Is Abolition Global? Iran, Iranians, and Prison Politics (Part 2)

Is Abolition Global? Iran, Iranians, and Prison Politics (Part 2)

Is Abolition Global? Iran, Iranians, and Prison Politics (Part 2)

By : Arash Davari, Omid Tofighian, Golnar Nikpour, and Naveed Mansoori

[This is the second installment of a two-part roundtable on abolitionism and Iran featuring Naveed Mansoori, Golnar Nikpour, and Omid Tofighian. Read Part 1 here.]

As we were completing this roundtable, the supreme court in Iran decided to uphold death sentences issued against three protestors—Amirhossein Moradi, Mohammad Rajabi, and Saeed Tamjidi—who participated in demonstrations last November against a decision to raise the price of gasoline. The decision fueled public outcry expressed through the widespread circulation of a hashtag, #اعدام ـ نکنید [#do_not_execute]. In response, a request for a retrial was accepted, halting the executions. The highly-publicized outrage, domestically and internationally, has cast a spotlight on the modern carceral state in Iran.

In the first part of this roundtable, we asked: Is abolitionism a universal movement? Is there a universal critique of policing? Or are the protests taking place in the United States specific to the African-American experience? If not confined to US borders, are they specific to the lived experience of Blackness globally? A third possibility exists: Is a critique of global white supremacy a critique of prisons and incarceration the world over? If so, how? In other words, can we forge political solidarity by using the critique of race in the United States as an optic for analysis beyond the United States?

To read the introduction and first part, click here.

Question Four


Before COVID-19 and the abolition movement to defund police captured headlines, escalating military tensions between the United States and Iran were a lead story. Are there links between these developments? If so, how do you see them? Put differently, what can we learn about racial injustice and policing in the United States by looking at the US presence abroad vis-à-vis Iran and Iranians? And what can we learn about the US presence abroad vis-à-vis Iran and Iranians by looking at racial injustice and policing in the United States?

Omid Tofighian: I appreciate these questions very much. They have pushed me to think more about how US aggression against Iran functions in the domestic politics of both nations. I also started drawing parallels with the way Australia uses the rhetoric of national security to justify its border regime. I will leave it to my colleagues to analyze in more detail and with more expertise but I think it is worth raising two points in relation to US-Iran relations: 1) the way the United States reintroduces and reframes issues such as human rights in Iran or Iran’s military power for strategic purposes at home; and 2) how Iran exploits US threats to stoke nationalist sentiment and deal with weakening legitimacy, to justify suppression, and divert from their own failings. These times of heightened tension involve more inflammatory rhetoric on both sides about national security, national interest and national values; they help mask or divert from racial injustice, stigmatization of minoritized groups, and plans to increase policing and incarceration. In relation to border politics in Australia, we often witness a carousel of reasoning that switches between national security, national interest, and national values. This strategy functions to create perplexity among different electorates in order to help justify inhumane policies, and it also garners support by stoking settler colonial fantasies and fears.  

Golnar Nikpour: Omid’s answer really says it all—the hypermilitarized and securitized relationship between the United States and the Islamic Republic plays very well into the most militarized and retrograde forces in both governments. Clearly, there is an immediate and direct link between violent policing at home in the United States and militarism abroad, including in the United States. It is not simply a matter of family resemblances between these institutions, but rather concrete material links. The need for a robust anti-militarist and anti-war movement that makes these links has never been more urgent. For those particularly interested in Iran, this also means an anti-sanctions movement and a move towards the de-militarization of relations between the United States and the Islamic Republic.

Naveed Mansoori: In 1901, W. E. B. Du Bois, writing from Jim Crow America, called the color line “the problem of the twentieth-century.” Du Bois made this prophecy when the field of international relations saw global difference through the demarcations of race. On one side, there were the few who could govern themselves; on the other, the many who needed governance. After World War Two, the United States enforced the color line at home and abroad. Nikhil Paul Singh describes this dynamic as “war at home and police in the world.” Anti-Blackness conditioned its two aspects. Consider the reasoning of John Cooper Riley, the United States’ ambassador to Iran, for why Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh was not fit to govern Iran as he campaigned to nationalize oil: “The paucity of competent public men in Iran is appalling,” he said. “Like the story of the ten little ni—er boys, the roll call ends in Iran, ‘and then there was one.’ He was the Shah.” After 1979, the United States was initially anxious that Iranians were exercising freedom, not being denied it.

