Birol Başkan - From Religious Empires To Secular States - State Secularization in Turkey, Iran and Russia-Routledge (2014)

“Birol Başkan makes a major and innovative contribution to the study of
secularization. His comparison of one Christian (the USSR) and two Mus-
lim (Turkey and Iran) countries is buttressed by deep and insightful histori-
cal research to provide empirical and analytic leverage for his penetrating
insights on the paths to, and ultimate limitations of, state-directed secular-
ization. This book will become essential reading for scholars of the three
countries and for sociologists who study politics and religion.”
—Richard W. Lachmann, University at Albany
“Theoretically refined and empirically rich, this book examines the intersec-
tion of religion, politics, Islam, and secularism from an innovative stand-
point. The author separates the concepts of state, liberalism, and secularism
and then creatively re-assembles them. For secularism, the key in this re-
assemble is the state-building process: secularism is not so much driven
by ideological commitment but material needs for survival in an uncertain
domestic and international environment. Offering empirically rich histo-
ries, the author builds a clear typology of paths for state secularization—
accommodationist (Turkey), separationist (Iran), and eradicationist (Russia)
to explain differences in the state secularization. This book will be an essential
reading for political scientists, historians, areas studies specialists, and com-
parative sociologists who are interested in religion and politics.”
—Turan Kayaoğlu, University of Washington, Tacoma
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From Religious Empires
to Secular States
In the 1920s and the 1930s, Turkey, Iran, and Russia vehemently pursued
state-secularizing reforms but adopted different strategies in doing so. But
why do states follow different secularizing strategies? The literature has
already shattered the illusion that secularization of the state has been a
unilinear, homogeneous, and universal process and has convincingly shown
that secularization of the state has unfolded along different paths. Much,
however, remains to be uncovered.
This book provides an in-depth comparative historical analysis of state
secularization in three major Eurasian countries: Turkey, Iran, and Russia.
To capture the aforementioned variation in state secularization across three
countries that have been hitherto analyzed as separate studies, Birol Başkan
adopts three modes of state secularization: accommodationism, separa-
tionism, and eradicationism. Focusing thematically on the changing relations
between the state and religious institutions, Başkan brings together a host
of factors, historical, strategic, and structural, to account for why Turkey
adopted accommodationism, Iran separationism, and Russia eradicationism.
In doing so, he expertly demonstrates that each secularization strategy was
a rational response to the strategic context in which the reformers found
themselves.
Birol Başkan is an assistant professor of government at Georgetown Univer-

sity School of Foreign Service in Qatar. He holds a PhD in political science
from Northwestern University. His research looks at state-regime-religion
relations in the Middle East.
Conceptualising Comparative Politics:
Polities, Peoples, and Markets
Edited by Anthony Spanakos (Montclair State University) and

Francisco Panizza (London School of Economics)
Conceptualising Comparative Politics seeks to bring a distinctive approach to
comparative politics by rediscovering the discipline’s rich conceptual tradition
and inter-disciplinary foundations. It aims to fill out the conceptual framework
on which the rest of the subfield draws but to which books only sporadi-
cally contribute, and to complement theoretical and conceptual analysis by
applying it to deeply explored case studies. The series publishes books that
make serious inquiry into fundamental concepts in comparative politics (crisis,
legitimacy, credibility, representation, institutions, civil society, reconciliation)
through theoretically engaging and empirical deep analysis.
1 Moments of Truth
The Politics of Financial Crises in Comparative Perspective
Edited by Francisco Panizza and George Philip
2 From Religious Empires to Secular States

State Secularization in Turkey, Iran, and Russia
Birol Başkan
From Religious Empires
to Secular States
State Secularization in Turkey,
Iran, and Russia
Birol Başkan
First published 2014
by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
and by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group,
an informa business
© 2014 Taylor & Francis
The right of Birol Başkan to be identified as author of this work has been
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Baskan, Birol, author.
From religious empires to secular states : state secularization in Turkey,
Iran, and Russia / by Birol Baskan.
pages cm. — (Conceptualising comparative politics: polities, peoples,
and markets ; 2)
1. Secularism—Turkey—History. 2. Secularism—Iran—History.
3. Secularism—Russia—History. 4. Religion and state—Turkey—
History. 5. Religion and state—Iran—History. 6. Religion and state—
Russia—History. I. Title. II. Series: Conceptualising comparative
politics; 2.
BL2747.8.B325 2014
322'.10904—dc23
2013040882
ISBN: 978-0-415-74351-8 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-315-81360-8 (ebk)
Typeset in Sabon
by Apex CoVantage, LLC
To my grandfather, Arif ‘Çavuş’ Başkan.
Contents
Acknowledgments xi
Series Editors’ Foreword xiii
1 Introduction: The Secular State and Its Three Types 1
2 Mobilizing Sheikhs and Ulama: Religion and the

Ottoman Empire 24
3 Accommodationist State Secularization in Republican Turkey 51
4 Appeasing the Ulama: Religion and the Imperial State in Iran 73
5 Separationist State Secularization in Pahlavi Iran 95
6 Taming the Church: Religion and the Russian Empire 109
7 Eradicationist State Secularization in the Soviet Union 132
8 Conclusion: The Fates of Three Models of Secular States 146
Appendix 163
References 183
Index 199
Acknowledgments
This book has grown out of a dissertation submitted to the Department of

Political Science at Northwestern University. I owe great intellectual debt to
the committee members, Will Reno (the chair), Edward Gibson, and Georgi
Derluguian. During my five years of graduate life at Northwestern, I also
incurred great debt to several fellow graduate students: just to name a few,
I must count Ato Kwamena Onoma, Jae Jeok Park, Jean-François Godbout,
Jiangnan Zhu, Lee Seymour, Sarah Stucky, and Tao Xie.
Several others have made critical contributions to this book. I want
to name specifically Ahmet T. Kuru, who also suggested the book’s title,
Amira Sonbol, Anthony P. Spanakos, Ekrem Karakoç, Francisco Panizza,
Mark Farha, Mazhar al Zo’by, Richard Lachmann, Sultan Tepe, Turan
Kayaoğlu, and three anonymous reviwers of Routledge. I wholeheartedly
thank them all.
I also want to extend my gratitude to the staff of libraries at Northwestern
University, State University of New York at Fredonia, Qatar University, and
Georgetown University School of Foreign Service in Qatar for their valuable
help in the process of writing this book.
At Routledge, I am grateful to Anthony P. Spanakos, Francisco Panizza,
Natalja Mortensen, and Darcy Bullock for their precious help through the
whole process.
I thank Routledge Taylor and Francis Group for allowing me to reprint
certain parts of my “What Made Ataturk Reforms?” in chapter 3 and
Cambridge University Press for allowing me to reprint certain parts of
my “State Secularization and Religious Resurgence: Diverging Fates of
Secularism in Turkey and Iran” in chapter 8. The former appeared in Islam
and Christian Muslim Relations in 2011 and the latter in Politics and
Religion in 2013.
My wife, Feyza, has brought color and joy to my life, which would have
otherwise been quite dull. I am and will always be grateful for this.
I also want to express my gratitude to my broader family—my maternal
aunt, Yaşar; my brother, Şenol; my paternal aunts, Gülhan and Nurhan in
particular; my uncles; my cousins; my nephew and niece; and all my in-laws.
I am blessed to have you all in my life.
xii Acknowledgments
I owe the greatest debt, of course, to my mother and father, Nezaket and
Şefik Başkan. I hope I have made you truly happy and genuinely proud of
me. May Allah give you both a long and blessed life.
I would like to dedicate this book, however, to my grandfather, Arif
Başkan, whom we lost just recently.
Series Editors’ Foreword
Both liberalism and Marxism thought that religion had no place in modern
public life: liberalism cordoning it off to the private realm, Marxism condemn-
ing it to the dustbin of history. And yet, as any cursory look at international
affairs would confirm, religion has an obstinate presence in modern politics.1
Of course, there are significant variations in the role played by religion in
public life. As a spin doctor of former British prime minister Tony Blair
famously said, politicians “don’t do God” in Britain. In contrast, in the
United States, politicians cannot afford “not to do God.” In other areas,
particularly in the Muslim world, religion and politics remain firmly joined
together. The temptation is to see this part of the world as exceptional
to the distinction between “church and state” that is seen in the modern
West. Given that even within the West, there exist plural relations between
religious organizations, ideas, and movements and the state, among other
agents of governance, it should not be surprising that concepts of secularism
based on “separationism” would be misleading in the Middle East.2 But
then, it is not only so in the Middle East. It is equally inadequate in examining
countries where Orthodox Christianity is the historic religion of the majority.3
The conceptual challenge of understanding secularism in different contexts
means precisely doing that—understanding secularity as taking different
forms depending on context rather than assuming that monolithic modern-
ization theory will be sufficient for all times and places.
Offering a more precise lens on the process of constructing a secular state
in Iran, Turkey, and the Soviet Union, Birol Başkan makes three important
contributions to our understanding of secularism and secularization.
The first one is conceptual: What does it mean that a state is secular?
Charles Taylor’s A Secular Age (2007) defined a secular state as a state
that: is not officially and substantively linked to a religion; acknowledges
and guarantees full religious liberty; and grants full equality between
people of different faiths and full political participation to people of all
faiths. With some variations, this definition has been adopted by most
scholars working on the field of secularization. Başkan challenges this
consensus, arguing that Taylor’s definition fits the characterization of the
modern liberal democratic state but not of the much broader category of
xiv Series Editors’ Foreword
the secular state. The challenge is more subtle than Partha Chatterjee’s
The Politics of the Governed (2004), which offers “reflections on popular
politics in most of the world,” but it is no less bold. Liberal democracy
occupies so narrow a range of countries that, if it is not considered a uni-
versal telos, there is little reason to consider it “typical” enough to derive a
notion of secularism from its experience.
For Başkan, state secularity refers to a particular relationship the state
has with religion through its leaders—namely, a relation by which the state
claims absolute sovereignty and as a consequence brings to an end the autono-
mous existence of religious communities within the territory. As such secularity
is a necessary condition of the modern state that is compatible with a range of
possible relations between religious authorities and the state on the condition
that it is the latter that determines the role of religion within its territory.
In other words, it is not the separation but subordination of religious
authorities to the state that defines a secular state. Subordination leads to
policies, to notions of tolerance and coexistence, and also to forms of
discrimination that are distinct from those associated with separation.
The book’s second contribution is the study of secularization as a process.
Başkan argues that secularization is linked to the process of building the
modern sovereign state. This is, of course, not a particularly new insight.
What Başkan adds to the argument is that secularization was not dependent,
as claimed by scholars such as Jose Casanova, on the capture of state power
by militant secularizing movements (1994). Rather, he argues, the seculariza-
tion of the modern state stems from its very nature as a sovereign state, not
from the ideology of groups who build it. If secularization is an integral part
of state building, the same factors that have contributed to the birth of the
modern state, such as the existence of a hostile international environment
and the requirements of a nascent capitalist economy, also contributed to
the process of secularization. Yet Başkan’s analysis of secularization does
not fall into some kind of abstract structural determinism. Rather, he brings
politics back to the study of secularization: The secularization of the state
was about weakening or, if necessary, destroying the existence of autono-
mous religious organizations. As he puts it, state secularization was not an
impersonal historically determined process, but rather a deeply political one
of redistribution of power.
Başkan’s analysis of the particular strategies pursued by state rulers
to subordinate religious organizations to the sovereign state and of the
strategic context in which reformers found themselves explains what is,
perhaps, the most important contribution of the book to the study of the
modern secular state: the existence of different paths to secularization and
of different models of secularism. Based on a richly textured empirical
study of processes of secularization in Republican Turkey (1923–present),
Pahlavi Iran (1925–1979), and Soviet Russia (1922–1991), Başkan shows
that while all modern secular states are characterized by common features
Series Editors’ Foreword xv
such as the monopoly of legislative power and the elimination of the
religious communities’ veto power over its sovereign decisions, they differ
in some critical ways. He argues that the differences stem from the fact that
the secularizers pursued radically different strategies in dealing with religion,
religious communities, and religious institutions.
If, as in Turkey, the reformers came to power through an intense intra-
elite competition and faced an acquiescent religious community, “secular
accommodationism” was the outcome. In Turkey, the Kemalist rulers
closed religious courts and schools and strongly asserted the secular nature
of the state, but they did incorporate certain religious institutions into the
state, put Islamic scholars on the state payroll, and propagated a particular
understanding of Islam through the religious institutions under its control.
This was not a simple example of religious repression or separationism.
If, as in Iran, the reformers came to power through a palace coup and
faced a disengaged religious community, “secular separationism” was the
outcome. Religious institutions continued to operate but were deprived of
their privileges and depended on their own organizational and financial
resources. In contrast with Turkey, the Iranian state did not seek to control
religious bodies or impose a particular interpretation of Islam. Ironically,
this opened a space for many of the forces behind the 1979 revolution
and the regime that followed. If, as in Soviet Russia, the reformers came
to power through a civil war and faced a confrontational religious com-
munity, “eradicationism” was the outcome. The Soviet state waged war
against religion, officially adopting atheism as an integral part of the state
ideology, closing down religious institutions, expropriating church assets,
and prosecuting priests.
While the book is about recent rather than contemporary history, it is
almost unavoidable to try to draw some lessons for the present, particularly
in light of developments such as the Arab Spring, the electoral triumph of
Hassan Rouhani in the 2013 presidential election in Iran, and the revival of
authoritarian religious nationalism in Russia. While Başkan is careful not to
chose among the different models of secularism, he notes that Turkey’s accom-
modationism is the only one that has survived today and that, while not by
any means a fl awless democracy, Turkey is certainly much more democratic
than either Iran or Russia. Whether this means that accommodationist
secularism is the best path to democracy for other Muslim countries remains
an open question that is left as such by this engrossing book.
From Religious Empires to Secular States is the second publication in
Routledge’s series on Conceptualising Comparative Politics. Başkan’s book
beautifully captures the spirit of the series: to bring a distinctive approach
to the study of comparative politics by placing a particular analytical
emphasis on the conceptual issues underlying empirical studies and showing
how these can be related to some classical questions in politics, history,
and sociology through the use of the comparative method. By exploring
xvi Series Editors’ Foreword
the meaning of secularism in different contexts, Başkan shows how an
historical study of the contextual differences in which the concept has been
used allows for a deeper understanding of its meanings and enhances it
analytical power.
Francisco Panizza and Anthony Peter Spanakos

Coeditors, Conceptualising Comparative Politics
NOTES
1. Berger (1999).
2. Neusner (2003).
3. Papanikololaou (2003).
REFERENCES
Berger, Peter L., “The Desecularization of the World: A Global Overview,” in Peter
L. Berger (ed.), The Secularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World
Politics, Washington, DC: Ethics and Public Policy Center, 1999.
Casanova, Jose, Public Religions in the Modern World, Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1994.
Chatterjee, Partha, The Politics of the Governed: Reflections on Popular Politics in
Most of the World, New York: Columbia University Press, 2004.
Neusner, Jacob, ed., God’s Rules: The Politics of World Religions, Washington, DC:
Georgetown University Press, 2003.
Papanikolaou, Aristotle, “Byzantium, Orthodoxy, and Democracy.” Journal of the
American Academy of Religion, v. 71, no. 1 (March 2003), pp. 75–98.
Taylor, Charles, A Secular Age, Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University
Press, 2007.
1 Introduction
The Secular State and Its Three Types
Sometime in the early 14th century . . . somewhere in northwest Anatolia . . .

