homoeroticism in pre-modern societies. He concludes that homosexual roles are still held within binaries, commonly in the passive/active or one taking pleasure/one providing pleasure. He sees the terminology of “gay” as a Western contextualization of homosexual acts that have always been present in history, verified by the broad usage of vocabulary (bardash, ubnah, etc.). In conclusion, being gay was not something constructed within this history. Instead, there was an understanding of men seeking pleasure and finding it normally by anally penetrating younger boys that exhibited qualities of femininity. These acts were rarely prosecuted because they were not explicitly talked about.

Najmabadi examines the notions of beauty as they related to gender in this time and area of the world. The often passive subjects that Murray describes as part of the lover/beloved binary are distinguished by Najmabadi by their facial hair. While a full beard was a sign of adult manhood and the arguable inability to be dominated, the first signs of a beard or beardlessness made a young man an object of desire. Najmabadi also explores the separate domains of sexual practice and sexual orientation in pre-modern Islamic societies. Sexual relations between adult men and adolescents were not “issues to be highlighted,” and were sometimes attributed to relations of economics, education and alliance.

In “Introduction” of Desiring Arabs, Massad explores ideas of colonialism and hegemonic sexual Western forces that redefined culture and civilization by destroying Oriental subjectivities. The concept of turath, or heritage, is referenced as it relates to a turathist/contemporary binary. Turath was “heritage” that was redefined through the lens of colonialism as it began to redefine sexual acts as sexuality. The representation of these sexual acts and desires came to be tied to the civilizational worth of the Arab world.

El-Rouayheb navigates through the essentialist and constructionist theories regarding homosexuality in modern periods and in the early Ottoman period. Essentialists feel that the concept of homosexuality has been around much longer than the term. Constructionists argue that the concept of homosexuaity is modern and that in pre-modern Arab cultures, sexuality was determined by the active and passive roles in sexual relations, not by the gender of each partner. El-Rouayheb’s work coincides with lots of ideas that Murray brings up, such as homosexuality in the Arab-Islamic culture lacking a concept of homosexualiy altogether, moreso operating under a set of concepts (ubnah, liwat) along with the Western defining of homosexuality being what ultimately created homophobia. Both writers begin questioning how gayness and homosexual acts have found their meaning in today’s culture.

In Ze’evi’s “Dream Interpretation,” the author considers various theories of dream interpretation and how they pertain to cultural and sexual unconscious in the Ottoman era. In considering dreams as a look into a person’s inner psyche, the symbolic meanings of the dream may not directly linked to the culture, place or time that person is living in. The five headings exemplify this, which proliferated behaviors into different categories that had different levels of consequences. Some were ordained, some were forbidden and others were seen as neither inherently moral or immoral. Ultimately, the science of dream interpretation became less prominent; however, it remains significant in examining at how modern society treats some sexual acts as normal or deviant.

Worthwhile quotations
“‘On the one hand, there is a desire to define one’s ethnic and cultural uniqueness against the pressures of the majority culture and on the other hand an equally strong, if not stronger, urge to abandon that uniqueness in order to conform to the hegemonic pressures of the [white] liberal humanistic culture.’” - Abdul R. JanMohamed, as quoted in Before Homosexuality in the Arab-Islamic World, 1500-1800 by Khaled El-Rouayheb


“...The trans-Islamic native domain is that ‘sexuality’ is distinguished not between ‘homosexual’ and ‘heterosexual’ but between taking pleasure and submitting to someone (being used for pleasure)” (Murray, 41).

“Every man in Iran is involved in male-to-male sex sex, because premarital [heterosexual] sex and sex outside marriage are not a sin, but are also very difficult [to find]/  But being gay and having a gay identity is a Western phenomenon.  Iranian men act in a very cliche[d] male/female role.  One is either the active or the passive partner, but all men are involved in male sex.” - Mansour, a Tehran native from Murray’s “Will Not to Know,” pg. 18.

“Premodern Islamic literature considered gender irrelevant to love and beauty.  Alternatively, male beauty and male homoeroticism were considered superior sentiments” (Najmabadi, 17) in “Early Qajar.”

“In the case of Iran and much of the Islamic world, sexual practices were generally not considered fixed into lifelong patterns of sexual orientation” (Najmabadi, 20).


Discussion Questions

1. In Murray’s “The Will Not to Know,” he discusses the many different terms in history used to define sexual acts. How does this parallel to today’s culture and how the meanings of words relating to sexuality are not always explicit? What are some examples of words and sexual acts that have a more fluid definition?

2. Ze’evi ends “Dream Interpretation” noting the “heteronormalization of love” and how “several sexual choices, especially same-sex intercourse and pederasty, came to be seen as a deviation from a norm.” How has popular culture portrayed this alleged hegemonic force? Has pop culture today begun to break this heteronormalization of love and where do you think it will go next?

