[ALBSA-Info] Book Review

[aalibali at law.harvard.edu]

H-NET BOOK REVIEW
Published by H-SAE at h-net.msu.edu (June 2001)

Frances Trix. _Spiritual discourse: learning with an Islamic
master_ (Conduct and Communication Series). Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993. ISBN 0-8122-3165-1.
xi-189p.

Reviewed for H-SAE by Albert Doja <A.Doja at hull.ac.uk>,
Lecturer in Social Anthropology, University of Hull, UK.


An Albanian Bektashi Master, Discourse Ethnography of
Learning and the Spiritual Making of an Anthropologist:
An Account on Method and Content


Discourse analysis and ethnography are now sophisticated
research methods used in fieldwork by both linguist and
cultural or social anthropologists. Certainly the object of
research could be the research method itself, as the recent
tendencies in both (sub-) disciplines have made abundantly
clear that reflexive ethnography and discourse analysis is
become central for the current fundamental developments in
anthropological theory. The book published by Frances Trix,
Spiritual discourse: learning with an Islamic master
(Conduct and Communication Series, Philadelphia: University
of Pennsylvania Press, 1993), certainly addressed important
issues in this respect.

The object of her study is one lesson with an
Albanian-American Islamic master, Baba Rexheb, leader of
the Bektashi order, at the tekke (Islamic lodge or
monastery) of Detroit in Michigan. The lesson is rich in
poetry and parable, narrative and face-saving humour. As
Trix seeks to understand how Baba teaches, she
conceptualises the lesson in terms of episodes and dialogic
patterns. Baba teaches through a highly personalised,
recursive sort of language "play" that engenders current
attention while constantly evoking an ever-growing past and
narrative building identity.

Trix's assumption is that a description of a lesson with
Baba would shed most light on the murshid-talib
relationship, whereas she was faced with the puzzle of how
to view the relationship of murshid and talib in the
context of analysing a lesson. Previous Islamic studies
have preserved the poetry of murshids and certain
biographical details but have tended to take for granted
the process of their teaching. Previous interactional
studies, such as those between interviewer and client,
teacher and student, or doctor and patient, have also taken
the relationships for granted. Other discourse studies have
tended to fossilize transcriptions of interactions whereas
in this case, if learning indeed took place, a
developmental approach was necessary.

For scholars of discourse and interaction, the study
contributes the central concept of linguistic convergence
that operates not at the level of speech community, but
rather at the level of dialogic encounter, and that occurs
most often among people who have long interacted. For
anthropologists and scholars of religious studies, the
importance of oral interaction in the transmission of
spiritual knowledge has long been appreciated, but the
conceptual framework and methodology for its analysis have
been lacking.

The methodological aspects of the book are certainly
important and interesting. Without disregarding what
linguists and discourse analysis specialists are indeed
much more competent to recognize, I shall focus my
discussion however onto the very content of the object of
her study, which is the meaning of the relations between
talib and murshid, since her main assumption concerns
exactly this relationship. In other words I would like to
question to what extent her conceptual framework and
methodology provide a better understanding of Bektashi
religious conceptions in particular and of mystical and
heterodox orders in general. In turn, this understanding
could be conceptualised externally in terms of the
societal, personal, and ritual meanings it presumes.

The foundation of the Bektashi and all Sufi orders is the
system and relationship of master and disciple. In Bektashi
milieux time is mostly spent making muhabet, which is
talking with each other and chanting or reading nefes, the
Bektashi spiritual hymns and poems. In this way, they learn
how to be a talib 'one who seeks, who strives after', the
name given to the follower, the aspirant or the disciple of
a murshid, that is the master, the spiritual guide, or
roughly the 'teacher'. In nefes, this 'breath of spirit',
the feelings and devotion toward one's particular murshid
are endlessly evoked and elaborated. Frances Trix believed
the nefes could thus be seen as a particular Bektashi
language of talib/murshid relationship. The Bektashis see
the power of a nefes as an actualisation of the
relationship with the murshid, for the inspiration to
compose a nefes comes from one's own murshid.