When concern about police militarization is focused on technology, its more crucial significance is lost: not what police own, but how they relate to us. Trump did not need to invoke the Insurrection Act to set counter-insurgency efforts into motion. Neither is this new. When Ted Koppel covered the 1992 LA Rebellion, he stated, “There’s a familiar dissonance to it: US troops patrolling the neighborhoods of an American city, as though they were on a foreign mission.” With calls for the “defunding” of police, Trump has proposed a 740.5-billion-dollar budget for national security to Congress. He does so off the heels of last year’s war games with Iran. The 2020 rebellions have so far focused on war at home. Hopefully, they will recall policing abroad.

It may help to see Iran as caught between contending visions of carcerality. By that I mean the United States is both responding to the Islamic Republic with hard and soft punitive measures, while the Islamic Republic’s domestic policies are carceral as well in their own specific way, as we see in the arrest, imprisonment, and sometimes death of prisoners in Iran’s prison system. After the Revolutionary Guard accidentally shot down a commercial airline in Tehran, students at Amir Kabir (Polytechnic) University released a statement criticizing US militarism and their own government depicting Iran as a country that is surrounded by “evil” from all sides.

Question Five 


What does abolitionism mean in the context you study and/or work in?

GN: This is a question I have struggled with, insofar as the language of prison abolition is clearly born of the context of slavery and anti-Blackness in the United States; it is this context that gives the language of abolition its profound moral force and urgency. For all of us drawn to abolitionist models of scholarship or activism, our political education has come from Black feminists such as Angela Davis, Ruth Wilson Gilmore, and Mariame Kaba. To deny the specificity of the American context and the legacies of slavery and anti-Blackness on the abolitionist idiom would be both historically and politically wrongheaded. Yet Angela Davis herself has repeatedly argued against US exceptionalism in the movement to abolish prisons and consistently reminded us that, insofar as colonialism and capitalism are constitutively global projects, our work to undo the legacies of slavery, colonialism, and carcerality must be equally global in reach.

I do not know that there is any one word in Persian that could translate the moral and political force of the word “abolition” in the US context. Still, it is important to note that from soon as the first modern prisons in Iran were built in the 1920s, Iranians were writing about oppressive prisons and violent policing and the hypocrisy of a government claiming to be “progressive” and modern yet nonetheless putting its citizens into cages. I believe we can find an essentially de-carceral ethos in many Iranian texts, but the one I would like to highlight is one that many Iranians might find surprising because it does not address prisons as such. The text I am referring to is famed modernist poet Forough Farrokhzad’s short documentary film The House is Black, which is about the violence and deprivation of a leper colony in modernizing Pahlavi Iran. In my view, it is as moving a moral vision against modern carcerality, and the notion that citizenship is seemingly conditioned by violent exclusion, as one can find in any language. It is fitting given the foundational importance of feminist thinkers and artists on the project of de-carceralizing our world to add Forough’s voice to that pantheon.

NM: Abolitionism seeks to abolish prisons and the police. More broadly, it sets out to break habits of perception that see punishment and exclusion as the optimal answer to social and political problems. Where those habits are embodied in institutions, abolition cannot abide the institution. Since abolition has its origins in the slave trade, revisiting that recent past may help understand the stakes. Abolitionists did not desire a benevolent master. They demanded the end of mastery, categorically. Abolitionism is concerned with the whole gamut of social and political problems, nor does it ignore them to prove its own desirability. It aspires for actual solutions. There are currently more Black people in US prisons than there were slaves at the height of the slave trade, and police kill Black people at a higher rate than were being lynched at the height of Jim Crow. Police brutality is the sixth highest cause of death for young Black men in the United States. Abolition has adapted with the mutation of the racial state into the carceral state, its most recent form.

In the context I study, I stand forth as a witness to history, not as an actor on its stage. Abolition is a method that foregrounds the principle of non-domination as weight and measure. I do not think it is illicit to speak sincerely about the values that shape our writing and thinking, even if we learned those values in contexts alien from the topic of analysis. I have also had my values enriched by an archive that is home to family history and heritage. I refer to the 1979 Revolution. I spoke before of contending visions of carcerality. Iran was a battleground for those contending visions too in the 1960s and 1970s: the Pahlavi State was a police state; the Islamic Republic seamlessly took the reins. Yet that is an incomplete story. How might we tell it in the service of Iran, not in the service of the vultures here and there hovering for their next meal?

OT: I indicated that my research and activism involves a two-pronged approach: dismantling the material conditions and transforming the epistemic and symbolic foundations that drive the border industrial complex (I think the same approach is important for the prison industrial complex). In relation to the former I am concerned with the supply chain that sustains the detention industry and other methods of border control. This involves identifying how the private sector is complicit—detention is a business and cannot survive if investors are not making profit. In relation to the latter I argue that it is vital to decolonize the social imaginary that underpins border politics; that is, decolonize the way knowledge is produced about displaced and exiled peoples and the narratives and symbolism associated with borders and border crossing. Both approaches are debordering practices and challenging one without the other is insufficient.