3. “Unfortunately the literary sources of the period give almost no information on female attitudes to love and sex” (El-Rouayheb, 10).

“Premodern Islamic literature considered gender irrelevant to love and beauty.  Alternatively, male beauty and male homoeroticism were considered superior sentiments” (Najmabadi, 17) in “Early Qajar.”

What does these quotes and observations relate about the hegemony of masculine sexuality in pre-modern Islamic society?

Protest Masculinity?

Hey guys, below is the interview I had in mind of Kanye West at Today Show the other day when I brought him up. Take a look, and let's think together about where race, masculinity, and "civilization" might be intersecting here...

Week 5 blog

This week’s readings focus on masculinity in the Arab world, using Egypt as the key example. Jacob’s chapter “Geneology” explores effendi, the idea of masculinity stemming from nationalism, and the story of Mustafa Kamil as a new ideal for Egyptian men. The term effendi was known as the “English equivalent of gentleman” and connoted a “rise above historical obscurity and the faceless mass of ordinary subjects” (45-46) until British colonial rule. In England in Egypt, Alfred Milner characterized the colonial effendi as having a “general air of dinginess and servility” (46). He suggested that the restructuring of Egyptian masculinity would come from erasing qualities such as what he referred to as the “Oriental combination of servility to those above, and arrogance to those beneath them” (48).  

            Indeed, Jacobs brings up colonialism as major contributing factor to the apparent failings of Egyptian masculinity. Farid wrote, a great man is a “nationalist who inspires others to become nationalists,” adding that “the ability to win hearts and minds over to the nationalist cause made for a great man.” (51). It’s interesting that he made that connection between the two characteristics and countered the tradition connection of a “conqueror” or “warrior” with manliness. The writer contrasts two writers on this topic. Charles François Marie in L’Egypte et Les Egyptiens tries to support the continuation of British influence based on the assumption that the Egyptians lacked national feeling and therefore manliness from “centuries of submission to foreign conquerors” (59). It’s an interesting although offensive argument that tries to tie Egyptian men’s manliness directly to the country’s history of colonial rule and makes a case for continuing this rule in order to “change” the men back. Qasim Amin’s Les Egyptiens, although a critique of Marie’s work, still “implicitly places the blame for any deficit in contemporary Egyptian masculinity squarely on the shoulders of the British occupiers” (60).  In addition, Amin writes from a European standpoint and romanticizes the Egyptian peasant man as being simple, hardworking and uncomplaining.

            Mustafa Kamil was touted as the new ideal for Egyptian masculinity. He was described poetically as being a “powerful phoenix rising from the ashes of a once majestic culture to reclaim for it its lost glory, honor, and freedom” (53). Jacobs outlines a few virtues that a “great man” is supposed to possess which include a powerful will, power of oration, and a clear and effective use of language” (52). Indeed, Farid writes that “the loudness and clarity of [Kamil’s] voice were key elements of his greatness,” especially the fact that it was “employed in both Egypt and Europe” (53)

Inhorn’s article on “Male Infertility and Stigma in Egypt and Lebanon” argues that male infertility is linked with issues relating to sexuality and therefore stigmatizes infertile males as unable to prove their “virility, paternity, and manhood” (163). Although treatment is available and can be effective, Inhorn adds that “the very technologies designed to overcome [infertility] add additional layers of stigma and cultural complexity” (163). For example, some men were worried that a child would be stigmatized if its “test tube origins” were found out. In addition, some thought that the procedure was sinful because of potential mixing of donor gametes (175).

Inhorn’s studies, which took place in Egypt and Lebanon, focused on infertility rates in IVF centers. Inhorn was worried about getting accurate information about men’s infertility. “Men in the Middle East (and beyond may deem paternity an important achievement and a major source of their masculine identity” (169). She touched on the shame that many men experience, citing the example of Ali who blamed a quickly treated sexually transmitted infection for his infertility instead of a bad smoking habit (168).

The study tries to make a case for differences between how Egyptian and Lebanese men in perceive infertility. She writes that an Egyptian man would feel “ana mish raagil – “I am not a man” – if others were to know that he was the cause of a given infertility problem” (170). In contrast, she found that the Lebanese men in her study did not equate infertility with a lack of manliness. However, Inhorn acknowledges that this finding could have been due to a high nonresponse rate and the fact that “those who did agree to participate were probably the ones who felt least diminished by their infertility” (172). I believe that the relatively high nonresponse rate could have easily led to a non-representative sample of Lebanon’s population, and that therefore Inhorn’s conclusion may be erroneous.