Osman Bey, the tribal leader of a relatively weak Anatolian emirate known
as the Ottomans, visits Sheikh Edebali, a local Sufi sheikh, and stays the
night in his convent. In his room, Osman sees a copy of the Qur’an hanging
on the wall. Out of his great respect for the Holy Book, he does not lie down
on his bed; rather, he falls asleep while sitting up. In his dream, Osman sees a
moon rising from the breast of Edebali and sinking into his own. Then a tree
sprouts from Osman’s navel, and its shade encompasses the whole world.
Osman Bey wakes up and asks Edebali for his interpretation. “Osman, my
son,” says Sheikh Edebali, “congratulations, for God has given the imperial
office to you and your descendants, and my daughter Malhun shall be your
wife.”1 With that, Osman’s dream became the most famous and resilient
founding myth of the Ottoman Empire.2
Some 600 years later in 1925 . . . in Kastamonu, a town in North
Anatolia . . . the president of the newly founded Republic of Turkey, Mustafa
Kemal, delivers a speech. In his speech Kemal states in no unequivocal terms
his stance on Sufi convents and sheikhs: “Gentlemen and the nation, know well
that the Republic of Turkey cannot be a nation of sheikhs, dervishes, disciples
[müritler] and devotees [mensuplar].” Using a polysemous word “tarikat,”
a word that literally means “path” but also means “Sufi order,” Kemal
continues: “The truest and the most authentic path [tarikat] is that of civili-
zation. It is enough to do what the civilization orders and demands in order to
be a human. The sheikhs of Sufi Orders will understand this truth with all
clarity and immediately close down their convents on their own initiatives.”3
What is the critical difference between Osman Bey and Mustafa Kemal?
The obvious answer is Osman Bey was a founder of an Islamic empire while
Mustafa Kemal was the founder of a modern secular state. But what does
this difference really amount to? To paraphrase Charles Taylor’s opening
sentence of his Secular Age, what does it mean to say that a state is secular,
not religious?4 And to add another layer to Taylor’s question, what might
be the possible paths out of religious states into secular ones? These are
the two questions I aim to address in this book. To this end, I compare the
historical experiences of Republican Turkey (1923–present), Pahlavi Iran
(1925–1979), and Soviet Russia (1922–1991). It was in these respective
periods that my three cases made their transitions from a religious imperial
past to a secular modern present, each adopting a distinct model of state
secularization in that transition.5
If “state secularity” is to be understood as a modern condition, a model
derived from the experience of a single country or a single civilization
or a single religion is not going to capture that condition in its entirety.6
A comparative study, therefore, is indispensable to understand and grasp
the true nature of state secularity. The three cases selected in this book are
ideal in the sense that they clearly exhibit a critical variation in their paths
from the religious past to the secular present. Despite this variation, however,
they also share a certain common feature that constitutes, in my view, the
defining characteristic of state secularity.
I hope to persuade the reader that this book goes beyond such specificities
and arrives at a religion- and/or civilization-free conceptualization of state
secularity. I also hope to persuade the reader that the book provides a
persuasive account of the variation observed across the three cases and, in
doing so, avoids any essentialist claims about the cases.
There are five main sections in this chapter. In the next section I discuss
what constitutes, in my view, the defining characteristic of state secularity.
In the second section I discuss the alternative paths, represented by the
experiences of Republican Turkey, Pahlavi Iran, and Soviet Russia, in state
secularization. In the third section I discuss the methodology employed in
this book, and in the fourth I explain my reasons for choosing Republican
Turkey, Pahlavi Iran, and Soviet Russia as my cases. The final section provides
a summary of the remaining chapters.
CONCEPTUALIZING STATE SECULARIZATION
The Problem
By comparing the “state secularization” processes in three major Eurasian
countries, Republican Turkey, Pahlavi Iran, and Soviet Russia, this book
seeks to make a conceptual contribution to social sciences in general and the
field of comparative politics in particular.
There is a great deal of conceptual confusion around the term “secular-
ization,” a confusion observable even among scholarly circles. The con-
ceptual confusion is in part due to conceptual stretching of these terms
and their indiscriminate application to different kinds of spheres and/or
agents. As for the former, Oliver Tschannen, for example, found out that
scholars attach to the term “secularization” several different meanings such
as differentiation, rationalization, worldliness, autonomization, privatiza-
tion, generalization, pluralization, decline in religious practice, collapse of
worldviews, unbelief, scientization, and sociologization.7 Regarding the
Introduction 3
application of the term to different kinds of spheres and/or agents, one can
speak of, for example, individual secularization or societal secularization or
organizational secularization,8 or of public secularization9 or political secular-
ization10 or polity secularization,11 or of international politics12 or of the state.
State secularization has obvious affinities with several of these different
kinds of secularization, especially public, polity, and political secularization.
Interested readers may find it enlightening to further investigate how different
scholars define these related terms.13 I am not going to delve into this dis-
cussion. Fortunately there are more direct definitions of the term “secular
state,” and scholars seem to agree on its basic features as Donald E. Smith
explicitly stated them fifty years ago. According to Smith, the secular state is
a state that guarantees individual and corporate religious freedom, that does
not discriminate individuals or groups on the basis of their religion, and that
neither promotes nor intervenes with religion.14
Four decades later, Silvio Ferrari, Charles Taylor, and Ahmet Kuru defined
the secular state in more or less similar ways. Ferrari, for example, defines the
secular state as a state that grants all political and civil rights to individuals
irrespective of their religion, that does not intervene in religious organizations’
internal organization and doctrines, and that does not legitimate its power on
the basis of religion.15 Charles Taylor’s definition is not much different. For
him the secular state is a state that is not officially and substantively linked
to a religion, that acknowledges and guarantees full religious liberty, that
grants full equality between people of different faiths, and that allows for
full political participation of people of all faiths.16 Ahmet Kuru’s definition
is more restrictive. For him the secular state is a state whose legislative and
judicial processes are not under any institutional religious control and that
declares constitutional neutrality toward religions, which means it does not
establish either official religion or atheism.17
These definitions have serious limitations of employment in other
contexts. This can be readily seen in that, according to these definitions,
none of my cases in fact should be considered genuinely “secular.” This
is because neither Republican Turkey nor Soviet Russia nor Pahlavi Iran
developed the kind of neutrality toward any religion that these authors
speak of. Soviet Russia was suppressive of all religions. Republican Turkey
was not neutral, as it has not only supported Sunni Islam but also denied
that support to the Alawites and severely restricted the religious freedoms
of many Sunnis and Alawites alike. Among the three, Pahlavi Iran was
probably the most neutral, even though that neutrality was introduced and
implemented by force.
The definitions proposed by various scholars are limited because they
rather conceive a “liberal democratic secular state,” not simply a “secular
state.” In fact, Smith explicitly acknowledges that his definition is derived
from the liberal democratic tradition of the West.18
In order to overcome this limitation, one might simply suggest dropping
the liberal component in the aforementioned definitions. If we follow this
suggestion, we in fact end up with the most basic definition of the secular state.
That is, the secular state is a state that is disconnected or separated from
religion. This definition has certain appeal, but it also has a major problem.
Namely, the difficulty of determining what constitutes “disconnection” or
“separation” between the two.19
If we follow this definition, we should first specify those spaces that
belong to the state only and those spaces that belong to religion. Then, we
must check whether the state and religion are properly separated and in
their proper places. But how are we going to specify a priori such spaces?
What are, for example, those spaces that belong to the state? Any such
specification is going to be necessarily ideological. The same is also true for
religion. Any specification of spaces for religion is going to be inescapably
ideological and theological.
Defining “the secular state” based on empirical data has its own problem.
Let us consider a hypothetical country that is undergoing state secularization.
The process is supposed to separate respective spaces for the state and
religion. What factors are going to determine the institutional outcome of
state secularization? Certain ideologies and many other factors might indeed
play a role. However, the process is also going to be a highly a contested
one. In other words, the respective spaces of the state and religion are going
to be determined politically. This makes the process, to a large extent,
unpredictable. The process is, therefore, most likely to produce quite diverse
institutional relations between the state and religion.20 This basically means
that any definition of the term “secular state” based on empirical data will
suffer from institution bias. Conceptualizing state secularization as separation
between the state and religion is a case in point.
The challenge is then to conceptualize state secularization in such way
that, as much as possible, the term will be free from these constraints.
In other words, the term should not be defined according to a particular
idealized institutional relationship and should not refl ect the particular
dictates of any civilization/religion/ideology. By and large scholars avoided
this challenge. Therefore, scholars have generally ended up with using the
old definition as we have already seen. Another option is not to stick to
any definition of the secular state. For example, Alfred Stepan follows this
option. “Despite my general reservation about the term ‘secularism,’ in my
current research, I use the concept of ‘multiple secularisms’ to get around
some of the difficulties of a single meaning of ‘secular’ and to help me identify
and analyze the great variations in state-religion relations that can and do
exist in modern democracies.”21
In the face of extremely diverse institutional relations between the state
and religion, this latter option is, in this author’s view, better than sticking to
the old definition, which assumes one particular institutional relationship.
However, I also believe that we should take up the challenge of reconceptu-
alizing the secular state, not escape from it. To do this I propose to approach
“state secularity” from an alternative angle.
Introduction 5
An Alternative Perspective: State Secularization as a By-Product

Secularization, however defined, is obviously about religion. As such it is
also about religious community and religious institutions. Let me first simply
define “religion.” A religion is a set of beliefs and practices believed to have
descended from a transcendental being, God. Religious community is the
community of individuals who perform, by virtue of formal or informal
education or some other spiritual qualities, certain tasks, deemed religious,
for adherents of that religion. Religious institutions are such buildings and
places where religious community reproduces its ranks and undertakes its
religious tasks.22 For the convenience of simplicity, my discussion will refer
to religion only but, unless otherwise stated, will apply to religious community
and institutions as well.
Religion might exist in a variety of relations with a given domain of
human life. When we talk about secularity of that domain, we are really
referring to a particular type of relationship that domain has with religion.
“Secularization” refers to the actual historical process that brings about
that relationship. State secularity and state secularization are just extensions
of this idea. To be more specific, “state secularity” refers to a particular
relationship the state has with religion, and “state secularization” refers
to the historical process that brings about that relationship. Two questions
are critical. What is that particular relationship? And what historical pro-
cess helps bring it to life? Let me first start with the second. The historical
process that brings state secularization is, in this author’s view, the process
of building a modern sovereign state. In other words, state secularization is
intimately linked to the evolution of the modern sovereign state.
This needs further clarification. I must first set the record straight.
I am not the first person who links secularism and the modern state. Charles
Taylor, for example, explicitly did so.23 “The inescapability of secularism,”
Taylor notes, “fl ows from the nature of the modern state.”24 Taylor rea-
sons that the modern nation state had to be secular in order to find a
common denominator for individuals with different religious backgrounds
and to define a political ethic independent of different religious teachings.25
Let us remember that Taylor understands secularism as a condition for
the liberal democratic state. By connecting secularism and the modern
state, Taylor does not necessarily contradict himself. He simply suggests
that the secular character predated the liberal democratic character of the
modern state by some hundreds of years.
Jose Casanova also connects secularism to the modern state. In his Public
Religions in the Modern World, Casanova sees the rise of the modern state
as one of the four developments that has driven secularization. Along with
three other developments—the Protestant Reformation, the rise of modern
capitalism, and the rise of modern science—the rise of the modern state
undermined the medieval system and became one of the carriers of a critical
feature of secularization, differentiation. In the hands of various “militant
secularist movements,” the modern state also became the vehicle of war
against religion elsewhere, from Latin America to the Soviet Union.26
In connecting secularism to the modern state, I differ from both Charles
Taylor and Jose Casanova. Charles Taylor traces the origin of liberal democracy
in the secularity of the modern state. Sometime in the future, secularity of the
modern state in Turkey, Iran, and Russia can be the seeds of liberal democracy
in these countries, but not for now. As these cases illustrate, secularism
can be as authoritarian as religion. Jose Casanova better captures the latter
possibility. But his account also suggests that if militant secularist movements
did not capture state power elsewhere, we would not see secularization in
those places. Hence, for Casanova, secularity of the modern state was a
choice made by secularist movements driven by an ideology.
I suggest, however, that the modern state has to be secular whether built
by religious fundamentalists or militant secularists. The secularity of the
modern state stems from its nature, not from the ideology of groups who
build it. In making this bold assertion, I get inspiration from Talal Asad.
In his Formations of the Secular, Talal Asad well captures the nature of the
modern state and its implications for religion. The modern state, Asad says,
“clearly demarcated spaces that it can classify and regulate: religion, education,
health, leisure, work, income, justice and war.”27 This is not novel. But, Asad
also states, “the space that religion may properly occupy in society has to be
continually redefined by the law.”28 Unfortunately, Asad does not elaborate
on the implications of this statement. However, its implication is quite clear:
whatever role religion plays, be it in the society or the state, it is going to be
determined by the lawmaker or the sovereign. True to this implication, Asad
claims that reforming the Islamic law is also “both the precondition and the
consequence of secular processes of power.”29
In its idealized form, building a modern sovereign state is, in the words of
Stephen Krasner, building a “political authority based on territory, mutual
recognition, autonomy and control.”30 That political authority is to be
exercised over a clearly defined geographical space, is to be recognized by
other political authorities as their equals, is not to be shared by any external
actor, and is not just a de jure authority, but also a de facto one, able to
implement its own logic effectively.31
Building a modern sovereign state within a given territory is a major
undertaking; this is why many attempts have, in fact, ended in failure. We
can distinguish two major components in modern state building. The first
component is institution building. That is, building a modern sovereign state
requires building armed forces to defend and expand the territory under
control, eliminating or pacifying internal rivals, and improving state capacity
to extract resources, both financial and human, from the populations living
in the territories over which is claimed sovereignty. The latter also involves
investment in infrastructure, economy, and public health.32
Building a modern sovereign state is not just about institution building,
though. It is also, as Michel Foucault states, an ambitious project of reshaping
Introduction 7
and disciplining the populations over which is claimed sovereignty.33 Seeking
to create a more disciplined, loyal, homogenous, and patriotic body of citizens,
this second component requires massive investment in public education.34
Especially in undertaking this second component of modern state building,
state rulers cannot simply leave religion, religious community, and religious
community/institutions untouched.
There are several reasons for this. First, there is an ideological issue. The
modern state claimed “absolute” sovereignty over a given territory, an idea
that was at odds with the concept of “God” held by most religions. Second,
the modern state claimed the right to legislate on its own, by virtue of its abso-
lute “sovereignty”; this is of course at great odds with religions’ own claims
to provide their own laws for the management of at least some worldly
affairs and religious communities’ own claims to have exclusive authority
over the interpretation and application of those laws. Third, the modern
state strove to provide some critical public functions through its own institu-
tions and claimed, at a minimum, the right to regulate some public spheres
not under its control. This expansion of state power inescapably expanded
the regulatory role of the state into such public functions as education, judi-
ciary, and provision of welfare services—services that religious community
had long undertaken. Fourth, religion was part of the cultural space that
the state desired to give a shape and tailor in order to control and disci-
pline the populations. As Taylor notes on this point, “attempts to discipline
a population, and reduce it to order, almost always had a religious compo-
nent, requiring people to hear sermons, or learn catechism.”35 Last, but not
least, with their extensive network of religious institutions and wealthy endow-
ments, religious community could raise to any state a stubborn challenge,
which in fact, as chapter 7 illustrates, is what happened in Russia. Hence, the
elimination of the power base of religious community naturally entered the
agenda of state builders.
Wherever it has been undertaken, the building of a modern sovereign
state inescapably brought an end to the autonomous existence, both in insti-
tutional and ideological terms, of religious community within the territory
over which that modern state claimed absolute sovereignty. This is, in my
view, what constitutes “state secularization” at the most basic level—that is,
unqualified declaration and unhindered application of sovereignty over all
matters, public and private.
Such a view of state secularization as a by-product of modern sovereign
state building does not prescribe any particular, be it ideological or institu-
tional, relationship between the state and religion. Rather, it is compatible
with a range of possible relations between the two. For example, the state
can still be secular even if it owns thousands of religious institutions, employs
religious figures, and even intervenes in the interpretation of religion, as has
been the case in Republican Turkey. The state can still be secular no matter
whether it adopts a relatively neutral stance toward religion, as was the case
in Pahlavi Iran, or mobilizes all its resources to eradicate religion, as was
the case in Soviet Union. The perspective defended in this study rather looks
at whether the state is the supreme partner in its relations with religion
and religious institutions. This in practical terms suggests, for example, that
members of religious community do not enjoy any legal privilege other than
those given by the state or that religious community is subject to the laws
issued by the state. A state does not cease to be secular even if it employs
religious symbols, as the state in Turkey has done, or even justifies its poli-
cies by a religious argument or legislates according to a religious law. The
critical condition that makes a state secular in all these scenarios is that they
are not imposed upon, but are rather the choices made by, the state.
It is difficult to determine when the state rulers in the three cases under
consideration in this book first developed the ambition to build a modern
sovereign state. This is a task difficult to undertake even regarding Western
Europe, where the modern sovereign state originated. International Rela-
tions theorists take the Treaty of Westphalia, signed in 1648, as the begin-
ning of the modern international state system, the constitutive institution of
which is the modern sovereign state. However, the evolution of that system
was long in the making well before that date.36 By the last quarter of the
16th century, for example, the notion of state sovereignty as we understand
it today had been developed by the French philosopher Jean Bodin.
Compared to Western Europe, the three cases under consideration in this
book are latecomers. This is not to deny that the premodern states in these
cases did not have certain features that presaged the modern sovereign state.
For example, the Ottoman Empire had long had a standing army and an
elaborate legal system. However, the Ottoman state was not a sovereign
state for it had developed a limited ambition to regulate human life in its
entirety, leaving, for example, religious communities quite autonomous in
their internal affairs. We can single out Peter the Great in Russia in the early
18th century, and Mahmut II in the Ottoman Empire and Abbas Mirza
in Iran, both in the early 19th century, as the origins of this idea in their
respective countries. To what extent do these figures share the ambitions
of the modern sovereign state? An answer to this question requires further
historical research and is beyond the scope of this work. We can safely
assume, however, that by the early 20th century, the state rulers in these
three cases seemed to have shared that ambition.37
There is an additional related issue that requires some attention. Building
a modern sovereign state is not just a matter of imagination, but also a
matter of capability and technology. Therefore, it is plausible that some
other historical figures, be it in Turkey, Iran, or Russia, might have imagined
the modern sovereign state well before the 20th century. The question is
whether that imagination could be implemented at that time. We should
remember that in Western Europe the full realization of that imagination
has taken several centuries.
Linking “state secularization” to modern sovereign state building pri-
oritizes the factors that have transformed “the state” as the drivers of state
Introduction 9
secularization. The literature38 on the topic points to two such facts: the
existence of a hostile international environment, and hence the continuous
need for state rulers to update their states to survive in that environment,39
and the development of a capitalist economy.40 As the cases in this book
illustrate, these two factors were also at work in transforming three
land-based empires in Turkey, Iran, and Russia into modern sovereign states
and can therefore be singled out as the prime movers of state secularization.41
Similar factors had driven state secularization in different countries, yet
along different paths. This is what I now turn to.
PATHS OF STATE SECULARIZATION
Alternatives: Accommodationism, Separationism,

and Eradicationism
To reiterate, once state secularity is linked to absoluteness of state sovereignty,
“state secularity” becomes compatible with many different ideological and
institutional arrangements between the modern sovereign state and religion.
This is in fact the case in real life, with secular states, even in Europe,
exhibiting striking differences in their relationships with religion, religious
community, and religious institutions.42 The question is, then, how do state
secularities vary across my three cases? And, can the existing literature help
in capturing that variation? First, let me describe the variations I observe
across the state secularization experiences of Turkey, Iran, and Russia in the
1920s and the 1930s.
As the succeeding chapters illustrate, all three cases of state seculariza-
tion achieved certain common goals as a result of state secularization. In
the end, the state came to ground its legitimacy in nonreligious claims,
denied religious community any veto power or even feedback on its poli-
cies, monopolized legislative power, extended its activities into religious
community’s traditional strongholds—education, justice, and social welfare
services—and propagated a culture that was either against or at odds with
their dominant religions.
More importantly, however, all three cases differ in certain critical ways.
The differences stem from the fact that the secularizers pursued radically
different strategies in dealing with religion, religious community, and
religious institutions. To use a metaphor, in the two decades following the
First World War, the Turkish, Iranian, and Russian states reevaluated
their centuries-old marriage with religion. In Turkey, the couples renego-
tiated the terms of their marriage. In Iran, they divorced, but in a rather
friendly manner. In Russia, they also divorced, but through a painful and
adversarial process.
More specifically, it is possible to speak of three idealized strategies of state
secularization: accommodationism as experienced in Turkey, separationism
as experienced in Iran, and eradicationism as experienced in Russia. Chap-
ters 3, 5, and 7 illustrate these models in detail. To describe them briefl y
here: State rulers in Turkey adopted accommodationism. They closed down
some religious institutions but incorporated some others into the state
body. To run those kept within the state, state rulers employed the mem-
bers of religious community. The state continued to pay the retirement
stipends of former members of the Ottoman religious community that had
been employed in those closed religious institutions such as religious courts
and schools. However, the Turkish state went beyond imposing mere con-
trol over religious institutions. Acting more like a religious reformist, the
Turkish state adopted a particular understanding of Islam and has since
then propagated that particular understanding of Islam through its religious
institutions.43
While state rulers in Turkey adopted accommodationism, those in Iran
adopted separationism. Even though religious community/institutions lost
many of their previous privileges as a result of state secularization in Iran,
they continued to operate in Iran but had to depend on their own organiza-
tional and financial resources. They continued to administer their own mosques
and seminaries and kept their monopoly over interpreting religion and other
religious services, and the Iranian state did not venture into any of these
purely religious activities. State rulers in Russia, on the other hand, adopted
eradicationism. They not only secularized the state, but also waged a brutal
and hostile campaign against religion and religious community, closing down
religious institutions, plundering their wealth, and propagating atheism to
eradicate religion in their population’s hearts and minds.
Accounting for the Variation