Concerning the first point about the material conditions: we have seen throughout the recent history of migration to Australia that there were some instances of progress, but then previous technologies of control were reintroduced and strengthened. Many legal approaches were successful, but were then thwarted when governments changed the law. Concerning the second point about the epistemic and symbolic: the colonial mentality and racial imaginary is too deeply ingrained in so many aspects of Australian society, culture and politics—the pervasive, stereotypical tropes associated with displaced and exiled peoples are damaging and exist across the political spectrum. Unless there is a fundamental change in the social imaginary and intellectual landscape, the successes achieved in areas such as policy change and leadership may not be sustainable. Finally, my work tries to effect change by producing new knowledges that emerge from narratives of resistance; by engaging with diverse storytelling practices in political ways I aim to center questions and concerns about intersectional discrimination, colonial violence and other forms of historical injustice, and transnational solidarity.

Question Six


Based on the other responses to the previous question: what points of overlap do you see between various efforts to pursue abolition?

GN: I believe that studying the history of modern prisons provides us with an essential insight: modern carcerality is a relatively new phenomenon in human history. In my work, I argue that to understand the historical origins of the modern prison is to be able to imagine a world after the prison as well. In other words, when a story has a beginning, it may very well also have an end. In the Middle East, where so many conflicts and crises are described as “timeless” or “ancient” battles stretching back to time immemorial, this insight is especially crucial. This is not to fall back into the retrograde nativist posture that haunts so much politics across Iran and the broader Middle East today, but a future-oriented posture that demands a new and better world.

OT: I think the strongest point of overlap with Golnar and Naveed is the scholar activist vision and commitment. I am particularly inspired by the nuanced connections between different historical periods (Qajar, Pahlavi, IRI; US Slavery, Jim Crow, post-war and Contemporary US), geographical settings (Iran and US in a global context) and theoretical viewpoints (critical race theory, abolitionist theory, Black feminism, and Iranian political and cultural studies). I see many methodological connections in the way historical continuities are foreground and interweaved with a comparative approach, particularly in terms of the justifications for policing and expanding carceral sites. In their responses both Golnar and Naveed—and Arash [Davari] in his feedback as editor—have encouraged me to look closer and further unpack the connections between nation-state formations and their dependence on prison systems for determining insider/outsider notions of belonging. Amplifying this feature in my own work will be useful for exploring notions such as crimmigration (migration law and criminal law encroaching on each other).

This engagement has reminded me of the importance of critically analyzing the situation of prisons in Iran for my research on the border industrial complex. Borders, like prisons, are powerful symbolic and practical instruments that work to determine us/ours from them/theirs. As the pandemic keeps Australians on the precipice of illness, death and loss, Iranian and other refugees are still incarcerated in Australian onshore and offshore detention centers, or those released are forced into other vulnerable social environments. Like the dangers that exist in regular population prisons, refugees in immigration detention are being held in highly volatile circumstances with staff members and their friends and families also in danger. COVID-19 has provided another proof for the relational nature of our well-being and how abolition is in fact a way to protect the rights and safety of everyone in society. The state response to COVID-19 has also proved how technologies and practices of confinement can easily be exploited to control and intimidate all citizens, how confinement is normalized when society is vulnerable; the interconnections between state measures and technologies and practices of border security have been uncanny in Australia. The state response here is a cautionary tale about how borders, security, military and prisons are becoming even more entangled.

NM: The George Floyd protests sparked a fire that raged beyond Minneapolis and beyond the United States, breathing life into local grievances in cities across the United States and across world against carceral regimes. Omid’s remark about centering settler colonialism in Australia is an important one. It’s important to see unity in difference, namely, of prioritizing the fractured histories of carcerality as prior to the moment of shaping abolitionist movements into a unity poised against one thing. Golnar’s insights about confluences between abolitionist politics in the United States and Iran provides an historically grounded account of how we might shape a global history of abolitionism. This conversation has drawn my attention to a correspondence between national historiography and the carceral strategy of border policing internal to the modern and contemporary history of Iran. A practice that I had not considered as part of the effort to think beyond the walls of the prison is collapsing the walls of archives that were founded upon, and sustain, the borders of the nation-state.

Question Seven


Given recent developments around the arrest of Amirhossein Moradi, Mohammad Rajabi, and Saeed Tamjidi, and the movement against the death sentences levied against them, is there anything you would like to add to your responses?