Among Bektashis the importance of the talib and murshid
relationship is overriding. I have had the opportunity to
show elsewhere that among Albanians, the family name has
often been derived from the name of the own's father or
direct ancestor as well as of the village or town that the
family came from, and how this feature became constituent
for structuring the morphology of Albanian social
structure.[1] But among Bektashis the next identity frame
is also the name of one's murshid. In the Bektashi world of
discourse, in parables and narratives, poetry and nefes,
the centrality of the relationship with the murshid is the
norm. The murshid himself, the master, is also a talib, a
disciple, for each murshid is a talib of his own murshid
(Trix p. 75).

Frances Trix, before becoming associate professor of
anthropology at Wayne State University, had been a talib
for twenty-five years, learning Bektashism if not aiming to
become a Bektashi, from her own murshid. The basic analogy
of her study evolved into the learning in the relationship
of talib to murshid similar to the learning of a language,
with language understood as personally linked games, the
main game being the sharing of nefes, and the linkages of
which have theological significance. In this sense, her
study represents a rare experience in the application of
linguistic anthropology to the transmission of spiritual
knowledge to oneself. Her statements are particularly
interesting from both points of view, one of the talib
learning spiritual knowledge from her own murshid, and one
of the anthropologist interpreting this knowledge from her
own scholarship.

One of the aspects of religion as a social system,
especially in Christianity and Islam, is to be a mediating
cultural system of representation between powerless earthly
creatures and an all-powerful God located in the firmament.
Mediation makes it possible for the heavenly divinity to
intercede on behalf of the powerless humans on earth. The
mediational structure may very well be hierarchical. The
mediator is a human being, the priest or sacrificer for
instance, acting as a representative of a secular
congregation, who places himself on a higher plane than the
latter but is in a position of inferiority with respect to
the deity. The religious structure may just as well be of
another type, and claim to be the negation of hierarchy of
any sort. The initiative is entirely in the hands of the
divinity, which manifests itself without any mediation, by
dispensing the gifts of its grace on the faithful, with
believers receiving direct, immediate inspiration.
Charisma, or divine grace, touches them without the help of
any intermediary, and is in no way affected by any ritual,
more or less efficient, performed by a mediating priest. In
this case, the intensity of religious life prevails over
its extension, and salvation becomes a personal affair
rather than a relationship with some grace-dispensing
agency.

An important issue is the fact - shared by all apologists
of Sufism - that the Albanian spiritual master repeatedly
made the point for his talib, Frances Trix in this
instance, that Sunni Islam considers the relationship of
human beings to God as a direct one "without intermediary".
The critical message was that Bektashism, in contrast to
orthodox Islam and Christianity, adheres strongly to the
belief in intermediaries between humans and God, the
murshid being such an intermediary. The build-up to this
message was first a quick likening of Christianity with
Sunni Islam, and an equally swift contrasting of these
forms with Sufi Islam. The new understanding that emerged
reinforced the message of the murshid being an
intermediary, and more specifically an intercessor. Through
many connections, by repeatedly telling and retelling
narratives and adages, chanting nefes and making muhabet,
the understanding of the message that the murshid is the
intermediary between human beings and God is evoked,
reformulated and memorably forged throughout Frances Trix's
book (see for instance pp. 33, 69-70, 95, 120-125, 127,
131, 151). This in turn gives the talib an expanded
understanding of the murshid, both as intercessor and as
agent of inspiration.

I assume when linguists and anthropologists are analysing
discourse and using ethnography, this is not only for the
sake of an exclusive self-reflexive methodology. I consider
indeed that the scope of anthropology as a discipline, be
it linguistic or not, by using different kinds of research
methods for writing and talking culture and cultural
content is supposed to be after all a search of meaning. In
this respect, before considering to what extent Frances
Trix's methodology and statements could help for
understanding Bektashism as a mystical, heterodox order
within Islam, I think it is necessary to show to which
model of religious structure could Bektashism be ascribed
as an ideological and cultural system.