Why, then, do state secularizers adopt different strategies? This question
has long been neglected by scholars. There was an early attempt in 1970
by Donald E. Smith to capture the multiple modes of secularization and
theorize about it. Unfortunately, Smith’s work did not generate an interest
in the topic as social sciences in general and political sciences in particular
were to make a paradigmatic transition and leave behind grand theories
of modernization and political development.44 As a part of this shift from
grand theories to more midlevel theories, starting in the mid-1970s, political
scientists and sociologists narrowed the scope of political development to
institutional state building.45 A related and rather auspicious development
was that political scientists and sociologists also developed an interest in
uncovering and explaining the variations.
This growing interest in variations also affected the study of secularization.46
The first contribution came from a rather unexpected source. Adopting the
rational choice approach in their study of secularization, a group of scholars
began to question whether secularization had actually occurred and gener-
ated a lively debate among sociologists.47 However, this internal debate does
Introduction 11
not concern this study, for the debate really turned around individual and
societal secularization.48
Yet this group of scholars made a critical contribution to the study of
state secularization. They gathered an extensive array of data on institutional
state-religion relations, clearly illustrating that state-religion relations are
extremely diverse even in Western Europe, the home of secularization. This
enormous data collection effort was later extended to non-European
countries, illustrating an even wilder diversity of institutional state-religion
relations across the world.49
This scholarly effort to map state-religion relations across the globe left
no doubt that the secular state has historically taken different institutional
shapes. More qualitative studies also give the same message. For example,
Ira Katznelson and Gareth S. Jones’s edited volume, Religion and the Political
Imagination, portrays secularization as “not one grand historical sweep,
but a diversity of paths; not one narrative, but many.”50
Even though both quantitative and qualitative studies opened our eyes
to the diversity of experiences in state secularization, this gigantic scholarly
effort unfortunately did not generate similar conceptual and theoretical
efforts treating institutional state-religion relations as an object of analysis.
For example, even though the individual chapters are insightful, Katznelson
and Jones’s edited volume does not provide a coherent narrative of state
secularization. Therefore, the chapters point to potential factors that affected
secularization such as “the qualities of religion, the degree of confessional
pluralism and institutional rules governing transactions between religion
and the state within specific types of political regime.”51 But the volume
does not provide a clear picture of how these factors interacted with one
another or with some other macro-historical developments in producing a
particular secularization type.52
Robert Barro and Rachel M. McCleary’s study, which utilizes a large
sample size, fares better in this regard. The authors ask why some states
adopt an official religion while others do not. The authors claim that states
adopt an official religion out of benevolence to appease the faithful. But
such a policy is costly. Hence, Barro and McCleary show that as the religious
homogeneity of a society increases, the results of which decrease the cost of
adopting an official religion, the likelihood of a state adopting an official
religion increases. The authors also find that historical legacy plays a critical
role in the adoption of official religion. Crediting institutional inertia, the
authors note, “The probability of state religion in 1970 and 2000 depends
substantially on the status in 1900.”53 However, we are left wondering why
states adopt an official religion in the first place.
Historical legacy also figures into Ahmet Kuru’s Secularism and State
Policies Toward Religion. Through an in-depth analysis of three cases, the
United States, France, and Turkey, Kuru shows that the nature of cooperation
between an ancient regime and the dominant religion significantly affect the
type of state secularity developed. By focusing on the transitional period
of regime change, Kuru substantiates Barro and McCleary’s finding that
regime change significantly decreases the likelihood of state religion as both
France and Turkey disestablished the dominant religion in the aftermath of
a regime change.
Whether a secular state has an official religion is certainly an interesting
feature and one in which secular states might differ from one another. First,
as Charles Taylor rightly claims, this difference is in many cases symbolic or
vestigial.54 More importantly, Kuru showed that this feature does not capture
the full variation across the United States, France, and Turkey. Indeed, in
Barro and McCleary’s data these three countries do not exhibit any variation.
However, through his analysis of actual state policies toward religion, Kuru
shows that these countries can still have different types of state secularities.
Even though it is an improvement, Kuru’s typology also has limited appli-
cability for many other cases. For example, if we apply the definition of
“assertive secular state,” all three countries considered in this book are then
classified as “assertive secular states.”55 In other words, Kuru’s typology does
not capture the critical variations this book observes across the three cases.
Mark Farha’s attempt to capture alternative paths in state secularization
is more nuanced.56 Farha speaks of three variants of state secularism: coercive,
communal, and consociational. Each of these variants, Farha claims, is the
direct outcome of the ways the states dealt with societal heterogeneity in
their countries. If a state accommodates societal heterogeneity, as it did in
Lebanon, the outcome is consociational secularism. If a state cannot cope
with heterogeneity and instead is partitioned along communal lines, as it
did in British India, the outcome is communal secularism. Finally, if a state
eradicates societal heterogeneity and imposes cultural homogeneity, as it did
in China, the outcome is coercive secularism. Farha furthermore suggests
that three factors account for this variation in classification: the strength
of state institutions, the hold of communal ideologies, and the degree of
economic inequality.57
Even though Farha’s typology is richer, it is unfortunate that he does not
fully elaborate his causal mechanism.58 Most notably, religious community
and institutions—the target of state secularization—are completely missing
in Farha’s account. This is because Farha views secularism as almost noth-
ing more than a state strategy to cope with societal heterogeneity. However,
as understood here, secularism is more about changing the relationship
between the state and religion. On this Farha’s typology is not of great help.
This book makes at least two direct theoretical contributions to this
newly developing literature. First, this book further refines Kuru’s too
general and vague category of assertive secular state. It also complements
Farha’s typology. Farha’s coercive secularism is simply what I call in this
book “eradicationist” secularism.59 In this book, however, I introduce two
additional typologies: separationist and accommodative secularisms. This
threefold typology (eradicationist, separationist, and accommodative
secularisms) better captures the variations across Turkey, Iran, and Russia.
Introduction 13
Second, and more importantly, this book brings “politics” into the study
of state secularization. From the very beginning, state secularization has
been viewed as a mechanical outcome of impersonal historical processes.60
The modernization/political development school fits perfectly into this
characterization. It is possible to observe a similar approach even in, for
example, work by Robert Barro and Rachel McCleary.61 The authors
assume a benevolent government in their model. In order to appease the
faithful, this government seeks to invest in religion. However, there is a cost
associated with this investment. The authors then argue that as the cost of
this investment increases, the likelihood of state religion decreases.
In this book, on the other hand, I pay close attention to the “politics” of
state secularization. As claimed earlier, state secularization is the indispensable
part of the modern sovereign state. However, the particular institutional
shape it takes depends on regime building. More specifically, I argue that the
variations across Turkey, Iran, and Russia owe a great deal to the nature of
regime transition, or to the strategic context in which the reformers found
themselves. Two features of the strategic context are critical: the first is the
nature of regime transition, and the other is the attitude of the religious
community toward the new regime and the nature of their participation in
the transition. If the reformers came to power through an intense intra-elite
competition and faced an acquiescent religious community, accommodationism
was the outcome. If the reformers came to power through a palace coup
and faced a disengaged religious community, separationism was the outcome.
If the reformers came to power through a civil war and faced a confrontational
religious community, eradicationism was the outcome.
From a longer historical perspective, this regime transition simply required
the reconfiguration of state power over the society, during the course of which
the state attempted to destroy or weaken autonomous societal organizations.
As a result, the whole reconfiguration of state power changed the ruling elites’
relationships with the rest of society. To be more precise, secularization of
the state was about weakening, or, if necessary, destructing, the autonomous
existence of religious organizations. However, the particular strategies state
rulers pursued depended on the strategic and structural conditions in which
they found themselves. Thus, state secularization was not an impersonal his-
torically determined process, but rather a deeply political one that redistrib-
uted power.
Islam and State Secularization

There is one final critical issue to be tackled. To introduce it, I want to quote
from a prominent scholar of Islamic Studies. In his Islam and Politics, John
Esposito, regarding Mustafa Kemal’s objective with his reforms, says the
following: “Once the heart of the Ottoman Empire, Turkey provides the
sole example of an attempt to establish a totally secular state in the Muslim
world. . . . Although Kemal initially appealed to Islam, his goal was to
counter Western imperialism and to establish a modern secular state, not
to restore an Islamic empire.”62 Esposito’s juxtaposition of a modern
secular state and an Islamic empire as two choices Mustafa Kemal faced
in the beginning of his career refl ects a deeper assumption many academics
have held about Islam. To be more specific, they treat “the Islamic” and “the
secular” as two distinct, dichotomous, and mutually exclusive categories.
This is not a healthy way.
The following quote from Mustafa Kemal might be illustrative: “Our
Republican government has an office of the Directorate of Religious Affairs.
Under this office work many state employees such as many religious counsels,
preachers and prayer leaders. These individuals’ level of knowledge and
wisdom is known.”63 Yet Kemal complained that he came across many
ignorant, even illiterate people who were not employed, but still undertook
religious duties. Kemal had a problem with these nonstate religious figures:
“These ignorants act as if they represent the people. As if they like to put a
barrier between the state and the people so both were not in direct touch.
I want to ask people like these: From whom did they take this right and
responsibility?”64
Mustafa Kemal did not make this statement at a time he had to appeal
to Islam, which, as Esposito hints, is viewed as the pragmatism of Mustafa
Kemal. Rather, he made this statement in the very speech he delivered in
Kastamonu in 1925 where he said: “Republic of Turkey cannot be a nation
of sheikhs, dervishes, disciples [müritler] and devotees [mensuplar].” In fact,
when we look at the whole speech, Kemal does not really look like a reformer
who wants to separate religion and the state. Rather, the standard explanation
proposed in the field of Turkish Studies argues that the speech shows Mustafa
Kemal’s desire to establish firm control over Islam. The critical question is,
however, why did Mustafa Kemal want to do develop that control? Why
did he not simply let religious community and religious institutions go
their own way?65
As long as academic accounts continue to treat “the secular” and “the
Islamic” as dichotomous, mutually exclusive categories, this question cannot
be satisfactorily addressed. There is, however, a fundamental problem with
this treatment. The problem is that it is perfectly in line with a particular
ideological disposition toward Islam.
That perspective views Islam as a rigid, unchanging, and unreformable
entity.66 This view feeds on two critical assumptions about Islam: Islam
has not gone through a reformation similar to Christianity, and the gates
of rational interpretation (ijtihad) of Islamic sources were closed a long
time ago. For such a state like the Ottoman Empire, which was extensively
linked to Islam, secularization of the state, a critical defining feature of
modernization/Westernization, could not proceed without getting rid of
Islam from the state.
This was not enough, however, as the same disposition also views Islam as
not simply a religion, but also a state. The author of the most authoritative
Introduction 15
text on secularization in Turkey, Niyazi Berkes, puts it in the following way:
“One of the distinguishing marks of this tradition was the relation of religion
and state. In Islam there were no concepts of church and state as specifically
religious and political institutions. Religion and state were believed to be
fused together; the state was conceived as the embodiment of religion, and
religion as the essence of the state.”67 Because Islam by its nature cannot
renounce its claim on politics and the state, by implication, state secular-
ization cannot proceed if Islam is left alone. Since Islam will refuse to be
restricted to private lives only and will look for ways to come back, by
implication, then, the “secular” state must firmly control it.
Hence, the very desirable condition of institutional separation between
religion and the state is compromised in the case of Turkey. There is also a
more subtle issue involved here. The compromise implicitly acknowledges
that Turkey has become “Westernized” not an alla franca model, but an alla
Turca one. Mustafa Kemal’s “Turkish” model definitely had an element of
control, with the Directorate of Religious Affairs serving that function. This
was inescapable as Kemal sought to establish a one-party system, which either
absorbed into its structure some civil organizations or shut down many others.
The model was, however, more than that. Kemal’s model also had a
strong element of religious reformism, which sought to transform “religion.”
Recruiting the best minds of the Ottoman religious community for this task,
Kemal indeed made a lasting impact on religious thinking in Turkey. This
was, I believe, Kemal’s major achievement. However, this achievement is
hard to see if the strictly ideological dichotomy between “the secular” and
“the religious” is not dropped and alternative conceptualizations are not
tried. Once this false dichotomy is dropped, we will see that a broader range
of possible arrangements can be made between “the secular” and “the
religious” and can be emphasized even in Muslim countries.
On a related note, members of the Ottoman religious community were not,
as often portrayed by Turkish Islamists, passive victims of state secularization.
On this, actually, they seem to be in agreement with the scholarly literature
on the topic. However, the reality is more complicated. As both chapters 2
and 3 illustrate, members of the Ottoman religious community actively and
positively participated in state-building and regime-building projects in both
the Ottoman and republican periods.
A comparison among Turkey, Iran, and Russia shows that there is no
predetermined pattern of religious figure participation in both state and regime
building, be it at the institutional or individual level. Religious community
and institutions can be obstructive of state secularization, but they can also,
as in the case of Turkey, be constructive.68 How they engage state secularization
depends on their connections, not only with the ancient regime,69 but also
with the other societal groups that can provide religious community and
institutions an alternative source of power.70
Moving forward, I trace how the historical connections between religious
community/institutions and the ancient regimes evolved in Turkey, Iran,
and Russia in chapters 2, 4, and 6 respectively. My account looks at the
impact of modern state building and integration with the world capitalist
economy regarding the relationships that religious community/institutions
nurtured with the state and the society.71 My account gives partial credit to
the main finding of the field of Turkish Studies on the issue: in other words,
that the emergence of a secular elite, in the course of the aforementioned
processes, proved to be critical in state secularization.72 It was also critical
that this elite had been infl uenced by the spread of modern science and the
positivist philosophy accompanying it.73 The same observation holds true
in the case of the Soviet Union, where state secularization was implemented
by a secular elite. Yet the case of Iran, which did not have such a powerful
secular elite at the time of the reforms, sheds serious doubt on whether the
emergence of a secular elite is absolutely essential for state secularization.
METHODOLOGY
In this book I employ comparative historical analysis,74 a mode of analysis that