GN: The global outcry led by Iranians both inside and outside of Iran against the execution of these three protesters is an extraordinary reminder of the power of social movements to effect change at the highest levels. As we continue to fight for these protesters’ rights, we must also remember that the overwhelming majority of those incarcerated (or executed) in Iran are not held on “political” charges, but rather have been captured in the quietly political dragnet of the carceral state, largely on drug charges. In the last several years, Iran has backed off of some of its most draconian death penalty practices for some drug charges—in part due to pressure from a wide assortment of Iranian activists, organizations, and public health advocates—but opposing the death penalty in all charges, all cases, and all countries is a critical component of the struggle against the carceral state.

OT: To follow up on my comments regarding the entanglement of borders, security, military and prisons, the capture and death sentences handed down against the three Iranian protesters is another tragic and alarming case that reflects this phenomenon. Two of the protesters—Rajabi and Tamjidi—were deported back to Iran by Turkish authorities after asking for asylum, a violation of the international legal principle of non-refoulement. Significantly, following the gains made by the campaign against executions, another campaign was launched and gained traction in Iran called #Don’t_Kill_Kulbars  #كولبر_نکشید  in response to the recent death of kulbar (Kurdish couriers working in borderland between Iran and Iraq) Vazir Mohammadi in Kermanshah by border guards. Kurdish kulbars risk their lives for little pay due to limited opportunities to earn a living, and their deaths at the hands of authorities has been dramatically increasing in recent years. Following that, a similar hashtag was launched to protest the deaths of Baluchi soukhtbars,  #Do_Not_Kill_ Soukhtbars#سوختبر_نکشید . These and similar events underscore the way borderlands are transformed into battlefields and the far-reaching political impact these forms of state violence have on the rest of civil society, and they raise critical questions about the use of online activism as a response and how it can be made most effective. It is significant that similar hashtags are now emerging in support of other marginalized and persecuted groups.

Omid Tofighian with Behrouz Boochani and locals during his first visit to Manus Island in 2017, holding a signed film poster for Chauka, Please Tell Us the Time (dir. Arash Kamali Sarvestani and Boochani). Image provided by Tofighian.

After the uprisings in Iran at the beginning of 2018, I interviewed Kurdish artist and musician Farhad Bandesh. He was locked up in Manus Island at the time and remains incarcerated almost three years later (he was transferred to other sites and is now in a Melbourne immigration detention center). In response to my question for an article I was writing about the links between Australia’s sanctions on Iran, the Iran protests and refugees in Australia he mentioned the kulbars as an example of how economic discrimination and political suppression are indispensably connected. Similar accounts about the interdependence between socio-economic status and political oppression have been explained to me by writer Mardin Arvin, another Kurdish refugee who has also been incarcerated for over seven years (and now held in Melbourne). He confirms that the politically constructed category of “economic refugee” —used to contrast with “political refugee” —is misguided and damaging. With the use of online activism and the promotion of first-hand accounts, in combination with other tactics, it is possible to mobilize in order to disrupt and dismantle the material conditions that enable carceral sites to exist, and transform the social imaginary that shapes and directs dangerous views and behaviors against displaced, exiled and incarcerated peoples.

NM: I mentioned above that I saw Iran as caught between contending visions of carcerality. It’s important to call a spade a spade, and not always modify critique to appeal to the sensibilities of a fictive American audience who thinks Disney’s Agrabah is real. I say that because those of us who study and care for Iran and write about it from the heart of empire are always navigating the hard truth that the fictive audience I referred to above has a real referent. I share a concern with Eddie S. Glaude who made the powerful claim that the United States is not unique in its sins, but what makes it unique is how unwilling it is to recognize them. That expresses itself through Americans displacing all the injustices of the world “over there,” while measuring those injustices based on some American ideal that isn’t real. The United States has the largest prison population in the world, and capital punishment is still authorized in twenty-eight states. So, when we witness the Islamic Republic threaten to execute its citizens or does so, I think it is important to both acknowledge that what we are seeing is wrong without confusing our ethical standpoint with the physical place—that is, the United States—we are making judgments from.

Theorizing the Arabian Peninsula Roundtable: Perspectives from the Margins of Arabia

[This is one of seven contributions in Jadaliyya`s electronic roundtable on the symbolic and material practices of knowledge production on the Arabian Peninsula. Moderated by Rosie Bsheer and John Warner, it features Toby Jones, Madawi Al-Rasheed, Adam Hanieh, Neha Vora, Nathalie Peutz, John Willis, and Ahmed Kanna.]

(1) Historically, what have the dominant analytical approaches to the study of the Arabian Peninsula been? How have the difficulties of carrying out research in the Arabian Peninsula shaped the ways in which knowledge is produced for the particular country/ies in which you have worked, and in the field more generally?