Bektachism essentially responded to the spiritual need for
a non-conformist religious experience in which there was no
room for a clear-cut separation between man and the
divinity, such as exists in the orthodox Sunni dogma. It
represents the demand for a pantheist approach and a 'warm'
faith. When mystical union with God is not quite the goal
sought, it is the cult of the miracle-working saints,
living or dead, through worship of their tombs, which
prevailed in their religious fervour.

Albanian Bektashi conceptions, in particular, would appear
heterodox and heretical as much as for Sunni Islam than for
Twelver Shiism as established in Iran, to whose tradition
is often supposed to be related. The well-known
nineteenth-century Albanian poet Naim Frashëri, for
instance, in his _Bektashi Pages_,[2] even rejected the
authority of the Koran, the sacred book of Islam. In
perfect agreement with conceptions evolved in Bektashism,
he explained that the Bektashis' book is their faith in the
Universe, and especially in human beings, since religion is
in their heart, and is not written anywhere, neither on any
paper nor book.

The Bektashis are universal 'brothers'. They viewed men and
women as equal, the most chaste being closest to
perfection. Bektashis have accepted and initiated women as
inner members since the beginning of the Order in central
Anatolia more than seven hundred years ago. This acceptance
of women has brought them criticism over the centuries and
yet they have persisted in it. Frances Trix believed that
her current acceptance as student of a Bektashi master was
certainly facilitated by the long-standing precedent of
female talibs (p. 149).

The Bektashis recognize no outside shape for the religion,
they do not practise the five daily prayers, nor the ritual
ablutions, they do not observe the fast of Ramadan and do
not believe in the necessity of the pilgrimage in Mecca.
They affirm, for instance, the importance of the Sunni
injunction to pilgrimage but they understand true
pilgrimage not as a physical journey to Mecca but rather as
a spiritual journey to the heart (Trix p. 34). Besides,
they sing in their nefes that "a true Moslem does not need
a mosque" and that Arabic or Persian, the languages of the
Prophet or the Imams, though especially intended for
religious practice, "are not convenient" for them.[3]

In Bektashi conceptions, an analogy between human actions
and the created world is re-established, but also the
analogy between moral actions and a world that should be
denied, because for all Reality (hakikat) there is no
existence but the Truth (hakikat), which is in fact nothing
else than God (al-Hakk). Therefore everything in the world
is nothing else than God, even the created world, being
only an appearance, does not exist. This "hidden" aspect of
the created world seems to have pantheistic connotations,
which are typical of the mainstream tradition in
Bektashism.[4] God is everywhere, in every animate and
inanimate being and his essence shows itself in all the
creatures.

Bektashism has deepened the correspondences between visible
and invisible worlds, as much as those between human beings
(the microcosm) and the world (the macrocosm). There are
correspondences between the natural and the supernatural,
and the universe is structured in a hierarchy starting from
heaven and coming down on earth. Bektashi tracts refer
explicitly to the belief that the Divine is present in Man.
Its signs are outwardly manifest in the shapes of a number
of Arabic letters found in the human face and in the human
body. In this way, Man is created in the best of forms,
because the same letters are used to write down the
Revelation. By locating the letters of Revelation and the
signs of Zodiac in Man,[5] Bektashi teaching does not cast
Man, however, as a microcosm reflecting the macrocosm, but
rather presents the cosmos as a projection of Man. For
Bektachis, the real believer should know that God is not
either in the heavens, but inside the human heart: "God is
me and I am God".[6]

The potential for perfection is present in every human
being, since God is present in everyone. However, in order
to reach the stage of the Perfect Man (insan-i kamil), to
go through the Gateways of spiritual growth and to
experience the ultimate Truth (hakikat) from inside,[7] one
needs a guide, a spiritual master, namely the murshid, who
himself has reached the perfection stage of insan-i
kamil.[8] In an extended Bektashi adage, it is asserted
that a talib is one who "knows that he or she does not
know" (Trix p. 86). That which he or she does not know
refers of course to more than facts, for when Bektashis in
general speak of knowledge, they mean spiritual knowledge -
in coming closer to God. For Bektashis, each human being is
a mosque and each human face is the face of perfection
(vech-i kamil) of one's murshid. In him the outer signs of
perfection are matched by inner perfection. For this
reason, Bektashis equal ritual prayer (namaz) with paying
visits to one's murshid.