Week 5 Blog

The readings for this week primarily discuss the concept of “masculinity” and how such an identity is created and reinforced in specific areas within the larger Arab world. The chapter from Jacob traces the story of Mustafa Kamil, “the exemplar of a new, confident, young Egypt” (Jacob 49), linking social class, education, and nationalism (among other things) to the creation of Egyptian masculinity. Kamil’s biographers described the “great man” as a strong-willed, independent, courageous, truthful, knowledgeable man of integrity; additionally, masculinity was closely associated with the ability to “protect and provide for others” (Jacob 56). Jacob draws many connections between masculinity and social class, claiming that the Egyptian feminist Qasim Amin’s analysis that placed “the educated effendi and the physically strong fallah in one orbit was necessary to recuperate an embattled Egyptian masculinity” (Jacob 60). The linkage of the effendi, or the “gentlemen,” to the strength and physique of the fallah, or peasant, allows the new construction of Egyptian effendi masculinity to draw a certain degree of authenticity from an “indigenous, precolonial past” (Jacob 61).

One of the most interesting things I found in this article was how tightly gender and nationalism were linked; “nationalism became a prerequisite for manhood and vice versa... masculinity was perceived as being present, merely waiting for someone ‘to exploit and make admired by the entire world’” (Jacob 62-63). Jacob frames this linkage in a such a way to suggest that the idea of Egyptian masculinity was directly tied to the colonial encounter, and that the two are virtually inseparable. This phenomenon was to remain in Egypt for decades to come. I studied the Arab-Israeli conflict in the context of the Cold War, and in two of the major wars that pitted Egypt against Israel (the Six Day War and the Yom Kippur War; please pardon my use of the Western names for these conflicts), Egyptian rhetoric was heavily laced with questions of masculinity and, during the Yom Kippur War, of regaining the masculine honor that had been lost during Israel's route of the Egyptians during the Six Day War. I would wonder if this phenomenon, of linking masculinity to the colonial encounter, was a product of the specific colonial project in Egypt, or if this can be seen in other areas of the Arab world that have had repeated encounters with the West. One possible nation to study to address this question might be Syria, which has also shared a great deal with Egypt in terms of repeated conflicts both with colonialism and with the Israeli state.

Inhorn’s work focused on male infertility in Egypt and Lebanon and how such infertility contributed to or contrasted with traditional cultural conceptions of masculinity. Her studies do suggest that many men view their inability to naturally father children as an “emasculating condition” (Inhorn 176). Interestingly, treatment options designed to assist infertile men sometimes serve to add to the already existent social stigma, creating an additional “technological stigma” (Inhorn 175) that draws upon and amplifies preexisting cultural assumptions concerning the “morally questionable” (Inhorn 175) scientific procedures. I found of particular interest the relationship Inhorn touched upon between social class, religion, and the accessibility of treatment options. One of the main problems I had with Inhorn’s methodology was that, as she admitted, “those who did agree to participate [in the study] were probably the ones who felt least diminished by their infertility, for reasons of education, supportive wives and family members, and idiosyncrasies of personality and resilience” (172). In other words, Inhorn suggests that male infertility is so stigmatizing that most refuse to speak of it, and those who do agree only do so because they have other qualifications. Therefore, I would argue that other variables, such as social class or socioeconomic status, may have contributed to Inhorn’s findings more substantially than she allows for, producing a sample that might not be as representative as she leads us to believe when she makes claims such as that she found that, in Lebanon, “this conspiracy of silence surrounding male infertility was not as readily apparent [as in Egypt]” (171). I don’t have a better suggestion for how to gather this data, and Inhorn has clearly done a thorough job in how she has gone about this process, but I would still hesitate to draw broader generalizations and conclusions for an entire population when there are clearly variables at play that are difficult, if not impossible, to control for.

Week 5 Blog Post

Our readings this week focused on what masculinity looks like in the Arab world, particularly in Egypt. In Jacob's text on genealogy, the author explores how masculinity relates to social class. The author traces the effendi, an Egyptian class that, in its later years, was comprised of men in "modern professions and upper-level students". Lord Milner writes of the necessary treatment of the effendiyya in terms of colonialism in his piece "England in Egypt". 

"Treat the Effendi like a man; let him understand that you expect from him obedience, but not servility, that a reasonable objection properly urged will not be resented, and that, if he does his duty, his rights are secure --  and you will be able to get plenty of good work out of him." (47)

This quote effectively demonstrates the paradox of masculinity in this context. Men are expected to be strong but not subordinate. They have to be obedient to make a living, but dominant to have a respectable life as a man. The idea of masculinity seems to be at war with other cultural standards. In considering Cromer's thoughts on Egyptian masculinity, it seems that the Egyptian ideal of masculinity is based on a man being able to rule both himself and others. This concept ties into Inhorn's commentary on infertility as it pertains to Egypt and Lebanon. 