aims to construct “historically grounded explanations of,” or causal linkages
among, “large-scale and substantively important outcomes.”75 As employed
in this book, this analysis has two components: a cross-country comparison
and a longitudinal analysis. In the cross-country comparison, I choose a
certain critical juncture—the period during which my cases pursued state
secularization policies—and compare it across the three cases. This compo-
nent of the analysis addresses the questions of how and why Turkey, Russia,
and Iran differed in their secularization strategies. The other component of
the analysis, the longitudinal analysis, traces how state-religion relations had
changed in my cases in the period prior to the said critical juncture.
The longitudinal analysis serves two purposes. First, it helps us see
how state building and state secularization are intimately linked in each
case. Second, it provides vital input for the cross-country comparison. To
be more specific, the longitudinal analysis also traces how certain structural
factors such as religious community/institutions’ political, economic, and
social assets, the institutional capacity of the state, had evolved up to the
critical juncture under analysis. To clarify, a typical comparative histori-
cal analysis takes a critical juncture and looks at its institutional/historical
legacy to analyze a political outcome in the future. My analysis is just the
reverse. My question is, rather, why do similar critical junctures produce
different institutional/historical legacies? To address this question, I go back
far in history and trace the structural factors leading up to that critical juncture.
Then I take these structural factors into account in the cross-country
comparison. Why is this necessary?
The outcome of any critical juncture depends on two sets of factors: strategic
choices of individuals and/or organized groups and structural factors. The
challenge in analyzing such periods is then to combine these two sets of
Introduction 17
factors into a narrative. I believe that a particular outcome of a given critical
juncture refl ects the strategic choices made by individuals and/or organized
groups. Hence Karl Marx’s dictum: “Men make their own history.” But the
context within which individuals and/or organized groups make their strategic
choices is determined by structural factors. Hence the rest of Karl Marx’s
dictum: “But, they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under
self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given
and transmitted from the past.”76
I therefore do two different analyses in this book. First, I analyze the
strategic interaction between state rulers and religious community in the course
of state secularization. Second, I analyze how certain structural factors that
shaped the strategic context evolved over time. For the analysis of strategic
interaction, I favor a thin description of human/group preferences in this
study. More specifically, I assume that individuals and groups, such as state
rulers and religious figures, simply pursue their materialistic self-interests or,
to be even more specific, seek more political and economic power.
In contrast to this thinner description of individual and group preferences,
I adopt a thicker description of “structure” in this study: among others, the
institutional capacity of the state, the ability of religious figures and com-
munities to mobilize human and economic resources for their cause, the
socioeconomic structure of the country, and the geopolitical environment
are some critical structural factors I pay attention to in this study.
Paying attention to the strategic context, I believe, is a useful corrective
for the analysis of state secularization. In the literature, various actors, be it
secularized elites or religious community/institutions, play fairly predictable
roles, and the variation is explained in terms of the strength or weakness of
particular coalitions. The literature does not generally explore why rulers
adopt entirely different strategies to carry out the tasks of state secularization.
By taking strategic context seriously, this study does not prescribe any
particular strategy to any political actor.
CASE SELECTION
For this book I chose Turkey, Iran, and Russia as my cases. My choice was
based on a number of good reasons. First, all three cases adopted their
secularization strategies around the same time—specifically, in the 1920s
and the 1930s. In other words the respective secularizers of Turkey, Iran,
and Russia adopted their secular models in the same international milieu,
right after they came to power and in a top-down fashion. Yet still they
adopted different strategies.
Second, prior to state secularization, all three cases were multiethnic and
multi-faith empires born in the same milieu. They brought political unity
back to those geopolitical spaces left politically fragmented by the disinte-
grating successor states of the Mongol Empire: the Il-Khanid Empire and
the Golden Horde. As these two states fully disintegrated by the mid-14th
and mid-15th centuries respectively, the Ottomans, the Safavids, and the
Muscovite Russians moved in to fill their places.
Third, in their empire-building journeys, these three states had engaged
religion and religious community/institutions; the nature of their engagement
displayed great similarities. Broadly speaking, all three imperial projects
claimed to have defended and/or expanded the domains of their respective
religions: the Ottomans defended and promoted Sunni Muslim; the Safavids,
Shi’a Islam; and the Muscovite Russians, Orthodox Christianity. In line with
this, the ruling classes extensively used religious symbols and titles to legiti-
mize their rule and their course of action. The Ottoman state builders were
“ghazis” (the defenders of faith) or caliphs (the successors of the Prophet);
the Safavid state builders were “the deputies of the Imam,” the messianic
figure in Shi’a Islam; and the Russian state builders were “tsars.”77 In all three
cases, the ruling classes endowed religious institutions with huge tracts of
lands; built monumental mosques, seminaries, churches, and monasteries; and
delegated the provision of critical public goods, such as justice, education,
and social welfare services, to religious community/institutions. In all three
cases, religious teachings served not only as the basis of individual and social
morality, but also as an important source of state law.
Yet there were critical differences among the three cases too, and as this
book seeks to illustrate, these differences contributed to the variation in
state secularization strategies. To avoid making any essentialist claim, one
topic needs to be addressed here: that is, whether the particular religion
an empire had supported predetermined the outcome. As mentioned earlier,
the obvious difference among the three relates to religion: Turkey has been
Sunni Muslim, Russia Orthodox Christian, and Iran Shi’a Muslim. In order
to show that it is not religion per se that predetermined the outcome, this
study adopts a longer historical perspective to control for this factor. The
accounts presented in this book show that state-religion relations have
always been in constant fl ux in each country such that the particular form
of state-religion relations in a particular country was dependent on many
factors other than the particular religion in question. That is to say, religious
teachings do not necessarily impose upon state builders a particular option.
However, as I claim in this book, the way religious community/institutions
are organized, whether hierarchically or not, might affect, but does not
predetermine, the outcome.
THE MAIN ARGUMENT IN BRIEF
This book is divided into three parts. The first part covers the case of Turkey,
the second part that of Iran, and the third part that of Russia. Each part is
further divided into two chapters. The first chapters in each part, chapters 2,
4, and 6, discuss how religious community had developed its political, social,
Introduction 19
and economic assets up to the time of state secularization. The second chapters,
chapters 3, 5, and 7, discuss how and why the reformers adopted different
secularizing strategies. In brief, the following narrative will be proposed.
The Ottoman, Russian, and Safavid rulers found themselves in different
circumstances: while the Ottoman Empire first expanded into territories
populated mostly by non-Muslims, the Safavid Empire had to manage popula-
tions of a different sect, and the Russian Empire had to manage populations
of the same religion. Facing different circumstances, three imperial projects
pursued different policies toward religious community. While the Ottoman
Empire promoted plurality of religious community in its territories, the
Russian and Safavid empires hindered such a development by helping, and
using force if necessary, one group within religious community keep full
control over all religious institutions and activities.
Turkey, Russia, and Iran thus entered the 18th century under different
institutional arrangements. Developments in the 18th and 19th centuries
further separated their historical evolutions. The 18th century was critical.
While the central authority weakened in the Ottoman Empire, it strength-
ened in Russia and collapsed in Iran. Under a weakening central authority,
religious community continued to fragment in the Ottoman Empire, some
becoming even more entrenched with the imperial state and others becoming
more independent. The situation began to change in the 19th century as the
central authority recovered its strength, during the course of which the state
increased its control over religious community and religious institutions,
especially over their finances, and more importantly managed to secure
the cooperation of a group of the religious community—religious scholars.
In Iran, without a secular power support, Shi’a religious scholars instead
strengthened their ties with Iranian society, moving toward even more
autonomy from the state. Even the coming of the Qajars into power in
Iran made no change in religious scholars’ ties with the society. The Qajars’
repeated failures to rebuild the central state institutions simply strengthened
these ties. In Russia, starting in the early 18th century, the central authority
strengthened, and the religious leaders (e.g., the church) became even more
entrenched with the imperial state—a situation that continued well into the
early 20th century.
The new rulers in Turkey, Russia, and Iran faced different conditions
at home when they began to undertake their secularization campaigns
in the 1920s and 1930s. As a result, their secularization campaigns differed
greatly from each other. It is possible to observe the differences across two
dimensions. The first dimension is the level of state hostility toward religion
and religious community/institutions. The second dimension is the level of
state incorporation of religious community and hence of religious institutions.
In Turkey, the new rulers had to confront religious community/institutions
that were quite fragmented and excessively dependent on the state for financial
resources. Hence, the Turkish state managed to take over almost all public
functions from the religious community/institutions without any serious
opposition. In addition, it incorporated religious community/institutions
into its apparatus—the state now providing religious services. There was
basically no need for the Turkish state to fight religion for it found a very
cooperative body of religious community. In contrast, in Russia, the new
rulers had to confront an extremely wealthy and hierarchically united body
of religious community that was extremely dependent on state protection.
Nevertheless, the church managed to pose the most stubborn opposition
to the new rulers in Russia. As a result, the Russian state not only imposed
strict control over the church by incorporating it into the state apparatus,
but also became very hostile to religion in an effort to undermine the appeal
of the church. In Iran, the state neither incorporated wealthy and united
religious community/institutions nor adopted a policy hostile to religion,
for religious community/institutions had strong ties to the society. In many
aspects, therefore, the secularization campaign in Iran remained far less
ambitious than those pursued in Turkey and Russia, leaving considerable
space for religious leaders to continue their activities.
The concluding chapter, chapter 8, discusses how the models of state
secularity have met their fates in Turkey, Russia, and Iran. As the chapter
shows, accommodationism has survived in Turkey while separationism
and eradicationism were dropped in Iran and Russia in 1979 and 1991
respectively. This chapter narrates the journey of each model in its respective
country in the rest of the century so as to arrive at some broad lessons on
why accommodationism in Turkey has proved to be the most resilient
among the three cases analyzed in this book. It is critical to keep in mind
that my objective is not a through scholarly analysis of the reasons Turkey
has kept its model and Iran and Russia had to drop their models. This is
itself another major undertaking. I still believe, though, that even a rather
descriptive narrative helps us derive broad lessons on how state secular-
ization should be undertaken. To be more specific, the concluding chapter
argues that, among the three models, accommodationism is the most
conducive to political order.
NOTES
1. Finkel (2005:2).
2. The authenticity of Osman’s dream is debatable. But there is historical evidence
that Sheikh Edebali, a contemporary of Osman Bey, married one of his daughters.
See Finkel (2005:12).
3. Atatürk (2006). Translation is mine.
4. Taylor (2007:1).
5. A lengthier discussion of my reasons for choosing Turkey, Iran, and Russia has
to wait for the moment.
6. Davison (2010)’s call for “decentering” Europe in the study of secularization
carries the same message. See also Cady and Hurd (2010).
7. For the discussion of these meanings see Tschannen (1991).
8. Dobbelaera (1981).
Introduction 21
9. Casanova (1994), Taylor (2007).
10. Creppel (2010).
11. Smith (1974).
12. Hurd (2007).
13. Please see the aforementioned relevant footnotes.
14. Smith (1963:3–4).
15. Ferrari (2005:11–12).
16. Taylor (2010).
17. Kuru (2009:7). Kuru’s definition seems to be derived from the American
model of secularism. Bhargava’s work (2011:97) points out that the secular
state in the American model is a state that is disconnected from religion at
three distinct levels: first, the state and religion do not share any common end,
an end defined by religion; second, they are institutionally differentiated; and
third, public policies and laws are not religiously justified. Hence, the secular
state is a state that is neither theocratic nor has an established religion.
18. Smith (1963).
19. Cady and Hurd’s (2010) call for paying attention to how the two constitute
each other is noteworthy.
20. The empirical data on state-religion relations give precisely this picture. See,
for example, Chaves and Cann (1992), Gill (1999), Grim and Finke (2006),
and Fox (2008). See also Cady and Hurd (2010), Katznelson and Jones (2010),
and Calhoun, Juergensmeyer, and Vanantwerpen (2011).
21. Stepan (2011:115). The emphasis is mine.
22. For example, Islam and Christianity are religions in this sense. Sheikh al Islam,
qadis (religious judges), muftis (religious counsels), imams (religious leaders), Sufi
sheikhs, and dervishes in Islam, and patriarchs, bishops, priests, monks, and nuns
in Christianity, are some members of respective religious communities. Madra-
sahs, mosques, and convents in Islam, and seminaries, churches, and monasteries
in Christianity, are some respective religious institutions.
23. Political development school had portrayed state secularization as a critical part
of political development. See Almond (1956), Almond and Powell (1978), and
Smith (1970). Spruyt (1994) also links secularism and modern state building.
Spruyt argues that the expansion of trade in Europe created a moneyed class
whose interests clashed with the beliefs, norms, and organizational logic of the
Roman Catholic Church. These new classes preferred and supported alterna-
tive state organizations, the sovereign territorial state, city-states, and city-
leagues, depending on the profit margin of their trade. The church lost its bid
for political supremacy in Europe, and hence a major block was lifted from in
front of state secularization in Europe. Spruyt’s (1994) account stops far back
in history and therefore does not elaborate the full link between modern state
building and state secularization.
24. Taylor (1998:38).
25. Taylor (1998).
26. Casanova (1994:24).
27. Asad (2003:201).
28. Asad (2003:201).
29. Asad (2003:256).
30. Krasner (2001:18).
31. Also see Spruyt (1994:3), Pierson (1996).
32. Anderson (1974), Tilly (1975, 1985, 1990).
33. Foucault (1995).
34. Anderson (1974), Tilly (1975, 1985, 1990), Weber (1976), Gorski (2003).
35. Taylor (2007:3). This point strongly echoes in the state-building experiences
of the Dutch Republic and Brandenburg-Prussia. See Gorski (2003).
36. Phillips (2011). For a critical account, see Kayao˘glu (2010b).
37. Scott (1999) might be useful to understand this.
38. For a review of the literature, see Spruyt (2002). The literature on the origin
and development of the modern international state system is also relevant to
the discussion. For a good review and the critique of the literature see Phillips
(2011).
39. Tilly (1975, 1990).
40. Anderson (1974).
41. This perspective is in contrast to the dominant view on state secularization,
which emphasizes “ideology” as the prime mover. See the previous discussion.
42. Fox (2008), Kuru (2009).
43. The Turkish state’s active role in how Islam should be understood and prac-
ticed is not emphasized even in Turkish Studies. There are notable exceptions,
however, such as Sakallio˘glu (1996), Aktay (2000), and Kara (2008, 2009).
Among these, only Sakallı o˘glu (1996) is in English, but unfortunately she does
not elaborate on this quite insightful observation. Aktay (2000) and Kara
(2008, 2009) infl uenced my thinking on the topic, but unfortunately they do
not extend their thinking to the broader question of how we should be thinking
of secularization. Another notable study in English is Ardı ç (2012). Indepen-
dently, both Ardı ç (2012) and I called state secularization in Turkey “accom-
modationist.” Ardı ç’s (2012) analysis unfortunately ends in 1924.
44. Smith (1970).
45. Tilly (1975) represents the first break in that transition.
46. See, for example, Lyon (1985) and Martin (1991).
47. For a review of this approach to the study of secularization, see Iannacconne
(1995).
48. Stark (1999:251–252) says, if all that secularization means is “a decline in the
social power of once-dominant religious institutions whereby other social insti-
tutions, especially political and educational institutions, have escaped from prior
religious domination . . . there would be nothing to argue about . . . At issue
is not a narrow prediction concerning a growing separation of church and
state.” Casanova (1994) also holds that the modernization/political develop-
ment school’s prophecy of religion’s decline was false. However, he argues
that the differentiation of secular spheres, the state from religion, is defensible.
49. See Grim and Finke (2006). Fox (2008) represents an even more ambitious
attempt in the same vein. See the combined effort in the Association of Religion
Data Archives (ARDA) available at www.thearda.com.
50. Katznelson and Jones (2010:5). It should be noted that this volume is not
interested in state secularization per se, but rather addresses a broader issue,
political secularization. See Ingrid Creppel’s chapter in the volume.
51. Katznelson and Jones (2010:22).
52. Cady and Hurd (2010) and Calhoun, Juergensmeyer, and Vanantwerpen
(2011) also suffer from the same problem.
53. Barro and McCleary (2005:1368). In their other works, the authors treat the
variable of state religion as an independent variable. See Barro and McCleary
(2003, 2006).
54. Taylor (2007).
55. According to Kuru, Communist Russia cannot be a secular state, for it is hos-
tile to religion. Kuru (2009).
56. Farha (2012).
57. Farha (2012).
58. It would be difficult to do so in an article of less than thirty pages.
Introduction 23
59. Farha (2012) also counts Russia as an example of coercive secularism. He also
counts Turkey as an example of coercive secularism. Obviously, I disagree with
him on this latter characterization.
60. Katznelson and Jones’s volume also calls for paying more attention to “poli-
tics” as a factor in explaining the diversity of secularization experiences. See
Katznelson and Jones (2010:11–12).
61. Barro and McCleary (2005).
62. Esposito (1998:100).
63. Atatürk (2006).
64. Atatürk (2006).
65. Davison (1998) is a commendable attempt to make sense of this and similar
anomalies. However, Davison (1998) is not a good source to visit to seek an
answer to this question. This is because his is not a positivist attempt, but a
hermeneutical one, and any hermeneutical study of that sort is going to be
tautological. At the end his argument amounts to saying that the founders of
the republic implemented reforms in that way because it was what they under-
stood from “secularism.”
66. I should note that John Esposito does not hold such a view.
67. Berkes (1999:7).
68. A recent study by Bein (2011) also makes a similar observation. Also see Ardı ç
(2012).
69. Kuru (2009).
70. The relevant societal group might change from country to country. In Iran,
for example, religious community were able to ally with the merchants as a
societal group. But religious community in Turkey and Russia did not have
such an option. Hence, whether such a societal group to ally with exists in a
country affects the model of state secularization state rulers adopt.
71. Lachmann (2000) beautifully illustrates the critical importance of taking into
account religious community/institutions’ relationships with the state elites as
a factor in accounting for state-religion relations. Lachmann shows that the
church’s relative autonomy from the nobles explains why the English mon-
archs could confiscate the church’s properties, while the French monarchs could
not.
72. This was the standard account of secularization in Lewis (1961) and Berkes
(1999).
73. This is also the standard view in Turkish Studies. See Mardin (1962, 2006),
Yavuz and Esposito (2003), Kuru (2009), Hanio˘glu (2010).
74. I benefitted from Mahoney and Rueschemeyer (2003), Collier and Collier
(1991), and Thelen (1999, 2004).
75. Mahoney and Rueschemeyer (2003:6).
76. Marx (1852).
77. As Bogatyrev (2006:244) puts it, “Church texts described Old Testament
kings as ‘tsars’ and Christ as the Heavenly tsar. Muscovite political vocabu-
lary reserved the title of tsar for the rulers of superior status, the Byzantine
emperor and Tatar khan. In the Muscovite view, the moral authority of the
Orthodox emperor and the political might of the Muslim khan derived from
the will of God.”
2 Mobilizing Sheikhs and Ulama
Religion and the Ottoman Empire
Republican Turkey adopted a model of state secularity in the 1920s that

sought to accommodate religion. The next chapter argues that this choice
was the natural outcome in the particular strategic context in which the
state secularizers found themselves. One feature of that strategic context
was that the state secularizers faced an acquiescent religious community,
some members of which even took active part in the formation of the new
regime. In order to understand this attitude of the religious community, we
have to look at the resources at their disposal at the time of state secularization.
As we will see, the religious community in Turkey was extremely fragmented
and had weakened societal networks. This condition of the religious commu-
nity was the historical legacy of the Ottoman Empire for the new Republic.
This chapter narrates the evolution of this historical legacy.
The narrative will also show how the Ottoman state was non-secular.
This was because in the Ottoman territories religious community/institutions
had come to assume certain critical state functions such as education, judiciary,
welfare services, and religious services and, more importantly, performed
them virtually autonomously. The Ottoman state did not share the ambition
of the modern sovereign state in providing these services or intensively
regulating them. The state’s primary interest was just to expand and/or
protect its territories against enemies and maintain internal order. Given
the available technology of state building that made only a limited state
possible, the Ottomans could not erect a secular state. This changed, however,
in the early 19th century as the Ottoman rulers began to initiate their own
project of building a modern sovereign state. As a result, the Ottoman state
had become proto-secular in many ways before the 20th century.
This chapter first discusses the post-Mongol politico-religious context
in Anatolia and then illustrates how the Ottomans intensively mobilized
members of religious community for their imperial state-building project.
The chapter then looks at the changing role of a critical group of religious
community, the ulama, in the imperial structure as the central authority
weakened in the 17th and the 18th centuries. The chapter then discusses how
modern state-building reforms of the 19th century and other developments
Mobilizing Sheikhs and Ulama 25
brought about the condition in which the religious community found itself
in the 1920s.
THE ORIGIN
The Ottomans—unlike, as we will see later in the book, the Safavids