Orthodox Islam in general is strictly monotheistic. But for
the Bektashis, in particular, who clashed with official
Islam at a very early date, one of the central beliefs is
that the Imam Ali was a manifestation of the divine on
earth. Ali, the son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, is one
of the first Muslims and the one to whom Shiites attribute
the revelation of mystic understanding of the Koran. For
Bektashis, beliefs of reincarnation (tenassuh) and of God's
manifestation in human form (tecelli) imply a belief in
transformation and the multiplicity of forms. One of the
divine manifestations, the Allah's mazhar, the perfect
reflection of God, is realised notably in Ali, who
represents the totality of the divine essence, as an
expression of the perfect, divine beauty.[9] The three
letters of Ali's name, which meet themselves in the face of
every man, represent the shape of the face of God.

Ali is held to be the originator (shahib-i risala) of the
Koran, while Muhammad is referred to as the mouthpiece
(natiq-i risala) of Ali. A different way of formulating
this relationship is that the exoteric (zahir) aspect of
the divine came into the world with Mohammad, while in its
esoteric (batin) aspect the divine is identical with Ali.
In other words, Muhammad and Ali are both manifestations of
the same divine reality. In this way, Allah, Muhammad and
Ali form a sort of Trinity (referred to as the ucler)
manifesting one and the same Truth (hakikat), and thought
of as a miraculous unity (tawhid). In Bektashi liturgical
objects and pictorial art, the trinity Allah-Muhammad-Ali
is all-important. Ali is always depicted in a
hierarchically organised divine triad, miraculously unified
with the Prophet and Allah, the supreme God. Even in
everyday speech, Muhammad and Ali are understood as the
same manifestation of and as identical with the Divine, the
ultimate Truth, the hakikat.[10]

The importance to the Bektashis of the hierarchical divine
triad is also reflected, among other instances in the
Albanian-American tekke of Michigan, in its being evidently
displayed on a banner in the large public meeting room of
the tekke (Trix p. 105). The banner hangs prominently
between the Albanian and American flags directly behind
leader's chair. On the banner are verses from the Koran,
translated into Albanian and written in white letters. In
the corners of the banner are four names: Allah, Muhammad,
Ali, and Hadji Bektash. This contrasts with a common Sunni
pattern and replicates the Bektashi chain of spiritual
knowledge and therefore as an explicit keying and rejection
of the Sunni pattern.

The Koran is the word of God corroborating the other
revealed Books, just as the prophet Mohammad, the agent of
the revelation, is the last of a series of messengers of
God starting with Adam and including, among others,
Abraham, Moses and Jesus, viewed as a prophet among others.
For the Bektashis, all the Prophets and the Imams are
reincarnations of Ali and one will understand that in
certain contexts, notably in Christian environments, Jesus
(Hasreti Isa) is equated to Ali.

 >From her master Frances Trix learned among other things
that in Bektashi conception there are explicit hierarchical
series or chains (silsila) all connecting back to Cennabi
Hakk, the term for God. The theological rationalisation is
that "Cenabi Hakk could not always stay and guide
humankind, so he sent the following people in his place:
Cenabi Hakk \ khalifa \ prophet \ veliler (saints) \
tarikat (Sufi Orders) \ murshid\" (Trix p. 102-103). But
other hierarchical chains reveal even more specifically the
hierarchy of spiritual revelation and hence of spiritual or
supernatural powers of the saints. "The power to perform
miracles comes through: Cenabi Hakk \ Cebrail (Gabriel) \
Muhammad \ Ali \ the imams \ saint Hadji Bektash \ the
murshid \" (Trix p. 103-104). The divine series are
quasi-historical chains in that the prophets are understood
to have ended with the coming of Muhammad, and the tarikat
or Sufi Orders to appear much later. In mentioning Ali, the
place of the mystic revelation, characteristic of the
Bektashis, is specifically emphasised. As for the saints,
"some are hidden, some are known" (Trix p. 103). In other
words, they can be considered differently, according to the
hierarchical chains of spiritual revelation or power.