When I first began studying Arabic and, subsequently, formulating a research project in Yemen in the early 2000s, I did not consider myself to be working in or on the "Arabian Peninsula," as such. Rather, what drew me to Yemen was its historical, geographical, and cultural distinctiveness, which remains even now quite remarkable, but which nevertheless often obscures the relations, connections, and shared histories and presents that do exist within the region and beyond. This oversight is born perhaps out of what Sheila Carapico identified nearly ten years ago as a pernicious "dualism" that shaped not only American research agendas, but also the stereotypical conceptions, popular and academic, of "the Gulf" (rather than the peninsula as a whole): "Yemen is kaleidoscopic; the Gulf is monochrome…The Gulf is good for business; Yemen is good for ethnography" (Carapico 2004).

This same oversight—what Adam Hanieh in his response discusses as a "methodological nationalism"—is also born out of what we may call a secondary Orientalism: a way of "knowing" that considers the majority of the Arabian Peninsula without "culture" and without "history" in comparison to the Arab states of North Africa and the Eastern Mediterranean. This fallacy has been exacerbated, of course, by the relative difficulty for short-term visitors and new scholars of actually engaging on a deeper level with the citizenry in countries like the United Arab Emirates, where it may be easier to befriend migrants from Egypt or Sri Lanka than its small minority of "nationals." As a result, although there have been notable exceptions—including recent scholarship on the political economy, political ecology, and youth and urban cultures in Saudi Arabia, in addition to an older, rich tradition of studies on kinship and its Bedouin—anthropological scholarship on Gulf-state citizens has seemed relatively flat in comparison to the "thicker" ethnographies of migrant populations in "the Gulf" and of "tribal" communities in Yemen. In both cases, these research foci emerge from the historically dominant approaches to these "two" areas: oil and security in the Gulf (and its resulting dependence on cheap, imported labor) and state-tribe relations in Yemen (and related studies on tribalism, sociality and gender). Nevertheless, they are also being productively complicated by theoretically informed analyses of space, political subjectivities, and belonging. A similar and amplified turn to non-labor migrant populations in the Gulf (as in the work of Mandana Limbert in Oman) and non-tribal populations in Yemen (such as Marina de Regt’s work on Ethiopian domestic workers or Susanne Dahlgren on the public sphere in Aden) remains welcome.

As for the difficulties in carrying out, rather than framing, research in the Arabian Peninsula, the challenges of conducting research in Yemen may be somewhat distinct. Adam Hanieh, Ahmed Kanna, Madawi Al-Rasheed and Neha Vora have touched on the lack of (Western) research institutes and networks in the Gulf, the dearth of statistical data, and the difficulty of gaining unmediated access. In Yemen, a robust network of foreign research institutes work in tandem with several Yemeni research and studies centers to house and fund scholars and to facilitate their research there. These include the American Institute for Yemeni Studies (AIYS), the French Center in Sana’a for Archaeology and Social Sciences (CEFAS), and the German Archaeological Institute (DAI). In the early 2000s, when I lived in Sanaa, these centers supported a vibrant research community of both foreign and Yemeni scholars who frequented their libraries and attended their talks. The deteriorating security situation in Yemen and the subsequent evaporation of US funding for in-country research has had an unfortunate impact on these centers, which, during my visits in recent years, have appeared particularly vacant. Still, even with this institutional support, it could be challenging to be an anthropologist in Yemen. For one, as Ahmed Kanna notes, anthropology is one of the less known and less understood of the social science disciplines. And when my Yemeni acquaintances did have an understanding of anthropology, they were also well aware and suspicious of its colonial and imperial legacy. This was made clear to me when a professor of anthropology at Sanaa University asked me in March 2003 in front of his class of students why the United States had not sent one hundred anthropologists to Iraq, instead of bombing it. Suspicion toward the discipline and a more general suspicion of foreign researchers as spies was not new. One only needs to read Steve Caton’s remarkable account of his arrest and imprisonment in 1980 to see what an effect such suspicions have had on the kind of knowledge that is produced. Indeed, in reflecting on his own encounter with the National Security in Raydah, Paul Dresch notes that it is often the most mundane of facts that are the most heavily guarded.