and the Russians—expanded into territories inhabited largely by people
of a different religion. To conquer in the first place and then colonize
and Islamicize, the Ottomans enthusiastically encouraged and generously
supported all sorts of Muslim religious figures and groups to settle in their
newly conquered territories. This policy unintentionally created a highly
pluralistic and fragmented body of Muslim religious institutions, which also
led to a tacit division of labor among them.
The Ottomans especially sought the participation of militant Sufi orders,
which had historical connections with the nomadic Turks since their
migration from Central Asia to Anatolia, in their military incursions into
first Byzantine territories and then the Balkans. Sheikhs of these militant
Sufi orders had long been serious powers to reckon with in Anatolia for
they could mobilize armed forces, especially nomadic Turks, and pose a
serious threat for any ruler.1 In the most famous instance, for example, one
such sheikh, Baba I˙ shak, incited a massive rebellion in Anatolia against
the Seljuqs. The rebellion lasted for two years and was crushed in 1241 only
after the Seljuqs suffered some humiliating defeats.2
Sufi sheikhs and dervishes facilitated for the Ottomans the recruitment
of nomadic Turks and often themselves fought on their side.3 A famous
example is a Sufi sheikh known as Geyikli Baba who fought with the
Ottomans against the Byzantine Empire. Geyikli Baba was granted a piece
of land near Bursa and established his convent there.4 It is interesting to
note that Geyikli Baba introduced himself to Orhan Ghazi as a disciple of
Baba I˙ lyas, who was known for his participation in Baba I˙ shak’s massive
rebellion against the Anatolian Seljuqs in 1241.5 There were other militaristic
Sufis with names such as Abdal Kumral, Abdal Musa, and Abdal Murad,
who joined the armies of the early Ottoman rulers Osman and Orhan. In
return, these Ottoman rulers bestowed favors and built zawiyahs and tombs
for them.6 Two Sufi sheikhs, Seyyit Ali Sultan and Seyyit Rüstem, joined the
conquest of Dimetoka, in present-day Greece. In return, both were granted
land, the former in Dimetoka and the other in Gallipoli, to establish their
convents.7 Horos Dede, another Sufi sheikh, joined the conquest of Con-
stantinople, today’s I˙ stanbul, and later established a convent in the capital
city.8 Cafer Gülbaba fought in several wars in Europe and died in the siege
of Budin in 1541.9
These individual examples, however scattered, clearly show a pattern of
Ottoman policy with regard to militaristic Sufis. “First a sheikh and his
disciples perform a certain service to the beg or sultan, which often took
the form of fighting in his army against ‘infidels.’ Then the ruler gives the
sheikh the right of ownership of a certain land, on which the sheikh founds
his hospice as pious endowment or vakf.”10
The confl uence of Sufi orders and Ottoman military forces was not
confined to individualistic contributions though. It also took place at an
institutional form, best manifested in the Janissary corps’ relationships to
a Sufi order, Bektaşism. The Janissary corps was the standing army of the
Ottoman Empire. It was first formed from prisoners of war and was under
the direct command of the Ottoman sultan. Later, Christian children, who
were taken from their families at an early age and raised among Turkish
families, became the backbone of this standing army.
The Janissaries had been the stronghold of a Sufi order, Bektaşism. In the
words of a prominent Ottoman historian, Halil I˙ nalcı k, “By the end of the
sixteenth century Hacı Bektaş was officially recognized as the patron saint
of the Janissaries, and a Bektaşi father permanently resided with the corps.
The Bektaşi order and the Janissary corps became so inseparable that when
a new dede was chosen as the head of the order he came to the Janissary
barracks in I˙ stanbul to be crowned by the aga of the Janissaries.”11 It is no
wonder that the abolition of the Janissaries in 1826 came along with the
suppression of the Bektaşi order.
The Ottomans also sought to attract nonmilitarist Sufi orders to their
territories.12 The Ottomans gave them tax exemptions and built convents
and endowed land for them.13 And it seems this was the most usual policy for
favoring the Sufis in the Ottoman Empire.14 A prominent Ottoman economic
historian, Ömer Lütfi Barkan, wrote a now classic article published in 1942
in which he gives numerous examples of land and villages granted by the
early Ottoman sultans to Sufi orders.15
Barkan observes that the Sufis practically colonized the newly conquered
territories. Based on his analysis of the documents of a Sufi convent endowed
by Selim I in Dayr al-Asad in Israel, Aharon Layish arrives at a similar
conclusion. “The document before us sheds light on an impressive instru-
ment of the policy of colonization and Islamization of conquered areas in
the Ottoman Empire. That policy seems to have been applied not only in
Anatolia and Rumelia but also in the Arab provinces, at least in Palestine.”16
In pursuing this policy, the Ottomans encouraged convents to be built
in mostly depopulated areas in the Balkans.17 The convents brought Sufi
disciples to mostly deserted and depopulated areas, in which either villages
formed for the first time or village life fully began again in old villages. Over
time, the convents became centers of economic activity in their environments,
and in particular they revitalized agriculture and husbandry in the countryside.
The Ottomans also made sure that some convents were established along
main trade routes to guard the caravans and serve the travelers passing by.
In fact, the grant of land to the zawiyahs was conditional: “The state gave
the right to administer the vakf to a certain sheikh and his descendants
provided that they should serve the needs of travelers passing through. . . .
In the case of not fulfilling their duties, the sultan had the right to take the
vakf back to give it to another sheikh.”18
The convents were also instrumental in the spread of Islam among
Christian populations. The Sufis’ fl exibility in the formal requirements of
Islam and their easy adoption of local practices facilitated the conversion
process.19 Thus, the Ottomans governed a much less hostile population than
would otherwise have been the case. They could also boast throughout the
Islamic world that they were promoting Islam in non-Muslim lands.
It should be emphasized that the Ottoman state was non-secular not
because it extended a generous hand to Sufi orders of all kinds. Even today’s
secular states might prefer to do that too. Rather, the Ottoman state was
non-secular because it left the Sufi orders completely autonomous in their
religious activities and public services.
BUILDING IMPERIAL INSTITUTIONS
While expanding their empires, the Ottomans also engaged non-Sufi

members of religious community and, more importantly, Muslim religious
scholars, or the ulama. This engagement was similar to the way the Ottomans
engaged the Sufi orders. The Ottoman state also extended its patronage to
the ulama and encouraged their activities. The sultans and other high-level
state officials built monumental mosques and religious schools, madrasahs,
and endowed them generously. However, this engagement was also different.
The Ottomans incorporated the ulama into the imperial ruling elite as the
former filled important bureaucratic and judicial posts in the Ottoman
imperial administration.
This was to a certain extent unavoidable. The Ottoman dynasty had
a tribal origin. The founder of the empire, Osman, was himself a tribal leader.
The ulama class helped the Ottoman dynasty build imperial institutions.
In terms of the availability of the ulama, the Ottomans were rather in an
unfortunate position. Their predecessors, the Seljuqs, the Timurids, the
Ak-Koyunlus, and the Kara-Koyunlus, had to work with already existing
ulama families in the regions they ruled. The Ottomans had to create an
ulama class. Hence, in many cities the Ottomans conquered, such as Bursa,
I˙ znik, Edirne, and I˙ stanbul, they were the first Muslim rulers who built large
mosques and madrasahs. The Ottoman rulers invited religious scholars
from other parts of the Islamic world as administrators and teachers in these
madrasahs. Because a long-established madrasah tradition was nonexistent,
Ottoman religious scholars and madrasah students went to older religious
learning centers in Egypt, Iran, and Central Asia to study under prominent
scholars of their time.20
As the empire fully institutionalized, it was the madrasahs in these
cities who formed the highest-ranking madrasahs throughout the Ottoman
territories. Hence, the Ottoman central administration could depend on
these madrasahs to staff its imperial institutions. The Ottoman ulama thus
acquired political and economic status by being deeply incorporated into
the Ottoman imperial state as one of its main pillars.
Unlike the Sufis, who remained outside the formal state institutions, the
ulama class became part of the imperial state, filling important bureaucratic
and judicial posts in the Ottoman imperial administration. In its fully developed
structure, the empire was not only a military-administrative complex, but
also a religious complex, hierarchically organized under the sheikh al Islam.
The sheikh al Islam not only managed the administration of the religious
institutions,21 but also ensured that the laws issued by the sultan were in
conformity with Islam. The sheikh al Islam was the only person in the whole
imperial structure who could authorize the deposition of the sultan, and in
the Imperial Divan he held a position on par with that of the grand vizier,
the head of the ruling institution.
The ulama provided mainly educational and legal services in the empire.
Not only in I˙ stanbul, but also in many small localities in Anatolia and the
Balkans, the ulama supervised education in the seminaries.22 They provided
legal services as judges in the cities and smaller localities throughout the
empire. The Ottoman judges in the courts tried the cases of “transgressors
against the holy law or the secular, whether murderers, thieves, miscre-
ants, adulterers, drunkards or shirkers of whatever sort.” Furthermore,
the Ottoman ulama certified, registered, and advised and adjudicated
on “marriage, divorce, desertion, death, and the transfers of property
associated with each such passage, and all manner of vexing human
problems.”23
It should be emphasized that the Ottoman state was non-secular not
because the ulama class was part of the imperial bureaucracy. Rather, it was
non-secular because the ulama undertook such public functions as educa-
tion and judiciary autonomously. This autonomy got a further boost by the
financial autonomy the ulama class enjoyed. This autonomy came from two
sources. First, the ulama had administered the religious endowments—waqfs—
that had financed all religious institutions under their control. Second,
the ulama, unlike the bureaucrats and the Janissaries, had never held the
status of slaves of the sultan. Therefore, their personal wealth could not
be confiscated by the state upon their death, but could be transferred to
their heirs.24 As we will see shortly, these two sources turned the ulama into
critical players in the imperial state.
The ulama’s positioning within the imperial institutions came with a cost.
They were separated from the Muslim urban and rural masses. This separation
also found a formal expression. The Ottoman society was visualized to
comprise two separate sections: the state and its officials (including the ulama)
and the masses, the reaya, consisting of all Muslims and non-Muslims. The
reaya, in turn, was compartmentalized into different groups according
to their taxation status: townspeople, peasants and nomads, which were
further divided according to their religions and sects.25 The separation
of the ulama from the masses, in turn, left the fl oor completely open to
the Sufi orders as the organizers of the religious lives of the masses. The
relative autonomy of the Sufi orders enabled their religious institutions to
exercise a high degree of day-to-day social control over the common subjects,
who looked to them for spiritual services. It is worth quoting Ernest
Gellner on this:
Such large segments of Muslim populations look not only, and not
so much, toward the ulama for spiritual guidance, as they do toward
other types of religiously significant groups, whom there is a tendency
to lump together under the heading of Sufism . . . Roughly speaking:
urban Sufi mysticism is an alternative to the legalistic, restrained, arid
(as it seems to its critics) Islam of the Ulama. Rural and tribal “Sufism”
is a substitute for it.26
In regulating the religious lives of the masses, the Sufis were not alone.
It is necessary to mention another group to have a complete picture of the
religious community in the Ottoman Empire. Using a contemporary term,
we can call this group, who staffed local mosques as prayer leaders and
preachers, the hocas. Extremely disunited and fragmented, this group has
rarely played a critical political role, but rather acted more as a barrier in
front of full Sufi monopolization of religious services among the masses. The
history of the Ottoman Empire records a confrontation between the hocas
and the Sufis to this effect. Known as the Kadılızadeler, and resurfacing at
least three times in the 17th century, a group of mosque hocas initiated a
movement against the Sufi orders that went as far as attacking the individual
members of the Sufi orders and their convents.27
Among the three groups, the hocas had always been closer to both urban
and rural masses. Like other members of the religious community, the hocas
also lived off the income generated by religious endowments and enjoyed
certain rights—for example, they were exempted from certain taxes.
However, the masses had more say in the recruitment of hocas. The Ottoman
Empire attempted to control the hocas through inspections by the religious
judges. The hocas were expected to help the state sustain order and security,
serve as moral police and notaries in their local settings, and organize the
masses to undertake certain municipal services.28
In short, the Ottoman policy toward the Sufis, the ulama, and the hocas
created, intentionally or not, a highly pluralistic and fragmented body
of religious community. This pluralism also accompanied a tacit division
of labor among them. While the Sufis and the hocas had been among the
masses, the ulama had been among the ruling elite. It is important to note,
however, that even the ulama had enjoyed a considerable degree of autonomy
in their activities, an autonomy they would begin to lose as the Ottomans
built a modern sovereign state in the 19th century.
THE DECLINE AND THE ULAMA
By the late 17th century, Ottoman military expansion stopped.29 The next
200 years witnessed the rise of provincial notable families, called the ayan,
and the weakening of central authority. By the late 18th century, “nearly
everywhere the central state became visibly less important and local notable
families more so in the everyday lives of most persons. Whole sections of the
empire fell under the political domination of provincial notable families.”30
To begin with, the weakening of central authority benefitted the Ottoman
ulama. By the late 16th century, it was not the provincial families but the
provincial governors who represented the main centrifugal force. As they
had their own troops, they began to ignore and resist orders from the capital.
To balance the growing powers of the governors, the central administration
increased the power of the religious judges in the provincial administration
at the expense of the governors.31
First, the judges were to supervise the administrative officials in their
localities. Second, the judges, as part of their role in marriage contracts and
deathbed testaments, made tax assessments and collected taxes or partici-
pated in these activities. Third, they intervened in the affairs of litigants.
All these duties brought lucrative gains for the religious judges.32
In such a context, strong local families—future ayan candidates—found
potential allies in the religious judges against the provincial governors.
Thus there developed a rapprochement between the ulama class and the
local families. In fact, some ayan families had their origins in the ulama.33
A similar development occurred in the capital of the empire. High-ranking
bureaucrats and military personnel avoided the confiscation of their wealth
through allying with the ulama. First, some civilian and military bureaucrats
began to enroll their sons into religious institutions and passed their wealth
to them in their lifetimes. Thus we observe, in the 17th and 18th centuries, a
rapprochement between “the men of the sword” and “the men of the pen.”
Second and more importantly, civilian and military bureaucrats began to
establish “shady” religious foundations, which were “jealously guarded by
the religious scholars.” According to this new arrangement, “the revenues
nominally set aside for the pious purpose but in reality continued to go to
the donors and their heirs under various and dubiously legal pretexts.”34
Hence, both in the provinces and in the center of the empire, the ulama
gained an unprecedented importance, while in both areas they entrenched
themselves even more into the ruling elite and added to the layers separating
them from the masses. Furthermore, both the ulama in the capital and the
ulama families in the provinces benefited from the spread of tax farm-
ing due to their critical roles in the bureaucracy.35 However, this prominence
came at a cost: the ulama lost its unity in two ways. The first divide occurred
between the local ulama families who entrenched themselves within the
rising ayan families and the body of ulama that was affiliated with the central
administration. The second divide occurred in the latter group between the
high-ranking and the low-ranking ulama. The highest offices in the religious
institutions of the Ottoman Empire became the footholds of a relatively
small group of ulama families, who closed the gates of upward mobility in
the institution. The sons of the ulama in high offices got preferential treat-
ment in appointments and in getting diplomas from theology schools.36 The
practice was also extended to those who could make the necessary payments
to benefit their siblings. In this state, the Ottoman ulama entered the long
19th century.
BUILDING A MODERN SOVEREIGN STATE—THE

19TH-CENTURY REFORMS
Ottoman historians single out 1689, the defeat at Vienna, as the start of
the Ottoman decline. Yet the Ottomans could not perceive the extent of
the decline until the second half of the 18th century. The victories against the
Russian and Habsburg empires in the first half of the century must have
blinded them. Yet the Ottomans could not escape the conclusion after
the crushing defeats they tasted in the Russian-Ottoman wars of 1768–1774
and 1787–1792.37 The early 19th century also witnessed massive rebellions
in the Balkans, first of the Serbs and then of the Greeks. It became painfully
clear to the Ottomans that their military forces, the Janissaries, had become
utterly useless in the battlefield. Not only ineffective in the field, the
Janissaries also became a nightmare in the capital for the sultan, as they
often rose in rebellion against him.
It was Selim III who initiated the first serious military reforms in the
Ottoman Empire.38 He established a new military unit in 1793 and named
it Nizam-ı Cedid. The provincial families immediately reacted to this new
military unit, which started a period of provincial unrest and rebellion.
Even though Selim III abandoned the project, the Janissaries rebelled and
dethroned him. A new sultan, Mustafa IV, rose to the throne, and concessions
were granted to the Janissaries. Unhappy with this arrangement in the
capital, the provincial families of the European part of the empire moved to
the capital with their militias, suppressed the Janissary leaders, and demanded
the return of the sultan to the throne. It was too late for Selim III, who
had already been killed by the Janissaries. The leader of the provincial
families, Alemdar Mustafa Paşa, dethroned Mustafa IV and replaced him
with Mahmud II (1808–1839). In return, Mahmud II chose Alemdar
Mustafa Paşa as the grand vizier.39 The sultan and the provincial families
signed the famous Sened-i I˙ ttifak, which specified the rights and obligations
of both sides.
The reign of Mahmud II marks the true beginning of transforming the
Ottoman state into a modern sovereign state. In a matter of eighteen years
after his inauguration, Mahmud II ruthlessly suppressed local notable fami-
lies, confiscated their wealth, either killed or dispersed their members, and
finally destroyed his own central army, the Janissaries, in 1826. Thus two
important obstacles to state building disappeared from the scene.
The imperial decree that dissolved the Janissaries also established a new
army.40 The first regiment of the army was established in I˙ stanbul. Then the
provincial governors were ordered to raise provincial regiments. The officer
corps would be sent from I˙ stanbul and would be directly responsible to the
head of the army in I˙ stanbul. The salaries, armaments, and other supplies
would come from I˙ stanbul. The Ottoman government invited Prussian
instructors to modernize the army along European lines. Mahmud II intro-
duced additional changes to the old army. Some corps were disbanded and
some were reorganized, and new corps were established.
The Ottoman bureaucracy, which had mostly been staffed by a closed
circle from vizier and higher bureaucrat households in the capital and
provinces, also became the target of reforms. First, Mahmud II increased the
job security of the bureaucrats by abolishing the custom of confiscating
the bureaucrats’ wealth upon their death. The bureaucrats were to receive
regular salaries, a system of hierarchy was introduced, and new schools
were opened to educate them; in this way Mahmud II attempted to break
the monopoly of vizier and pasha families over bureaucratic appointments.
Mahmud II also introduced reforms in the tax system. The tax collectors would
be directly appointed from I˙ stanbul. The first Ottoman census was undertaken
to determine the tax base of the population. In order to extend the state
presence into Ottoman society, a postal service was established and new roads
were built. Although the lack of necessary financial resources crippled these
reforms, Mahmud II initiated a period of extensive state building that would
continue incessantly and stubbornly well until the 1920s. More importantly,
Mahmud II’s initial reforms of the military, education, administration, tax
collection, and legal services laid the general framework upon which later
Ottoman statesmen would carry on further reforms.
For the rest of the century, the Ottoman statesmen expanded the size of
the army. In order to update the military technology of the army, the Ottomans
imported arms supplies from Germany and Britain and, to some extent,
from France. At the beginning of the First World War, the Ottoman Empire
was transformed into “one of the most important markets for armaments
in the world.”41 The Ottoman Empire sought foreign loans from Europe to
finance its military expenditure and became indebted to European finan-
ciers to such an extent that the Ottoman state faced bankruptcy in 1878.
To avoid fiscal collapse, the Ottoman state established the Ottoman Public
Debt Administration in 1881, which would collect its own taxes within the
empire. For the rest of the century, German assistance continued in the form
of technical education and personnel. In 1841, provincial armies were
established with their own command centers. All provincial armies were
subordinated to the head of the army in I˙ stanbul. In 1845, the Ottoman
state officially introduced conscription. Christian subjects also served in the
army but were given the option of paying a tax instead. Later, the conscription
system was further expanded to include more Muslim populations. In 1891,
Hamidiye cavalries were established from the Turcoman and Kurdish tribes.
Tribal leaders would command their own men in these cavalries, while the
Ottoman state would send regular officers to train and supervise their
operations. Old military engineering schools were modernized; new military
training schools were established to train the officer corps. The Ottoman
statesmen expanded the size of the bureaucracy, increasing it from 2,000
or so people at the end of the 18th century to 35,000 or so in 1908. This
came with a continued effort to rationalize the bureaucracy.42 Specialization
increased, leading to better differentiation among the different units of the
bureaucracy and the creation of different ministries. Consultative assemblies
were established to prepare new reforms in their respective domains.
Provincial administration was reorganized hierarchically. Despite the
efforts to monopolize taxation under the control of the central authority,
the 19th-century statesmen were not very effective in implementing direct
taxation. Tax farmers played the dominant role in the collection of taxes
even at the end of the 19th century.
THE ULAMA IN THE PROCESS
As mentioned, Mahmud II initiated a process of modern sovereign state