There is also an unbroken chain of talibs and murshids
through which Bektashis connect themselves to the founder
of the order, their patron saint Hadji Bektash. This
unbroken chain of talibs and murshids continues the link
from Hadji Bektash to earlier saints, to the imams, and
back to Hussein, whose murshid was Ali, whose murshid was
the Prophet Muhammad, whose murshid was the Angel Gabriel,
and thus to God. Building on this continuity, Bektashis
come into relation with God through devotion and obedience
to their personal murshid. The murshid carries on with the
guidance of individual talibs, but the relationship of
talib to murshid is indeed a model of the relationship of
human beings to God.

Frances Trix viewed both divine and historical chains
connecting to God in Bektashi conception exactly as "a sort
of logic in that its function is to display connections and
thereby to legitimise the place of the murshid
cosmologically" (p. 103). If God's manifestation, the God's
mazhar par excellence, is Ali who shows himself under
various forms, in Bektashi poetry and prose, numerous
indications can be found testifying to the belief that the
traditional founder of the Order was appeared as Ali. In
other words, Hadji Bektash also was God in a different
guise.

Coming back to the relationship between talib and murshid,
in my view, this is particularly relevant for understanding
Bektashi religious conceptions. Whereas for a talib the
message of the murshid as an intermediary between humans
and God is well assessed and clearly understood, how should
the anthropologist understand the Bektashi's conception of
the relationship between humans and God: as mediated and
hierarchical or as a direct, unmediated one? In other
words, if there is any intermediary hierarchy, should it be
found in the conceptualisation of the divinity or in the
organisation of the worldly, human society?

To what extent does the murshid/talib relationship
contribute to this understanding could indeed be shown
through the very experience of Frances Trix herself as a
talib. Her story, gracefully and humbly told, is a
discourse ethnography of learning and a sociolinguistic
illustration of mysticism, but above all it illuminates the
process of an interpersonal encounter. Overall what is
being passed on is not facts but a relationship and a
communication, for the relationship and communication
between seeker and master mirrors that of human and God.

Most Bektashi narratives, for instance, especially those
with new, much more Sufi episodes, show a progression from
a more limited orthodox understanding to the deeper Sufi
understanding. In these narratives, the point is clearly
made that "the murshid is the way through which the student
reaches God" (Trix p. 121). In one of these narratives, the
murshid commanded his talib to swim across the water with
him, holding onto his collard and all the time saying Pir
Hakk!, "the Pir (patron saint, here murshid) is the Truth".
The talib, however, showed his lack of trust in the murshid
by reconsidering halfway across the water and calling out
to God instead, at which point he began to drown. In his
explanation, the master made clear that it was murshid's
place to call out to Cenabi Hakk (Bektashi term for God)
for both of them; as for the talib, his place was to call
out only to the murshid.

Normally in Bektashi world, "for a murshid to _speak for
someone_ does not mean he would put words in his mouth when
speaking to other men, but implied _speaking to God for
one_" (Trix p. 123). A Bektashi talib also learns that all
that one _sees_, or _writes_ in spiritual matters is
_in-come_ from God through one's murshid. Especially nefes
are such in-come from the murshid. In Bektashi terms,
inspiration in poetry came _from the heart_ - which is the
seat of higher faculties of perception - and it is brought
to the heart by God, Cenabi Hakk, or one's murshid as
intermediary (Trix p. 127).