This was certainly true of my own experience of fieldwork in Socotra. Whereas I was made privy to various conspiracy theories, extra-marital affairs, secret religious conversions, etc.—all things I hesitated to take note of, much less write about—it was nearly impossible for me to ask my hosts quite straightforward questions about their genealogies, tribal structures, and political past. Of course, I was conducting research at a time when US presence in Iraq as well as in Yemen was acutely palpable. Moreover, it made little sense to my Socotran friends that a US student would receive funding to hang out in Socotra or anywhere else if she did not have significant ties to the political powers that be. As a result, I turned to and became more interested in Socotri poetry where people’s opinions, struggles, and contestations were more forcefully voiced. In so doing, I thus followed, or rather stumbled, in the footsteps of a group of scholars who work on poetry in Yemen, including Steve Caton, Flagg Miller, Lucine Taminian and Samuel Liebhaber, but without their expertise! Fortunately, such suspicions do ease over time. Although it has become even more difficult in the past five years for anthropologists to conduct fieldwork in Yemen, now that I live in Abu Dhabi where I am easily accessible by telephone and where my current position is more comprehensible to my Socotran interlocutors, Socotrans are more comfortable reaching out to me, calling upon me for help, and working with me. I know that if I were to have the chance to return again for a lengthy period of time, fieldwork—in terms of the questions I could ask and the answers I would receive—would be very different this time.

(2) What are some of the new and innovative ways of thinking and theorizing the Arabian Peninsula and how has your work drawn on these approaches? How do these new theoretical interventions address elisions or tensions within more traditional approaches?

In my view, one of the most useful attempts to reframe and theorize the Arabian Peninsula occurred with the 2004 publication of Counter-Narratives: History, Contemporary Society, and Politics in Saudi Arabia and Yemen (edited by Madawi al-Rasheed and Robert Vitalis). It is here that Sheila Carapico issued her "Arabia Incognita: An Invitation to Arabian Peninsula Studies" cited above. Carapico’s is a research agenda that would bridge the conventional divide between Yemeni and Gulf Studies to focus on the interconnections between the inhabitants and nations of the peninsula as a whole. Whether in direct response to Carapico’s invitation or in reaction to the region’s most recent and emblematic transnational phenomena, such as the global “war on terror,” the emergence of al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, and the spread of the Arab uprisings, several scholars and even academic journals have now taken up this call. For example, in the past two years we have seen the 2011 launch of the Journal of Arabian Studies: Arabia, the Gulf, and the Red Sea followed by, in 2013, the conversion and expansion of the journal Chroniques yéménites into Arabian Humanities: International Journal of Archaeology and Social Sciences in the Arabian Peninsula, both focused on the Arabian Peninsula en bloc and from antiquity to present.

What is needed when it comes to theorizing the Arabian Peninsula, however, is not just an expansion of scope—a sort of micro "area studies"—but also scholarship that explicitly draws on and forwards this transnational and interdisciplinary peninsular perspective. This approach breaks with the traditional dualism described above in its recognition that one cannot adequately study migration, religious reformism, sectarian identities, state and popular (or cultural) sovereignty, youth cultures, urbanism, natural resource exploitation and conservation, gender transformations, heritage production, or class, etc., within one nation without at least recognizing the influences and entanglements of these phenomena throughout the peninsula and across its surrounding waters. New scholarship that exemplifies this approach includes, of course, Engseng Ho’s work on Hadhrami migration; Adam Hanieh’s work on transregional (Khaleeji) capital and class formation; Laurent Bonnefoy’s work on Salafism in Yemen (and yet highly contingent upon grassroots flows to and from Saudi Arabia); Steve Caton’s emerging research on water scarcity in Yemen, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates; and Andrew Gardner’s comparative studies of the kafala system in Bahrain and Qatar, among others.

Even in a relatively "remote" and off-shore location such as Socotra, this "peninsular" perspective is imperative to an understanding of the "local" and of how Socotra has been produced recently as a World Heritage Site and a "natural" biodiverse research laboratory. Yet, in the early stages of my research on the development, conservation, and heritagization of Yemen’s Soqotra Archipelago, and perhaps due to the pervasiveness of the distinctions drawn between Yemen and the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) states, I was surprised by the degree to which my Socotran friends and neighbors were oriented not toward Sanaa or Aden, but rather toward Salalah, Ras al-Khaimah, Ajman, Sharjah, Bani Yas, and Jeddah. It was the cities and representations of "the Gulf" and Saudi Arabia—not mainland Yemen—which captured their imaginations and fueled their aspirations. Indeed, I soon learned that I could not examine heritage production in Socotra—conventionally understood to be a "national" project—without first examining heritage projects and discourses in Abu Dhabi and Dubai. For example, the annual Festival of the Socotran Poet which, as I wrote about in MERIP last May, was transformed in 2012 into a platform for public debate on the viability of Socotra’s cultural and political sovereignty, was originally modeled after the United Arab Emirates’ reality television show, The Million’s Poet, created by the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture and Heritage (now the Abu Dhabi Tourism and Culture Authority) to promote and safeguard national Emirati culture. This small example demonstrates to me the importance of seeing and understanding the peninsula holistically instead of continuing to bifurcate it into Yemen and the rest.