building, primarily in military affairs. Reforms in finance, administration,
education, and the legal system soon followed.43 As suggested in the intro-
duction chapter, building a modern sovereign state ultimately affects reli-
gion and religious community/institutions. Even Mahmud II’s initial reforms
began to affect the ulama. Until that time, the ulama had undertaken educa-
tional and legal services autonomously, performed various administrative
functions in the provinces, kept their institutional autonomy so that the
sheikh al Islam independently appointed judges and teachers in theology
schools, and secured their financial autonomy through their roles in the
administration of religious endowments.
Immediately after the destruction of the Janissaries, Mahmud II took
over the control of all religious endowments, except for those foundations
supporting the holy cities of Mecca and Medina, and put them under the newly
created Ministry of Religious Endowments. This new system transferred the
control of the revenues from the ulama to the state.
During the reign of Mahmud II, the Ottoman state also began to open
new professional schools to train military-civilian bureaucrats for the
ever-growing state apparatus: a military medical school (1827), a school
of military sciences (1834), a school of learning (1839), and a school of
literary studies (1839).44 The Ottoman state also opened secondary schools
(rüşdiye) starting in the 1840s and high schools (idadi) starting in the
1870s. The state also invested in more specialized professional schools. A
School of Teachers (for secondary schools) was founded in 1848 in I˙ stanbul,
a School of Administration (Mekteb-i Mülkiye) in 1859, and a School of
Law (Mekteb-i Hukuk) in 1874.45 Until the end of its collapse, the empire
expanded its educational system across its territories, with not only primary,
secondary, and high schools, but also professional schools, increasing in
number. For example, by 1905–1906, except for Basra, Hijaz, and Ishkodra,
every province had a school of teachers in its capital city.46 By 1909,
in addition to I˙ stanbul, three more Schools of Law were also founded in
Selanik, Konya, and Beirut.47 Finally, after two failures, the Ottoman state
founded a university, Darülfünun-u Şahane, in 1900, with three faculties,
theology, literature, and mathematical and natural sciences.48 In 1909, the
Schools of Law were added to the university.
In the field of legal reform, too, the Ottoman state introduced measures
that undermined the monopoly and autonomy of the ulama in the field.
First, the Ottoman state introduced a series of legal codes: among others, the
Penal Code in 1840 (which was revised in 1851 and 1858), the Commercial
Code in 1849, the Land Code in 1858, the Maritime Trade Code in 1863,
the Ottoman Code of Public Laws in 1865, and the Ottoman Civil Code
between 1866 and 1888.49 Second, the Ottoman state established new
courts: commercial courts, mixed trade courts, administrative courts for
state officials, and Nizamiye courts.50 Especially, the establishment of
Nizamiye courts was critical as they significantly narrowed down the juris-
diction of religious courts. Nizamiye courts were to handle criminal and civil
cases for Ottoman subjects, while religious courts were to deal with cases
dealing with marriage, death, and inheritance. Both courts remained under
different ministries: while the Nizamiye courts were under the Ministry of
Justice, the religious courts had remained under the office of the sheikh al
Islam, except for three years between 1916 and 1919 when religious courts
operated under the Ministry of Justice.51
INVOLVING THE ULAMA
Even though the process of building a modern sovereign state undermined

the monopoly of the ulama over education and legal services, it did not
pose an existential threat to them. In tandem with the process, Ottoman
sultans continued to repair and restore mosques, tombs, Sufi convents, and
theology schools. They continued to grant financial aid to the ulama, to
Sufi sheikhs, and to seminary students.52 Furthermore, as mentioned before,
the office of the sheikh al Islam continued to justify major state policies on
religious grounds.53
The Ottoman statesmen, however, went beyond simple paying lip
service, but rather intensely involved the ulama in their modern sovereign
state-building project. In parallel with the expansion and transformation of
the Ottoman state, the religious community also expanded and transformed,
fully reorganized under the office of the sheikh al Islam. The reform of the
religious community started with a simple act, in fact, settling the office of
sheikh al Islam in a permanent building.54 Three days after the Janissaries
were destroyed, Mahmud II gave their head office to the sheikh al Islam.
In that building the office expanded and assumed the administration of all
state functions deemed religious. In addition to continuing its traditional
function, issuing religious edicts, the office of the sheikh al Islam was also to
administer and inspect religious judges and courts, religious teachers, and
schools. The office also assumed the administration of properties belonging
to the orphans and the inspection of religious endowments.55 By the end of
the empire, the office of the sheikh al Islam had become a full-fl edged state
bureaucracy.56
In an effort to accommodate existing religious institutions within the
newly evolving modern state institutions, the office of the sheikh al Islam
set out to reform religious schools so as to better cater to the needs of the
expanding state. Among its most successful initiatives, the office founded
new religious schools. For example, in 1854, the office founded a school
to train religious judges, Muallimhane-i Nüvvab (later Medresetül Kuzat).
In 1914, the office founded two new religious schools in I˙ stanbul, Darü’l-
Hilafeti’l Aliyye and Medresetül Mütehassisin. These new schools employed
religious scholars as teachers to run their programs and opened new
venues for aspiring religious students to rise in the religious hierarchy. But,
more importantly perhaps, these schools aimed to endow their graduates
with more modern skills and train them in new sciences. For example,
Medresetül Kuzat’s program included not only certain religious topics, but
also more modern legal topics, such as land code, penal code, international
law, administrative law, and economics.57
Transforming the empire into a modern sovereign state, therefore,
involved reforming religious institutions. The same process involved the
ulama in other ways. For example, the ulama took active part in both
central and provincial administration. The sheikh al Islam became a member
of the council of the ministers. Religious scholars often served as ministers,
especially of justice, education, and endowments. Religious scholars also
served in critical state councils such as the Council of Education and the
Supreme Council of Judicial Ordinances. The later separated in 1868 into
the Council of Judicial Ordinances, which became the Ministry of Justice,
and the Council of State. Before they became sheikh al Islam, for example,
Ahmet Arif Hikmet, Mehmet Arif Efendi, and Mehmet Sa’addin Efendi
served in the Supreme Council of Judicial Ordinances; Ömer Hüsameddin
Efendi and Haydarizade I˙ brahim Efendi in the Council of Education; El Hac
Refik Efendi and El Hac Ahmed Muhtar Efendi in the Council of Judicial
Ordinances; and Mehmet Sahib Efendi and Mustafa Hayri Efendi in the
Council of State.58 Religious scholars also served in another critical council,
the Temporary Council of Education (Meclis-i Muvakkat-i Maarif), formed
in 1845 to reform the Ottoman education system. Of the eight members of
the council, four were religious scholars, one of whom, Abdülkadir Efendi,
chaired the council.59 A religious scholar, Sayyafl ar Şeyhizade Esad Efendi,
also served in and later chaired the permanent Council of Education,
Meclis-i Maarif.
As members of various councils, the Supreme Council of Judicial Ordi-
nances in particular, religious scholars took part in the preparation of legal
codes. I am not in a position to judge whether these codes were compatible
with the Islamic law. Leaving that debate to legal historians,60 this book
points to the fact that religious scholars were involved even in the preparations
of those heavily borrowed from Europe. For example, a religious scholar,
Ahmet Cevdet,61 chaired the commission that revised the penal code in
1858. A group of religious scholars also was involved in the preparation
of the original code of 1840.62 Ahmet Cevdet also was involved in the prepa-
ration of the land code and, more importantly, chaired the commission that
drafted the Ottoman Civil Code, known as Majalla. The commission was
formed mainly by religious scholars and in fact codified the Hanafi School
of Jurisprudence.63
If we look at the careers of rank-and-file religious scholars in the 19th
century, we also see a similar picture. Examples are available in the
appendix. Religious scholars, for example, served in local educational and
administrative councils. Religious scholars also served as prayer leaders and
religious counsels in military units of the new Ottoman Armed Forces
and prayer leaders in the embassies.
Even opening new state schools and establishing a secular legal system
did not go against the interests of the religious scholars.64 First, religious
courts continued to work alongside the state courts, although they were
increasingly restricted to personal and family law cases.65 Likewise, religious
schools continued to work alongside state schools. A Turkish historian,
Murat Akgündüz, gives tens of examples of financial contributions by the
state to the seminaries and their students in the 19th century66 and of the
distribution of their shares from religious endowments.67 In fact, an important
prerogative of seminary students continued, though with some restrictions:
exemption from military service if the student passed an exam set by the
office of the sheikh al Islam.68
It is true that the opening of state schools and secular courts ended the
monopoly of the ulama in the education and legal systems. But, at the same
time, this expansion created new job opportunities for religious scholars
and graduates of religious schools. In the first place, the ulama continued
to serve in religious courts and schools. But, as examples in the appendix
show, they also worked frequently in state courts and schools. This was to
a large extent inescapable. Even though the Ottoman legal reforms started
in the first half of the 19th century, the first School of Law was established
in 1878. In fact, the office of the sheikh al Islam opened a new professional
school, Muallimhane-i Nüvvab, to train religious judges who could serve
in both courts. Because the sheikh al Islam appointed and supervised the
religious judges, the new courts practically remained under the jurisdiction of
the sheikh al Islam.69 In 1879 the Ministry of Justice, established in 1868,
began to appoint and supervise all judges serving in the Nizamiye courts.
The appointment of judges from among the ulama to these courts also
became the prerogative of the Ministry of Justice.
Religious scholars served in the new state courts at all administrative
levels: in the lower administrative units (kaza and sancak), religious judges
were also the head of Nizamiye courts. Religious judges were also members
of the provincial courts70 and served as the head of the judicial office of
the provincial appeal court.71 Many ulama biographies point to the same
pattern: the Ottoman ulama moved back and forth between the religious
and the secular courts in their careers.72
We observe a similar pattern in the field of education. The educational
reforms, although undermining the monopoly of the ulama in this field, still
helped them by expanding the job market. Examples are available in the
appendix. The ulama not only served as teachers in the seminary schools,
but also began to staff the new state schools from primary to secondary
schools, from vocational schools to universities.
Religious scholars taught particular classes in the state schools: in
general, they taught religious and language courses (Arabic and Persian) in
primary, secondary, and high schools in both civilian and military branches.
More importantly, religious scholars also taught classes in such critical state
schools as the Boys’ School of Teachers (Darü’l Muallimun), the School
of Law (Mekteb-i Hukuk), and the School of Administration (Mülkiye),
which were founded to train teachers, judges, and bureaucrats for the
expanding Ottoman state. For example, Hüseyin Hüsni Efendi taught in
both the School of Law and the School of Administration, Musa Kazı m
Efendi taught in the School of Law and the Boys’ School of Teachers, and El
Hac Ahmed Muhtar Efendi taught in the School of Administration.73 There
are less prominent examples as well. Eğinli Muhammed Hulusi Efendi
and I˙ stanbullu Mehmet Esad Efendi taught in the Boys’ School of Teach-
ers; Zafaranbolulu Mehmet Fehmi Efendi, Elmalı lı Hamdi Efendi, Nasuh
Efendizade Mustafa Asim Efendi, Turşucuzade Ahmet Muhtar Efendi, and
Kuyucakzade Mehmet Atif Efendi in the School of Administration; and
Seydişehirli Mahmud Esad Efendi and Manisalı zade Mustafa Şevket Efendi
in both the School of Law and the School of Administration.74
Religious scholars also served as administrators and teachers in Darül-
fünun, the empire’s only university. A religious scholar, Manastı rlı I˙ smail
Hakkı Efendi, delivered the opening lecture, and the topic was the first
chapter of the Qur’an, “Fatiha.” The commission formed to recruit teach-
ers also included religious scholars.75 Not surprisingly, the teachers in the
Faculty of Theology were all religious scholars.76 But among the teachers
of the Faculty of Law and the Faculty of Literature were also religious
scholars. For example, Ali Fehmi Efendi, I˙ smail Saib Efendi, and I˙ zmirli
I˙ smail Hakkı Efendi taught in the Faculty of Literature,77 and Musa Kazim
Efendi, Mustafa Hayri Efendi, and Mehmet Fehmi Efendi in the Faculty of
Law.78 It should be noted that a prominent sheikh, Veled Celebi, also taught
in the Faculty of Literature.
The intensive participation of religious scholars in the new state school
system was to a certain extent unavoidable. If we take a look at the curricula
of the state schools, we see some classes religious scholars could teach with
great ease. Considering the pool of teachers available at that time, the state
had to employ religious scholars to teach those classes. To give an example, the
curricula of state primary schools in 1904 included a class titled The Qur’an
in the second and third year six hours and five hours a week respectively.
The program also had a class titled Catechism in all three levels and a class
titled Proper Recitation of the Qur’an in the third year. In secondary state
schools, in 1904, the program included a class on proper recitation of the
Qur’an in all three levels (six hours a week in the first year, one hour a week
in the second and third years), catechism in all three levels (two hours a
week), morality in the third year, morphology of Arabic in the second year
(two hours a week) and morphology and syntax of Arabic in the second
year (four hours a week), and syntax of Arabic in the third year (three hours
a week). State high schools also had classes that could be taught by religious
scholars: in 1899, the program had Proper Recitation of the Qur’an and
Religious Studies and Arabic in all seven years.79 Two university faculties,
the School of Law and the School of Philosophy and Literary Studies, also
included classes such as theology, logic, Arabic, Persian, jurisprudence, and
principles of jurisprudence. All professional schools, including military
schools, also had classes on religion and Arabic in their curricula.80
The most remarkable benefit that the state reforms brought to the ulama in
the field of education was in primary education. In 1824–1825, the Ottoman
sultan, Mahmud II, issued an edict that made primary education practically
mandatory for all Ottomans. Having no primary school of its own at that
time, the Ottoman state de facto delegated primary education to religious
scholars, who had been running local religious schools (mektep). As Selçuk
Akşin Somel notes with great insight, the Ottoman statesmen really saw
primary education as a natural part of religious affairs.81 This can be seen
readily in a memorandum presented to and approved by Mahmud II in
1839. According to this, primary education would start in available local
religious schools, where students would study the alphabet only. Then, those
students who successfully read the whole Qur’an from the beginning to the
end would move to higher primary schools attached to bigger mosques,
known as Salatin mosques. In these schools, the students would study com-
position, lexicology, morality, writing, and calligraphy. Graduates of these
schools would then move to professional schools, established to train civilian
and military bureaucrats. Both levels of primary schools were under the
control of religious scholars. As mentioned before, the lower-level religious
schools were attached to mosques, which were financed by religious endow-
ments. Therefore, these schools were technically under the jurisdiction of
the ulama-dominated Ministry of Religious Endowments (Evkaf Nezareti).
As for the Salatin primary schools, the office of the sheikh al Islam assumed
the responsibility of appointing teachers to and inspecting schools.82
The Ottoman state did not open state primary schools (ibtidai mek-
teb), an alternative to religious primary schools, until 1870s. The first one
was opened in 1872 in I˙ stanbul. The pace of opening new state primary
schools was considerably slow. By the last decade of the 19th century, the
number of state primary schools was not even 20 percent of the number
of primary schools controlled and staffed by the ulama: there were 28,596
primary schools controlled by the ulama and 4,194 primary state schools.83
As discussed earlier, in these new state primary schools as well, religious
scholars served as teachers and administrators.
Despite having intensively involved the ulama, modern sovereign state
building in the Ottoman Empire was still a secular process for it consider-
ably decreased the administrative and financial autonomy of the ulama.
AHMET CEVDET PAŞA: PERSONIFICATION OF OTTOMAN