When in these narratives the point is clearly made that
"the murshid is the way through which the student reaches
God", this is because the murshid has already acquired the
stage of the Perfect Man (insan-i kamil), in other words,
the capacity to communicate directly with God, and the
talib has not yet. God could respond to the murshid if
called upon, but not yet to the talib. The talib is still a
follower, though encouraged to pass through the gateways of
ultimate Truth (hakikat), and in his or her turn, to become
perfect and to reach his or her own union with God
(tawhid). The murshid could speak to God for someone, -
even though apparently he is acting for the talib as a
simple "intercession" (Trix p. 123), - in the same way that
all that one sees, or writes in spiritual matters is
in-come, inspiration from God through one's murshid. In
other words, here too, the murshid seems to be not only a
simple intermediary: "Before, I had understood it as the
means to reach God, but now with the added example of
_in-spiration_ I could see that it meant to receive from
God as well" (Trix p. 124, emphasis added).

The Sufi term generally translated 'inspiration', ilham, is
in Bektashi usage near in meaning to personal 'revelation',
and contrasts with exoteric impersonal prophetic
revelation.[11] The esoteric knowledge that the Bektashi
murshids possess has come to them, not by genealogical, but
by spiritual progression. In fact, it came to them by a
twofold action of God, by transmission from Muhammad,
through a chain of elect masters, and also by direct
inspiration from God.

In the same way, the experience of spiritual learning is
achieved by means of the murshid as a communication process
with the Bektashi spiritual knowledge. Had this process led
to possession of the mystical gnosis (marifat), as normally
expected in the very 'faithful' sense of the experience,
the novice might have been sanctified as a potential saint,
in a mystic union with God (tawhid). But the union,
involving divine inspiration would not be possible without
progressive communication through different conceptions of
divinity split into a series of hierarchical emanations,
the most accessible of which is in fact nobody else than
one's own master.

Finally, for the talib the difference definitely lies in
the presence of the murshid as the intermediary between
humans and God in the case of Bektashism, while the
relationship is seen as a direct one without intermediary
in the case of orthodox Islam or Christianity. Frances
Trix, as a talib, viewed well the relationship in this way.
But Frances Trix, not any more as a talib but already as a
confirmed anthropologist, did not have been able, however,
to recognize a different meaning for her relationship as a
talib. This concerns what anthropologists know as the
danger of "going native", which refers to the possibility
of becoming over-involved with the people being studied,
and so losing the detachment that is essential to the role
of the analyst.

In my view, for the anthropologist would be important to
ask the question of difference between Bektashism and
orthodox Islam and Christianity as concerned either with a
hierarchical, intermediary organisational structure or with
the presence of a direct, unmediated communication between
humans and God through transmission of mystical gnosis from
one's murshid in the case of Bektashism, and the absence of
such a communication for orthodox Islam and Christianity.

At the end of the book is an epilogue, in which a famous
murshid from the 13th century tells his talib story and
"conveys in one page what I have taken many to suggest",
wrote Trix (p. 147) very modestly indeed. In the same way
that Frances Trix did, I think the story - well-known in
Sufi milieux - worth retelling:

"It seems that one day Rumi [the talib] went to his
murshid's house. But when he arrived, he found that Tabrizi
[the murshid] had just left. Rumi quickly looked down the
narrow streets and saw the coattails of his master as he
turned into an alley. He followed his murshid. Yet whenever
he got near, Tabrizi was just turning another corner in the
twisting streets. Finally Tabrizi went into a house, and
Rumi followed him in. But once inside he did not see his
master anywhere, so he went up on the flat roof. But he did
not see him on the roofs either. So he jumped off, and his
murshid caught him in his arms." (told in Trix p. 158).