This is not to say, however, that the space and study of the Arabian Peninsula is any more "natural" than are the constructed borders of its nation-states. I agree with Toby Jones and John Willis’ deep reservations about area studies and about the "Arabian Peninsula" as yet another imperially produced category. As well as they state it here, these reservations are, of course, not new. And yet, as all of the contributors to this roundtable point out or imply, the Arabian Peninsula and the Gulf—Yemen, too (hence Lisa Wedeen’s book title, Peripheral Visions)—have long been treated as peripheral, geographically and conceptually, to the Middle East and to Middle East studies. One only needs to look through the bibliography of Lara Deeb and Jessica Winegar’s excellent review article, "Anthropologies of Arab-Majority Societies," to note that ethnographies and anthropological articles situated in Egypt or in Palestine far outnumber the recent scholarship produced on all of the Arabian Peninsula states combined. There is thus obviously no a priori reason to theorize the "Arabian Peninsula"—but we may still learn a lot in doing so.

Here, at New York University in Abu Dhabi (NYUAD), Pascal Ménoret, Justin Stearns, and I were hired into a nascent program named "Arab Crossroads Studies." During our first year teaching at NYUAD, we spent many hours debating both the merits and productivity of the name and the rationale for turning this then-concentration into a full-fledged undergraduate major. The legacy of US area studies’ Cold War roots was something we took seriously. What does "Arab Crossroads" even mean? And was it productive or just as flawed to move from a geographic focus, that is, Middle East studies, to a linguistic, cultural, and ethnic one: the Arab world? Even as these are questions we continue to ask, the renaming and reframing does something. If nothing else, it reminds me as a scholar and a teacher to focus more explicitly on the historical, political, economic, and social connections between the "Arab world" and its immediate surroundings (Africa, South Asia, the Indian Ocean region, and Europe) as well as on the human, material, and conceptual "crossroads" within "it." In doing so, it draws our attention away from place and toward movement across space and within various spaces.

In treating the Arabian Peninsula as a "center" rather than a periphery, we are forced to widen our geographical focus and broaden our conceptual one. That is, we cannot design classes or research projects as if the "Arab world" or the "Middle East" begins in Morocco and ends in Muscat. Nor can we ignore the capital and labor flows that link South Asia to the Arabian Peninsula to the Levant (and also to the United States). Finally, as Tom Looser has convincingly argued, it is with the export of Western universities and branch campuses to the Gulf and East Asia, for example, that area studies gains new salience. With the fashionable emphasis today on all things "global," a critical area studies approach can ground and situate an otherwise imperialist (and predominantly Western) sense of "global" knowledge and "cosmopolitan" belonging. Through the newly established "Arab Crossroads Studies" major at NYUAD, we seek to emphasize to our "global" students that their being here, in Abu Dhabi—in the Arabian Peninsula—does matter and that Abu Dhabi is not merely the "global" city it aspires to be, but that it, too, has been historically and politically produced. Included, however, among the required courses for all undergraduate majors is a "Problems and Methods in Arab Crossroads Studies" course: a course that examines area, area studies, and areas like the "Arabian Peninsula" critically, while asking what new theoretical interventions such a focus may uncover. We welcome further discussion on this!

(3) "Sectarianism" seems to have reemerged in popular and academic work on the Arabian Peninsula as both the label for and analytic of a socio-political phenomenon. What is the utility of both past and more recent formulations of "sectarianism" as an analytical tool for the study of the Arabian Peninsula? What challenges or problems have these formulations created?

This is an important question.  As I have not worked on sectarianism directly, however, I will defer here to the other roundtable participants.

(4) What is the relationship between local scholarship produced in the Arabian Peninsula and the work done by academics in the United States, Western Europe, Russia, etc.? What kind of attention has been given to local and regional knowledge production, if any?

I think it fair to say that the relationship between local scholarship produced in the Arabian Peninsula and the work done by academics from the outside is growing stronger, while still remaining contingent upon or even hampered by the hegemonic status of English as the scholarly lingua franca. We see this even in the shift from French- and German-language publications to English-language ones. Serious scholarship produced by "Western" academics does rely on local scholarship and knowledge production, but more can and should be done to translate these works to make them more widely accessible. For example, I recently assigned Ahmed Kanna’s Dubai: The City as Corporation to my students at NYUAD. Kanna draws heavily and productively on the writings of Emirati scholar Abdul-Khaleq Abdullah, thereby introducing his important work to Kanna’s English-language readership. As the majority of Abdullah’s articles have been published in Arabic, however, I am less able to assign them directly, meaning that "local" scholarship, like his, may be in danger of being presented or perceived as secondary to the English-language publications that build upon it.