ENGAGEMENT WITH RELIGION
No figure better exemplifies the nature of Ottoman state building as it

pertains to religious community/institutions than Ahmet Cevdet Paşa. A brief
look at his life will add to the prior discussion.84
Ahmet Cevdet was born in Lofça, a town in the north of Bulgaristan, in
1822. He did not come from a scholarly family. But upon the insistence of
his grandfather, Hacı Ali Efendi, Ahmet Cevdet began to study under the
religious counsel (müftü) of Lofça, Hafı z Ömer Efendi. In 1839, he went
to I˙ stanbul to advance his education in Islamic sciences. He studied under
several prominent religious scholars and finally received his diploma in 1844.
In addition to standard religious sciences, Ahmet Cevdet also studied a range
of topics from mathematics to geography, from logic to literature. Soon
after his graduation, Ahmet Cevdet was given a religious rank and began
to receive a monthly stipend. A year later, Ahmet Cevdet was appointed as
a religious teacher (dersiam), which gave him the right to teach in I˙ stanbul
mosques. Around the same time, the great Ottoman reformer, Mustafa
Reşit Paşa, requested from the office of the sheikh al Islam a young religious
scholar who would inform Mustafa Reşit about the Islamic principles and
law. Upon the recommendation of the office of the sheikh al Islam, Ahmet
Cevdet began to work for Mustafa Reşit. Ahmet Cevdet soon distinguished
himself and even became the teachers of Mustafa Reşit’s children. Ahmet
Cevdet had served as Mustafa Reşit’s legal consultant until the latter’s death
in 1858.
After this fortunate start, Ahmet Cevdet’s career took new turns. In 1850,
Ahmet Cevdet became a member of the Council of Public Education
(Meclis-i Maarif-i Umumiye) and director of the School of Teachers. During
his tenure as a member of the Consultative Council (Encümen-i Danis),85
he penned the first three volumes of what would become his twelve-volume
history book, Tarih-i Cevdet. In 1855 Ahmet Cevdet was appointed as the
palace official chronicler and served in that position until 1865. In 1856
he joined the High Council of Tanzimat and in that position participated
in the revision of the Penal Code and in the preparation of the Land and
Registration Codes. Ahmet Cevdet also became a member of the Council of
Judicial Ordinances (Meclis-i Ahkam-i Adliye), established in 1861 to prepare
laws and serve as an administrative court for high bureaucrats.
In the meantime, Ahmet Cevdet’s rank in the religious hierarchy had
speedily improved, and he finally reached the rank of military religious
judge in 1863, a position just below that of sheikh al Islam. As the prospect
of sheikh al Islam became a reality, Ahmet Cevdet was transferred from
religious class to bureaucracy in 1866. From that time on, Ahmet Cevdet
assumed the title paşa instead of efendi.
Ahmet Cevdet’s brilliant career continued in the bureaucracy as well. First
he served as the governor of Halep in 1866–1868 and then became the head
of the Tribunal of Judicial Ordinances (Divan-ı Ahkam-ı Adliye), established
in 1868 to serve as the court of appeals. In the same year the council was
transformed into a ministry, and Ahmet Cevdet became its minister. This
ministry would be renamed the Ministry of Justice in 1876, and a separate
Court of Appeals was to be established under it in 1879.
It was in this period the Nizamiye courts were founded, and it fell on
Ahmet Cevdet to legitimize them as compatible with Islam. In 1869, Ahmet
Cevdet became the chair of newly founded the Society of Majalla, a group
of religious scholars authorized to compile the Ottoman Civil Code. The
society had produced a total of sixteen books of law and dissolved in 1888.
Among the contributions the society made was to draft the code of Trial
Procedures, which introduced public prosecution into the Ottoman legal
system. While serving in the society, Ahmet Cevdet also assumed even more
critical positions. He served as minister of justice (five times), minister of edu-
cation (three times), minister of religious endowments (two times), minister
of interior (one time), and minister of commerce and agriculture (one time).
Ahmet Cevdet was also a prolific writer. Among his books was a twelve-
volume history book covering Ottoman history from 1774 to 1826 (Tarih-i
Cevdet), a history book on prophets (Kısas-ı Enbiya), a history book on Crimea
and the Caucasus (Kırım ve Kafkas Tarihçesi), an Ottoman grammar book
(Kavaid-i Osmaniyye), a book of logic (Mi’yar-ı Sedad), a book on the
Qur’an (Hülasatü’l Beyan fi Te’lifi’l Kuran), a book of catechism (Asar-ı
Ahd-ı Hamidi), and a book on the high character and virtues of the Prophet
(Hilye-ı Saadet).
Ahmet Cevdet’s biography perfectly illustrates the opportunities modern
state building opened for young religious scholars. Many others followed
his lead in bringing religious background and education to the service of
the Ottoman state. In order to better understand the ulama’s involvement
in the Ottoman project of building a modern sovereign state, we must look
at the broader context. Two features of that context deserves emphasis: an
apocalyptic aura and a weakening society.
THE CONTEXT
Apocalyptic Aura
Some groups among the ulama might have indeed opposed the process of
modern sovereign state building in the Ottoman Empire. But that opposition
never materialized into a massive reactionary movement. The international
context of the building of the modern Ottoman state might have contributed
to this. As noted before, by the early 19th century the Ottomans had realized
that reform was critical in order to ward off the increasingly aggressive
Western powers. The 19th century brought no respite to the empire.
The century started with the Serbian revolt of 1804. The Russians inter-
vened on behalf of the Serbians and forced the sultan to grant them limited
autonomy. A war broke out with Russia in 1806. Only deteriorating relations
with France, and Napoleon’s invasion, forced the Russians to bring a quick
end to the war in 1811. The Ottomans reoccupied Serbia in 1813, leading
to the second Serbian revolt in 1815. In 1821, Iran attacked the Ottoman
Empire and scored military successes. In the same year, the Greeks rebelled,
which eventually brought Russia, France, Great Britain, Egypt, and the
Ottoman Empire into confl ict. The sultan recognized the independence of
Greece in 1832 with the Treaty of Constantinople.
Russia attacked the Ottoman Empire in 1828. The gains Russia made in
the field were enormous; fortunately, however, their territorial gains were
greatly curtailed in the Treaty of Edirne in 1829 thanks to the intervention
of the European powers on behalf of the Ottoman Empire. The 1830s saw
humiliating defeats of Ottoman forces at the hands of an Ottoman governor,
Mehmed Ali Paşa of Egypt. The intervention of Russia, Britain, Austria, and
Prussia saved the Ottoman dynasty from its own governor. The Crimean
War broke out between Russia and the Ottoman Empire in 1853. With
the British and French entering on the side of the Ottomans, the Ottomans
avoided another humiliating defeat.
Another war broke out between Russia and the Ottoman Empire in
1877, after the Ottomans suppressed rebellions in Serbia, Montenegro,
Bosnia, and Herzegovina. This war ended quickly after the Ottoman forces
were crushed at the hands of the Russians. But European intervention again
curtailed many of the territorial gains of the Russians: Serbia, Montenegro,
Bulgaria, and Romania became independent states; Bosnia and Herzegovina
remained under nominal Ottoman rule; and some pieces of land in eastern
Anatolia went to Russia, Cyprus to Britain, and Tunis to France. The Ottomans
also tasted defeat in the Tripolitanian War of 1911–1912 against Italy and
in the Balkan Wars against the joint forces of Greece, Serbia, and Bulgaria.
By the beginning of the First World War, the only European land held by the
Ottomans was the area between Edirne and I˙ stanbul.
Protracted wars with Russia, and internal rebellions, especially in the
Balkans, simply increased the pressure on the Ottoman rulers to speed up
their reforms. More importantly, I believe, they contributed to the sense of
extraordinary urgency and an apocalyptic feeling among the ulama, drasti-
cally reducing their incentives to object to the state-building reforms. In
fact it was quite the reverse: they enthusiastically rushed to make their own
contributions.
Weakening Ottoman Society