I argue the importance of the understanding of
communication between humans and God lay in the fact that
the hierarchical model of religious mediation corresponds
to the dogma of orthodox faiths, whereas the model in which
all hierarchies are denied, in their real embodiments, is
closely linked to millenarian and mystical beliefs and to
the development of heresies and heterodoxies, such as those
related to Bektashism. The former model may well support an
established, hierarchical power, whereas the latter
corresponds to an oppressed or deprived minority, seeking
justification of its revolt against the established
authorities. According to this model, the establishment of
a political hierarchy within human society goes hand in
hand with the introjection of a unified conception of
divinity, a pure monotheism within the theological system.
On the other hand, a visible hierarchical conception of the
divinity goes along with an egalitarian politics in human
society. The conception of a relational equality, derived
from the idea that people are equal in their relations with
the divinity, is effectively present alongside an ideology
of substantial egalitarianism among human beings.[12]

Broadly speaking, and aside from the peculiarities that may
be accounted for by the political and economic systems of
the countries in which they spread, the initial structures
specific to heretic and heterodox movements remain rather
indistinct. Their communities are suggestive of the early
Christian groups of the first centuries, as described in
the Acts of the Apostles and the Epistles of Paul. Earlier
Sufi and Bektashi groups had been linked by enthusiasm,
common devotions, and methods of spiritual discipline, with
the aim of stripping the soul and eliminating self to
attain vision of Reality.[13] They were therefore
integrated by spirit and aim rather than by any formal
organisation, and were in fact very loose organisations. In
this way, Bektashism, as early Sufism, was a subjective
expression of personal religion in relation to the
expression of religion as a communal matter. It was an
assertion of a person's right to pursue a life of
contemplation, seeking contact with the source of being and
reality, against institutionalised religion as based on
authority.

Viewed from this angle, the structure of these religious
groups corresponds more or less to the type of religious
organisation conventionally known as charismatic groups.
They are inspired by the ideal of a community of the
spiritually pure gifted with graces and powers that
knowledge is supposed to procure, and called upon to
dispense the benefits around them. A dividing line splits
followers into two classes, depending on whether they are
capable or worthy of receiving some or all of the gifts of
grace and spirit, with some people having acquired them and
possessing them fully, while others aspire to partake of
them, or are just at the beginnings.

Significantly enough, as time went by, the organisational
system of the Bektashi Order was increasingly replaced by
another one, more sophisticated and much more institutional
and hierarchical. The distinction between talibs and
murshids was maintained, but both simply became the last
two ranks in a hierarchy then containing a number of other
additional grades. In other words, other classes were added
to the two previously existing ones, by superposition, or
more accurately, an order with two classes was replaced by
a much more complex one.

Out of the diverse heritages of heterodox Islamic
tendencies and Christian Anatolian and Turkish
superstitions, the Bektashi order came very nebulous at
first. It became a hierarchical institution, highly
organized and centralized, yet parochial, providing a
village religion, a system of lodges, and a link with the
powerful military corps of Janissaries. The officials of
the order approached nearer to a clergy class than any
other in Islam, whilst the tekke was the equivalent of the
local church. The murshid ceased to teach directly but
delegated authority both to teach and initiate to
representatives (khalifa). A special cult surrounded the
murshid's person, associated with the power emanating from
the founder-saint of the order.

A new aura emanates now from the murshid as a protégé
(wali) of God, which eventually, in this stage, was to
become belief in his mediumship and intercessory status
with God. The Bektashi life of recollection and meditation
now becomes increasingly associated with a line of
ascription, which bestowed the order, its formulae and
symbols, as from the master and guided all disciples along
his Way in his name. The change, as in early Sufism, came
with development of the collegium pietatis into a collegium
initiati whose members ascribed themselves to their
initiator and his spiritual ancestry, and were prepared to
follow his Way and transmit it themselves to future
generations.

The transformation of Sufi companionships into initiatory
colleges began with the Sunni triumphs over Shiite
dynasties, which coincided with the foundation of the
Ottoman Empire.[14] The Bektashism, in the peak of its
hallmark days during the seventeenth century, maintaining a
strong central organization, with affiliated village groups
limited to Anatolia and its European provinces, even
claimed to be a Sunni order,[15] though in fact very
unorthodox and considered as a Shiite order due to its
reverence for the House of Ali. One consequence of this
association with the Janissaries and so with Ottoman
authority was that the Bektashis were rarely attacked on
grounds of doctrine or innovations. In turn, the officials
of the order formed clearly their loyalty to the Sunna of
the Prophet as a necessary stage in their code of
discipline.