Inhorn's piece "Middle Eastern Masculinities in the Age of New Reproductive Technologies: Male Infertility and Stigma and Egypt and Lebanon" focuses on the importance of male fertility and the impact of male infertility in Egypt and Lebanon. The idea of masculinity seems to be significantly shaped by paternity. However, infertility has much higher rates in these areas than in the West, which Inhorn claims is a product of   genetics, culture and environment. Inhorn makes an interesting point in saying that many men don't own up to their infertility, letting their wives instead be faulted for not producing children. If, as Cromer points out, men must be able to rule themselves and others in order to be masculine, infertility becomes an obstacle to masculinity. If men cannot biologically "rule" their own bodies, they theoretically could maintain some of their masculinity by ruling over their wives and letting the blame fall on them. 

Week 5 Blog Post

The readings for this week concerned two different ideas of masculinity in the Arab world, with a focus on Egypt.

Marcia Inhorn's article “Middle Eastern Masculinities in the Age of New Reproductive Technologies: Male Infertility and Stigma in Egypt and Lebanon” discusses the prevalence and impact of male infertility in both Egypt and Lebanon, where for men paternity is “an important achievement and a major source of their masculine identity” (169). Inhorn outlines many reasons for why the prevalence of male infertility is higher in the Middle East than in the West, such as genetic, environmental, and cultural (habitual) reasons. Because biological maleness is described in one's ability to produce sperm and father offspring, infertility “may come as a striking blow to men's social identities, with far-reaching implications for the construction of masculinity” (169). Middle Eastern men derive their own masculine identities through their role as the patriarch in the family, and if they are unable to fill that role, their maleness is called into question. Infertility becomes a stigma, and no one wants to reveal such a condition for fear of social consequences. Furthermore, often men hide their infertility, which places inherent blame for the lack of children on their wives. This article does not discuss the feminine side of this, but I wonder what implications this has for women. As men are defined as men by their ability to impregnate women, women are biologically defined by their ability to bear offspring. Female infertility, whether real or imagined to cover for a husband's medical conditions, may also have consequences for women, who might similarly have feelings of inadequacy and a lack of womanhood. My question is which gender stigma is more “embarrassing” or “shameful”: a man who cannot fulfill his “role” as a man or a woman who cannot fulfill her “role” as a woman?

This article also discusses the future of infertile couples, as new reproductive technologies have become available. Inhorn points out ICSI as a valid method of fertilization in religious terms, as Islam forbids third-party donation of sperm, eggs, embryos, or surrogate uteruses (174). The procedure, however, has led to other problems, such as the questionability of the purity of the semen sample (fear of contamination of the sperm with gametes from other men) and the incompatibility of newfound male fertility with the natural process of female infertility coming with age, which has lead to men seeking younger wives to bear their children. She also notes that ICSI is relatively expensive and “accessed only by elites in more Middle Eastern countries” (174). I also wonder if class and wealth may play a role in notions of masculinity, as wealthier families can more easily have access to reproductive technologies that may allow otherwise infertile men to assume their roles as patriarchs and define themselves as men.

The “Genealogy” chapter in Wilson Chacko Jacob's book does demonstrate a relationship between class and masculinity, among other factors. This chapter follows the development of the effendi (gentlemanly) class in Egypt to become the paragon of both nationalism and masculinity in the colonial period. The idea of the “great man” of Egypt was one who had several virtues, one of them being able to cohere Egyptians within a national identity through leadership and oration skills. This meant that a great man must be well-educated and middle-class. Additionally, the great man must be a leader, which has been aligned with the idea of paternity. The idea of masculinity was largely based on the ability to protect and provide for others (and entrusted to do so—wakil); in this case, the great man would protect and provide for the nation in a patriarchal manner.

At the same time colonizers were attempting to undermine the Egyptian's masculinity to justify their presence; if the Egyptians were not masculine, they were unable to protect and provide for themselves, thus a colonial presence would be necessary and welcome. This lack of masculinity, however, may be attributed to the colonial presence itself. As Qasim Amin argued “a people with a nation to defend fought more ferociously and were more willing to die than a people ruled by foreigners,” which placed the blame “for any deficit in contemporary Egyptian masculinity squarely on the shoulders of the British occupiers” (60). I read this as the British occupation and rule appropriated native Egyptians' ability to provide for and protect themselves, robbing them of Egyptian men's role as men, thus rendering them emasculated. I find this important in relation to Marcia Inhorn's article, which describes male identity in terms of patriarchal power which entails “the explicit production of offspring, who they love and nurture, but also dominate and control” (170). The British occupation took away not only Egyptians' ability to “love and nurture” (protect and provide for) their country, but also their ability to “dominate and control” (govern) it. In this context, the new conception of the effendi defined intimately tied together masculinity and nationalism, whereby masculinity was defined in terms of race and class, but also nationalism (“I also cannot accept that patriotic sentiment is something a man should be rewarded for having, since he would not be a man without it.” -Kamil), and nationalism was politically defined in terms of race and class and masculinity (62).