Similarly, in my work on Socotra, I draw considerably on the texts written and published by the Socotran historian Ahmed al-Anbali (who resides in the United Arab Emirates), as well as on knowledge production by non-academics. The latter include Socotran guides, heritage brokers, and activists who, in response to and as a rejection of the international regime of "experts," are now fashioning themselves as what one may call "para-experts," engaged in an explicit and self-aware counter-form of knowledge production. Although I am mostly interested in the development and deployment of this parallel expertise (as opposed to the content itself), it remains a challenge to adequately present this knowledge production as scholarship and not just as ethnographic artifact. This is due in great part to what John Willis identifies as the incommensurable position of Yemeni academics in terms of their institutional and financial support and the different intellectual and political project in which they are engaged. Until recently, Socotran scholars were eager to promote a narrative of Socotran unity, stability, and exceptionalism. This has started to change, however, in the wake of the Arab uprisings, which have opened a space for more critical histories to be told.

Finally, as someone teaching at a US institution of higher education in the Gulf, I should say something about intellectual exchange and the proliferation of Western branch campuses mentioned by Al-Rasheed, Hanieh, and Vora. Madawi Al-Rasheed expresses concern that Western academic institutions (not just in the Gulf, but also in the West) may be forced through their funding sources to engage in self-censorship, if not the kind of outright censorship that occurred when Dr. Kristian Coates Ulrichsen was denied entry into the United Arab Emirates for a conference sponsored by the London School of Economics this past March. Adam Hanieh questions whether these institutions will reproduce dominant narratives about the Middle East and both Hanieh and Neha Vora raise the specter of their financial motives. It is undeniable that there are restrictions on academic freedom in these places—as there are in the United States and in Western Europe, especially when it comes to untenured faculty. Here at NYUAD we are guaranteed academic freedom in the classroom and within the institution more broadly, as long as we do not criticize the ruling families or Islam. Critics of these institutions perceive this as a profound infringement upon academic freedom and knowledge production. On the other hand, my students—Emirati, Filipino, American, and Palestinian—are reading and discussing Yasser Elsheshtawy, Andrew Gardner, Ahmed Kanna, and Neha Vora on structural violence, labor regimes, citizen-foreigner relations, and the politics of race, class, and space in the Gulf. In history classes, such as the ones taught by Pascal Ménoret, students are reading Madawi Al-Rasheed, Mamoun Fandy, Stephen Hertog, Toby Jones, Amelie Le Renard, Timothy Mitchell, and Robert Vitalis on resource extraction, corporate capitalism, imperialism, authoritarianism, political protest, and gender in the Arabian Peninsula. If our collective efforts to "theorize the Arabian Peninsula" take root, it will be in universities like NYUAD where students are eager to engage these analyses. This is only one way, but an important one, of creating a new generation of critical scholars and also of developing spaces of inquiry in which "local" scholarship is given serious attention within "Western" universities.

(5) Some argue that the Arab Uprisings changed the ways in which the Middle East can and will be studied. What has been the immediate impact of the Arab uprisings on scholarship on the Arabian Peninsula and what are likely to be the long-term effects?

The immediate impact of the uprisings on scholarship on the Arabian Peninsula has been an increased attention to both the transnational reverberations of these events and their antecedents—the politics of sectarianism in and across Arabian Peninsula states, the influence of the Muslim Brotherhood in the peninsula, the impact of social media transnationally, etc. Another result seems to be a renewed attention to various modes of sovereignty—state, popular, cultural—and its contestations. What may and hopefully will emerge with this, then, is the more thorough replacement of the Orientalist notion of "Gulf" states and societies as monolitihic and monochrome sites with a "thicker" understanding of the richness and complexities that underpins each Arabian Peninsula state individually and in relation to one another. To paraphrase Sheila Carapico, it should now become increasingly obvious that the entire Arabian Peninsula "is good for ethnography"—or, more importantly, that it deserves and requires a broader group of scholars’ critical attention.

 


Theorizing the Arabian Peninsula
electronic roundtable contributions:

Thinking Globally About Arabia by Toby C. Jones.

Knowledge in the Time of Oil by Madawi Al-Rasheed.

Capital and Labor in Gulf States: Bringing the Region Back In by Adam Hanieh.

Unpacking Knowledge Production and Consumption by Neha Vora.

Perspectives from the Margins of Arabia by Nathalie Peutz. 

Writing Histories of the Arabian Peninsula or How to Narrate the Past of a (Non)Place by John Willis.

Towards a Critical Cartography of the Political in the Arabian Peninsula by Ahmed Kanna.