In other words, the final stage of the hierarchical and
centralised organization coincides with the establishment
of orthodox religious and political power. The same process
was reiterated in Albania when the organisational structure
of Bektashism, due once again to an explicit political
position, reached a very peculiar expression, not only in
terminological, local terms but also in a more
sophisticated and clear-cut hierarchy than in the Ottoman
context, as specialists show by abundant documentary
evidence.[16]

During the period of independent Albania, representatives
of the hierarchy of the Albanian Bektashi clergy expressed
themselves against assertions that often tend to consider
the order of Bektashis as a doctrine of strong syncretism,
diverging from orthodox Sunni Islam much more than the
other orders. They underlined that Bektashism is "inside
(Sunni) Islam" and, sometimes, that it is even the "real
Islam", as specialists have given documentary evidence,[17]
without necessarily explaining - neither indeed
understanding at all - that a deep evolution had been
already achieved, not only in organisational and political
structures, but also in theological and religious
conceptions.

However, when linguists and anthropologists are analysing
discourse and using ethnography, I wonder myself if it were
only for the sake of an exclusive self-reflexive
methodology and discoursing verbal flow. Verbal and poetic
interaction is highly valued among Bektashis and among
Albanians. To paraphrase a pair of Bektashi couplets,
brought up by Trix (p. 93), I wonder myself, are they in
search of meaning or are they not, are they writing and
talking culture or are they not?


Notes

[*]. This review is a further elaboration of an earlier
version which appeared in The Linguist List vol-12-1315.
http://www.linguistlist.org/issues/12/12-1315.html.

[1]. See Doja, Albert. 1998. Inscription patronymique et
mythologie de fondation: Éléments d'analyse pour une
généalogie des noms de personne chez les Albanais.
_Anthropos. International Review of Anthropology and
Linguistics_ 93 (1-3), 155-172; Doja, Albert. 1999.
Morphologie traditionnelle de la société albanaise. _Social
anthropology. Journal of the European Association of Social
Anthropologists_ 7 (1), 37-55.

[2]. Published in English translation by Hasluck, Frederick
W. 1929. _Christianity and Islam under the Sultans_. (ed.)
M.M.H. Hasluck. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 552-563. [Reprint
New York: Octagon Books, 1973].

[3]. Mélikoff, Irène. 1982. L'islam hétérodoxe en Anatolie:
non-conformisme - syncrétisme - gnose. _Turcica_ 14,
142-154. (see p. 151-152).

[4]. Birge, John K. 1937. _The Bektashi order of dervishes_.
London: Luzac Oriental & Hartford Seminary Press, 288-291.
[Revised, facsimile 1994].

[5]. Ibid., 282.

[6]. Mélikoff, 150.

[7]. Birge, 102-103.

[8]. Ibid., 96-97.

[9]. See Mélikoff.

[10]. For details, see DeJong, Frederick. 1989. The
iconography of Bektashism: a survey of themes and symbolism
in clerical costume, liturgical objects and pictorial art.
_Manuscripts of the Middle East_ 4, 7-29.

[11]. Trimingham, J. Spencer. 1971. _The Sufi orders in
Islam_. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 145. [Reprint, 1998].

[12]. For a developed account, see Doja, Albert. 2000.
Histoire et dialectique des idéologies et significations
religieuses. _European Legacy. Journal of the International
Society for the Study of European Ideas_ 5 (5), 663-686.

[13]. Trimingham, 13.

[14]. Ibid., 67-104.

[15]. Ibid., 80.

[16]. See Clayer, Nathalie. 1990. _L'Albanie, pays des
derviches: les ordres mystiques musulmans en Albanie à
l'époque post-ottomane, 1912-1967_ (Balkanologische
Veröffentlichungen, 17). Berlin/Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz,
47-67.

[17]. Ibid., 77-78.



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