Modern state building in the Ottoman Empire either destroyed or seriously
weakened some intermediary bodies, especially the artisan and merchant
guilds. The watershed event for the guilds was the destruction of the
Janissaries, the central army of the Ottoman Empire. The Janissaries had
long engaged in local trade and artisanship, and therefore they, too, were
organized into guilds. In other words, the guilds had a strong arm, embodied
in the Janissaries, that could protect their legally recognized monopolies.
The destruction of the Janissaries in 1826 left the guilds weak against
governmental measures aimed at promoting free trade in line with pressures
from the European powers. For example, the 1838 treaty with Britain abol-
ished all legal monopolies provided to Ottoman merchants and artisans
and decreased custom duties in favor of British subjects. Every loss in the
battlefield forced the Ottomans to provide similar favorable conditions to
foreign merchants. The guilds could not raise any effective challenge to the
ongoing liberalization of the economy as the state became stronger. In time,
they lost their monopolies and privileges and, as a result, were weakened.
In the early 20th century, the guilds were no more than registers of artisans
and merchants.
Local notable families also lost their power in Anatolia as the Ottoman
state strengthened its grip over the provincial administration. The most
important consequence of the suppression and elimination of local notable
families was that no class of big landlords emerged in the subsequent history
of Anatolia. Not only in the Ottoman Empire, but also in Safavid and, then, in
Qajar Iran, most land legally belonged to the state. Two other categories were
waqf lands managed by religious groups through pious foundations and
private land. The last category really constituted a marginal part, mainly
found around people’s houses in the form of private gardens. State lands
constituted by far the largest category and were granted to military men in
return for their military or administrative services in the provinces.
If state building had failed in the Ottoman Empire, local notable families
could have challenged the state’s monopoly over the land and appropriated
land as their own private property. This is what happened in places where
the Ottomans could not extend their central rule, like Syria, Lebanon, and
Iraq. Local notable families became absentee landowners and, thus, important
political players in the subsequent histories of those countries.86 But in
Anatolia especially, where the Ottomans extended their central authority,
state-building reforms eliminated the most likely candidates for future
landlords, local notable families, and there was little private ownership of land
when private property became legal in the mid-19th century. Thus successful
state building eliminated that option for Anatolia. From that time on, the
state remained by far the largest landowner in Turkey, and peasants could
have their own small pieces of land, which were much more appropriate for
subsistence agriculture.87
The pattern of Ottoman integration with the capitalist world economy
also took its toll on the Ottoman societal forces. First, let me give a general
description of the economic structure in Anatolia prior to the 19th century,
which to a large extent holds true for Iran as well. Self-sufficient peasants
constituted the largest unit in society, producing for their own consumption
and required to supply some surplus to the government. The areas imme-
diately surrounding the towns also produced some surplus to sell to the
city dwellers with whom the rural peasants became increasingly connected
through commerce. In return, the city provided basic handmade products.
The pastoral nomads constituted the second largest unit in society and
mainly engaged in animal husbandry—producing milk, meat, and wool—
and transportation, with the peasants and the nomads exchanging products.
The towns were the administrative and military centers and, thus, became
important markets for their surplus produce. Artisans and merchants were
important elements of the town economy. Both groups were organized into
guilds, setting their own standards and prices, restricting entry into the
market, and controlling the quality of the produce. The artisans mainly
produced for the administrative and military personnel of the state. Prior to
the 19th century, international trade was also a part of this economic structure.
The merchants imported luxury goods mainly for government officials and
exported a whole variety of goods, including agricultural goods and textiles.
The government, in return, assured the regular supply of meat and farm
produce to the town dwellers.
Foreign trade with Europe increased enormously in the 19th century, in
parallel with the overall growth of international trade.88 As a result the basket
of export and import goods changed. Both the Ottoman and the Iranian
economies began to import finished manufactured products from Europe,
most notably textiles. In return, they exported cash crops to Europe, most
notably cotton, tobacco, and opium. Malcolm Yapp summarizes the
changing patterns of foreign trade with Europe very nicely: “In 1800 the
Near East conducted mixed trade with Europe exporting raw materials,
foodstuffs, and manufactured goods and importing a similar mix. By the
end of the century, the Near East exported almost only food and raw mate-
rials and imported manufactured goods together with some food, notably
grain, sugar, coffee and tea.”89
The unit in society that was most hard hit by the increasing trade with
Europe was the artisan class, as the domestic handicraft industry could not
compete in the market with cheap European goods, except for a few items
such as carpets and silks. The pastoral nomads continued to play important
roles in transportation in the difficult terrains of Anatolia and Iran. Inner
Anatolia and Iran were mostly inaccessible to European firms and merchants.
Therefore, unlike in other Middle East countries, European firms and
merchants had to strike deals with local merchants to penetrate deep into the
market. Therefore, the merchants were the main beneficiaries of Anatolia’s
increasing trade with Europe.
In the Ottoman case, in contrast to the Iranian case, which will be dis-
cussed later in the book, it was the non-Muslim populations, especially the
Greeks and the Armenians, who were the main beneficiaries and principal
carriers of economic integration. The Muslim manufacturers and merchants
lost their privileged status as their monopolies were abolished, and they
could not compete with the non-Muslims in the market. Çağlar Keyder puts
it nicely: “With the expansion of trade, it was the Levantine population
which formed the principal link between European markets and local
producers. Representative agencies of merchant houses were established in
port cities which in turn engaged non-Moslem Ottomans . . . to serve as
intermediaries. This pattern quickly drove Moslem merchants out of the
field.”90 Muslim merchants survived in the economy, probably not decreasing
in number, but in much more subordinate and local positions. Although we
do not have detailed statistics, the following serves to illustrate this point.
According to a census conducted in 1915, there were 214 private industrial
establishments in Turkey. An estimate based upon the names of the owners
of these establishments finds that 172 of them, or 80.4 percent, belonged to
non-Muslims.91 The underrepresentation of Muslims in business life became
a real concern for Turkish rulers only after 1908, and to address this, in
1913 and again in 1927, the state passed laws to encourage industry, and
the creation of a national bourgeoisie became an economic state policy. As a
result, the Turkish state created a dependent bourgeois class in Turkey; Ayşe
Bug˘ ra’s study on Turkish businessmen clearly shows that “success in business
seems to be related, first and foremost, to the nature of one’s relationship
with the state.”92
Çag˘ lar Keyder emphasizes two factors in explaining the dominance of non-
Muslims in Ottoman commercial life. First, non-Muslims could get foreign
passports, which put them under the administrative and legal control of
foreign ambassadors. It was then legally easier for European traders to deal
with them since, in the event of a dispute, they could bring them in front
of the consular courts. Second, non-Muslims had some cultural advantages
over Muslims because they shared the religion of the Europeans in their
partnerships.93 We can also note that the Greeks and Armenians had exten-
sive familial networks stretching over vast areas, including Europe. These
networks put them at a more advantageous position vis-à-vis the Muslim
merchants. State building is also partly responsible for the overwhelming
dominance of non-Muslims in Ottoman commercial life. An ever-expanding
bureaucracy and army provided attractive job opportunities to young and
talented Turkish Muslims. As we know, it was mostly the Turkish Muslims
who could have good careers in the bureaucracy and in the army. Available
statistics support this fact. For example, according to an official census of
I˙ stanbul conducted in 1886, out of the 24,112 people in government ser-
vices, 22,984 were Muslims.94 The same was true for the army. The officer
corps was mostly Turkish in origin. In terms of societal structure, then, the
political and economic developments of the 19th century brought a clearer
stratification of social classes: the Turks were either state officials or peas-
ants; the Greeks and Armenians were merchants, bankers, and businessmen.
We can also speak of the urban Turks, who were either small-scale artisans
or merchants; the former were hardly affected by the European economic
hegemony, and the latter could survive but were financially weak in the market.
Ironically, the relative strength of the non-Muslim commercial class
served the interests of the state builders in some respects, at least at the core
of the Ottoman state. As subjects from the periphery of the Ottoman state,
these merchants came from communities that could neither assert themselves
politically in state politics, nor threaten the stability of the existing elite
coalition in the capital. This was different from what would have happened
if a Muslim business elite had taken their place. In that case, there would
have been moneyed local notables who might have been able to use their
wealth more easily to mobilize supporters to challenge the state. Of course
this dynamic was different in the homelands of these commercial minorities.
In those places they did have extensive social connections with surrounding
communities and could mobilize them against the state. Hence, the Ottoman
ulama did not have a merchant class with whom to ally themselves.
It should be added here that the extent of economic integration with
Europe should not be exaggerated in either the Ottoman or the Iranian
case. Unlike Egypt, neither Anatolia nor Iran was fully integrated into the
world economy. Per annum increases in foreign trade were below the world
average for Anatolia and Iran: there was a 2.5 percent increase in both as
compared to a 3.5 percent increase in world trade throughout the 19th
century.95 Subsistence farming continued to dominate the agricultural sector of
the economy. No cash crop item dominated the agriculture of either region.
For example, the share of the leading commodity in total export revenues
was 88.9 percent for Egypt, while it was 11 percent and 17.4 percent for
the Ottoman Empire and Iran respectively in 1910–1912.96 As the societies
remained predominantly rural in both cases, they could not offer much aid
to the ulama class, which was rather urban in nature. Ironically, perhaps,
other developments led to even more ruralization of Ottoman society.
Throughout the 19th century, the Ottomans, like the Qajars in Iran,
faced quite a hostile international environment. Unlike the Qajars, how-
ever, the Ottomans had to deal with secessionist ethnic groups, such as
Serbians, Montenegrins, Albanians, Bulgarians, Arabs, Armenians, and
Greeks. The superior Ottoman forces suppressed almost all uprisings suc-
cessfully, but the intervention of the great powers, especially Russia, on
behalf of the secessionists tore away the Ottoman territories one by one.
Added to these territorial losses, the Ottomans lost territories to Russia and
the Austro-Hungarian Empire throughout the century. By the beginning of
the First World War, the Ottomans had lost almost all of their territories in
the Balkans, except the coastal plain between Edirne and I˙ stanbul. In the
Caucasus, the Russians advanced deep into East Anatolia. Moreover, the
Ottomans lost all of their territories in North Africa to France, Italy, and Brit-
ain. What remained in the hands of the Ottomans were Anatolia and the
Arabic provinces of Iraq, Greater Syria, and Hijaz on the Arabian Peninsula.
Although conscription was extended to non-Muslims in the mid-19th cen-
tury, most Christians preferred to pay exemption taxes. Thus the Turkish
peasantry of Anatolia had to bear the human cost of the expanding army
and protracted warfare of the 19th century.97
Apart from the human costs of all these wars, protracted warfare had
another important consequence for Anatolian society. As the Ottomans
seceded from their former territories, especially from the Balkans and the
Caucasus, massive migrations of Muslims fl ocked into the contracting
Ottoman territories. The exact number of migrants is not really known.
The fact that even in contemporary Turkey there are a considerable number
of people who still define themselves as Georgian, Abhaz, Cherkez, or
Bosnian shows how significant it is. The migrations had significant impacts
on the societal structure of Anatolia. The most important impact was that
the migrating Muslims were largely peasants; thus, apart from providing
more human resources for the Ottoman army, the migrations added more
rural character to the Turkish Muslim population.
In short, throughout the 19th century, the Ottoman society seriously
weakened as a result of these developments. This means that those ulama
who wanted to oppose the Ottoman project of modern sovereign state
building did not have the option of approaching the masses and creating
a social base upon which they could survive independently from the state.
This option would not have worked for several reasons. The first reason was
the dual structure of Ottoman religious life. As described before, the Sufi
orders were very strong in the Ottoman Empire and had already, together
with another group, the hocas, taken into their own hands the control of the
religious lives of the masses. More importantly, perhaps, the Sunni ulama did
not have the option that was open to their Iranian colleagues. Comparatively
successful state building in the Ottoman Empire, and the way the Ottoman
economy integrated with the capitalist world economy, simply wiped out
the possible societal forces the ulama could have used as allies against the
Ottoman state. As we will see in the next chapter, the First World War also
took its toll on not only the ulama, but also the Sufi sheikhs.
NOTES
1. For a description of the religious life in Anatolia at the time of the rise of the
Ottomans, see Köprülü (1993) and Kafadar (1995). It must be noted that
sheikhs and ulama (religious scholars) have historically represented two alter-
native, but not necessarily competing, approaches to Islam. Sunni Islam to a
large extent embraced Sufism while Shi’a Islam did not. It is beyond the scope
of this study to elaborate on this difference between Sunni Islam and Shi’a
Islam. For the sake of this study, it must be noted that Sunni Islam has kept
its institutional pluralism while Shi’a Islam could not. Whether this difference
between Sunni and Shi’a Islam affected the Ottomans and the Safavids in
devising their policies toward religion needs further scholarly inquiry.
2. See Ocak (1996). One should bear Paul Wittek’s “Ghazi State” thesis under
this light. See Wittek (1938). Like many other rulers of the period, the early
Ottoman rulers proudly used the religious epithet “ghazi” to attract the Sufi
sheikhs and dervishes to their sides.
3. See Köprülü (1993).
4. Ocak (1992:90–91). Geyikli Baba’s tomb in Bursa is still open to visitors. See
www.bursadakultur.com.
5. Geyikli Baba has a tomb in Bursa still open to visits. See www.bursadakultur.
com.
6. Köprülü (1992:107) and Öngören (2000:24). For more information on Abdal
Musa, see Yı ldı rı m (2001).
7. For more examples, see Yı ldı rı m (2001).
8. Özköse (2003:257).
9. The Ottoman governor of Budin built a tomb for him in 1543. The tomb
was destroyed during the Second World War. It was restored by the Turkish
Ministry of Culture in 1997. Two presidents, those of Turkey and Hungary,
attended the opening ceremony. Akyol (1999:14–15).
10. Yı ldı rı m (2001:104).
11. I˙ nalcı k (1973:194).
12. The following discussion is from Öngören (2000).
13. As an illustration see Faroqhi’s (1976) discussion of the zawiyah of Hajji
Bektash. Faroqhi shows that successive sultans endowed the tax revenues of
certain villages to that zawiyah.
14. Öngören (2000:266–267) gives various examples of tombs, mosques, and
zawiyahs in different parts of the empire, from Baghdad to I˙ stanbul, built by
Suleyman I.
15. Barkan (1942).
16. Layish (1987:78).
17. For how this policy was pursued in the Balkans, see Antov (2006).
18. Yı ldı rı m (2001:126).
19. Zhelyazkova (no date).
20. I˙ nalcı k (1973:166–167).
21. Repp (1972) discusses the hierarchical system of the Ottoman religious institu-
tions in rather more detail. See also Zilfi (1988).
22. Alkan (2000).
23. Zilfi (1988:26).
24. Chambers (1972).
25. I˙ nalcı k (1978:44).
26. Gellner (1972:308–309).
27. See Zilfi (1986, 1988).
28. Beydilli (2001).
29. On the decline of the Ottoman Empire, see I˙ nalcı k (1977, 1978, 1980) and
Quataert (2000).
30. Quataert (2000:46). The Karaosmanog˘ lu family ruled in the west of Anatolia,
the Çapanoğlu in central Anatolia, the Canikli Ali Paşaoğ lu in northeast
Anatolia, Ali Paşa in Epirus, the Osman Pasvanog˘ lu family in the region from
the lower Danube to Belgrade, the Süleyman Paşa family in Baghdad, the Jalili
family in Mosul, and Ali Bey in Egypt.
31. I˙ nalcı k (1977).
32. Zilfi (1988:28).
33. I˙ nalcı k (1977) points out that some of the ayan families had names such as
Kadizade or Muallimzade, which imply that the family’s origin lay among the
ulama.
34. Quataert (2000:34).
35. In the words of Şahin (2003:20), “There is a consensus among the Ottoman
historians that the chief beneficiaries of the life-term tax farming system were
military and bureaucratic officials, high-level ulema and provincial military
officials such as beylerbeyis . . . The participants of the provincial auctions
were socially heterogeneous. The majority of new malikâne holders were
Janissaries, former sancakbeyis, and other members of the military orders
having the titles vizier, Paşa, and ağa as well as local notables who bore the
title -zâde, the members of local ulema recognized by the title seyyid, şeyh,
müderris, and lastly, the members of civil bureaucracy or kalemiye.”
36. Repp (1972:31).
37. During this second Russian war, the Ottomans had to fight against the Aus-
tria-Habsburg Empire as well.
38. Before Selim III (1789–1807), Mahmud I (1730–1754), Mustafa III (1757–
1774), and Abdülhamit I (1774–1789) also introduced military reforms, but
in very limited areas of the military. Selim III’s military reforms encompassed
the whole Ottoman army.
39. An account of this period can be found in any history book on the late Otto-
man Empire. I benefited from I˙ nalcı k (1978:49–51), Ortaylı (2003), and
Özdeğer (no date). For a very detailed account, see Shaw (1977).
40. For more detail on the construction of the new army and the problems encoun-
tered, see Levy (1971).
41. Grant (2002:9). Grant (2002) historically traces the transformation of the
Ottoman Empire from a self-sufficient producer to a dependent consumer of
military armaments.
42. The most detailed account of Ottoman reforms in bureaucracy is Findley
(1980). See also Weiker (1968).
43. See Shaw (1977) on military reforms, Shaw (1975) on state finance, Findley
(1980) on administration, and Berkes (1999) on education and the legal system.
44. The previous sultans had opened a very limited number of military engineering
schools. For Ottoman reforms in education, see Somel (2010).
45. See Somel (2010).
46. Somel (2010:173).
47. I˙ hsanog˘ lu (2010:647–709).
48. For a detailed account of how Darülfünun came into being, see I˙ hsanog˘ lu.
I˙ hsanog˘ lu (2010) gives many examples of how religious scholars served as
administrators and teachers in the university.
49. Shaw (1977:118–119).
50. My discussion ignores minority courts, administered by religious minorities,
and consular courts. For consular courts, see Kayaog˘ lu (2010a).
51. See the discussion in Otacı (2004:229–249).
52. Even Mustafa Reşit Paşa, one of the most prominent Ottoman statesmen in
the continuing building of the legal system, is said to have taken Ahmet Cev-
det, a brilliant young religious scholar, as his protégé so that he could learn
about Islamic law in order not to enter into confl icts with the ulama. This
anecdote is from Shaw (1977:64).
53. See the discussion in Yurdakul (2008:270–291).
54. Until that time, the sheikh al Islam had undertaken his duties at home.
55. The office of the sheikh al Islam had the directorate of Inspection of Religious
Endowments (Evkaf-ı Hümayun Müfettişliği Dairesi), the Administrative
Council of Properties of the Orphans (Meclis-i I˙ dare-i Emval i Eytam), and
the Administration of Funds of the Orphans (Eytam Sandı kları Şubesi). See
the first volume of Albayrak (1996:41–46).
56. On the transformation of the office of the sheikh al Islam, see Cihan (2004),
Özkul (2005), Yakut (2005), and Yurdakul (2008).
57. See Kahraman, Galitekin, and Dadaş (1998:575).
58. For the biographies of sheikh al Islams, see Kahraman, Galitekin, and Dadaş
(1998).
59. Somel (2010:61).
60. Among legal historians there is debate about the extent to which these codes
were compatible with the Islamic law. For a review of this debate on different
codes, see Otacı (2004).
61. On the life and achievements of Ahmet Cevdet, see Mardin (2009).
62. Otacı (2004:213).
63. Mardin (2009:160–167) discusses fourteen religious scholars involved in the
preparation of the Majalla.
64. Both Berkes (1999) and Ortaylı (2003) note this dualistic structure that emerged
after the Tanzimat reforms. It continued to survive until the end of the empire
in 1918 and was abolished by the more radical reforms undertaken by Atatürk.
Berkes (1999) also provides a good discussion of the reforms in the context of
the secularization of education and the legal system in Turkey.
65. Anderson (1959:22).
66. Akgündüz (2004:23–28, 44–49).
67. As I noted, religious foundations financed the theology schools and their stu-
dents. The Ministry of Religious Endowments did not confiscate the founda-
tions, but instead took control of them. Thus, the surplus revenues went to the
state, not to the ulama.
68. Akgündüz (2004:32–33). The exam, known as Kurra imtihani, began in the
1850s, almost seventy years before Reza Khan introduced the same system for
theology students in Iran.
69. See Davison (1963) and Shaw (1977:119).
70. Otacı (2004:238).
71. Cihan (2004: 194–195).
72. See Table A-1 in the appendix. See also Feyziog˘ lu (2010).
73. All three names served as sheikh al Islam. See their biographies in Kahraman,
Galitekin, and Dadaş (1998).
74. The biographical information about these names can be found in the second
and third volumes of Mardin (1966).
75. See the first volume of I˙ hsanoğlu (2010:357).
76. See I˙ hsanog˘ lu (2010).
77. See the second volume of I˙ hsanoğlu (2010: 547–555).
78. For the biographies see Mardin (1966).
79. See Somel (2010:357:361).
80. Akgündüz (2004:156–159) provides the curricula of the seminary schools and
the state schools of all levels.
81. See Somel (2010:54).
82. This discussion relies on Somel (2010:51–54).
83. See Cihan (2004:243–251).
84. The following account can be found in greater detail in Mardin (2009).
85. Modeled after the French Academy of Sciences, the Consultative Council
operated between 1851 and 1862. The council was established to translate
and produce scientific works and write textbooks for the future Ottoman
university.
86. Albert Hourani uses the term “notable politics” to refer to politics in post-
Ottoman Middle East states. See Hourani (1993).
87. This description is true even today.
88. See Keddie (1980:122), Foran (1991:799), and Quataert (2000:127).
89. Yapp (1987:30).
90. Keyder (1987:22).
91. Cited in Buğra (1994:39).
92. Buğra (1994:5).
93. Keyder (1987).
94. Shaw (1977).
95. In contrast, Egypt’s foreign trade increased by 4 percent per annum above the
world average. See Yapp (1987:2).
96. Pamuk (1987:146).
97. It should not be surprising that the most heartbreaking Turkish folk songs
are stories of soldiers who went away to war but never returned. “Yemen
Türküsü” and “Çanakkale I˙ çinde” are famous songs in this category.
3 Accommodationist State
Secularization in
Republican Turkey
The previous chapter showed that secularization of the state, defined in the
introduction chapter as establishing absolute state sovereignty, began in
Turkey in the early 19th century. This chapter describes how state secularity
was fully established in the early 20th century and explains why it accom-
modated religion. The chapter argues that two factors are critical to the
latter outcome: first, the reformers were consolidating their powers in the
midst of ongoing intra-elite competition, and, second, religious community
was acquiescent toward the new regime.
The chapter first provides an account of how the state secularizers came
to power in Turkey. This account will show that the new regime was formed
in the midst of an ongoing elite competition. The chapter then discusses
how state secularization was accommodative, which also illustrates how
religious community was by and large acquiescent to the new regime. The
chapter finally discusses why the state adopted an accommodationist model
of state secularity in Turkey.
STRATEGIC CONTEXT: THE COMING TO POWER

OF MUSTAFA KEMAL ATATÜRK
In Turkey, state secularization took place in the midst of a stiff intra-elite

competition for political power. Even though this competition was fully
unleashed in the aftermath of the independence war, 1919–1922, it origi-
nated in the late 1900s. If a date is to be specified, it started on July 3, 1908.1
On this particular date, Ahmet Niyazi, an officer in the Ottoman army,
mutinied with his four hundred soldiers in Resne, a Macedonian town, in
protest against the reigning sultan, Abdülhamit II. Other officers such as
Enver in Tikveş and Eyüp Sabri in Ohri followed Ahmet Niyazi’s lead. The
officers, soon to be joined by the masses in several critical towns, demanded
that Abdülhamit II should reinstate the constitution of 1876, which he had
suspended thirty years prior. Unable to suppress the mutinies and stop the
protests, Abdülhamit II conceded on July 23, 1908.
A clandestine organization, the Committee of Union and Progress, or
the CUP, was behind the constitutional revolution against the sultan. The
committee immediately established a political party in October 1908 and
participated in the parliamentary elections held in December 1908. Even
though the committee failed to win a majority of seats in parliament, it soon
became the most infl uential political organization in the empire thanks to its
members’ positions in the military and civilian bureaucracy.
It would take some time for the committee to consolidate its power, how-
ever. The first real challenge was a rebellion instigated by military officers,
who had recently been purged by the committee, and religious students. The
rebellion started on April 12, 1909, when the soldiers of the Fourth Military
Hunter division in I˙ stanbul jailed their superiors and surrounded parlia-
ment. Clerics, religious students, and other discontented groups soon joined
the rebellion. The rebels demanded from parliament and the sultan that
the religious law be implemented, that the prime minister and the minister
of war should resign, and that the military officials purged from the army
should be reinstated.
The rebels soon went on a rampage, killing several high-level officials,
including one minister, and attacking the office of the CUP in I˙ stanbul and
the journals affiliated with the committee. In I˙ stanbul, the rebels started a
vicious hunt for the committee members. The leaders of the committee had
to fl ee I˙ stanbul to save their lives.
It took a military unit from Selanik, a stronghold of the committee, to put
down the rebellion on April 19, 1909. By declaring martial law in I˙ stanbul
and establishing military courts to try the rebels, the military in fact put the
committee back in power. Paving the way for the committee’s monopoliza-
tion of power, parliament deposed Abdülhamit II on April 27 and enthroned
Mehmet V with much reduced power.
Even though the opposition regrouped and united under a political party
in October 1911, the committee scored an overwhelming victory in the
1912 elections.2 It had to face another challenge, however, this time from
the ranks of the army, the most secure power base of the committee. A junta,
formed in June 1912,3 forced the CUP-controlled government to resign
and dissolved parliament in July 1912. Conveniently for the committee, in
October 1912, the Balkan States united and attacked the Ottoman Empire.
The short war ended in disaster for the latter. Nearly all of its European
lands were lost, and the Balkan armies reached the outskirts of the capital.
This uncertain political environment gave a priceless opportunity to the
committee to take political power once again through staging a counter-coup
in January 1913. A new cabinet was formed that was fully under the control
of the committee. The military successes in the Second Balkan War simply
boosted the committee’s power and popularity both in the capital and in the
provinces.
From the very beginning, the committee also had to solve serious internal
problems. Because of its secret central decision-making body, the committee
Accommodationist State Secularization in Republican Turkey 53
did not have strong internal cohesion. Even the military members of the
committee were divided into different cliques.4 In 1913, the committee
finally settled its internal disputes through a coalition of three strong men
representing the most important cliques: Talat, Cemal, and Enver.
The beginning of this triumvirate’s rule truly marked the beginning of the
CUP’s rule in the Ottoman Empire. Neither the sultan nor any other group
would be able to challenge its rule in the next five years. The First World
War broke out in July 1914, which helped the CUP extend its power further
throughout the empire. They purged suspect military officials from the army
and appointed their loyalists to important offices. The war effort brought
further rapprochement between the masses and the CUP, the latter forming
numerous national and local nonstate organizations, clubs, and charities to
encourage the masses to contribute to the Ottoman war effort.5
The Ottoman Empire joined the Axis powers in November 1914 and
was defeated after an exhausting war. The armistice signed on October 30,
1918, also ended the rule of the CUP. The leaders of the CUP left the country
on November 1, 1918, and four days later the CUP dissolved itself. It was
a formal, not an informal, end. In the meantime, British and French forces
began to occupy key Turkish cities in Anatolia and East Thrace to imple-
ment the terms of the armistice.
The immediate local resistance to these occupations highlights the impor-
tance of the already existing grassroots organizations of the dissolved CUP.
Among the activities undertaken by the unionists, the opening of Müdafaa-i
Hukuk (the Defense of the Rights) organizations in many parts of Turkey
became foundations for local militia forces, famously called Kuvayi Milliye, to
resist occupation. The military officials of the regions also helped organize
them and distributed ammunitions from their stocks. 6 A clandestine
organization, Karakol Cemiyeti, operated in I˙ stanbul to help military and
civilian officials escape from I˙ stanbul, which was occupied by the Allied forces,
and join in the liberation movement. Karakol Cemiyeti also raided the
foreign military supplies and sent them to the army. More important, military
forces from the Ottoman army continued to operate, despite the Armistice
agreement’s mandate that they be demobilized. These scattered forces
numbered 110,000–130,000 even after demobilizations during November
1918.7 Many military officials with unionist backgrounds refused or delayed
the demobilization of their troops, again showing the apparent depth and
autonomy of the social roots of this state-building movement.
Even though the unionists provided the leadership cadre in the resistance
movement, they also worked tirelessly to get the support of Sufi orders
and religious scholars. Recognizing this, Binnaz Toprak says, “The War of
National Independence was fought with the aid of local clerics in Anatolian
towns and villages, as well as through heavy use of Islamic themes in the
nationalists’ publicly declared aims—much more so, in fact, than official
historiography would later admit.”8 Many other studies—for example,
Dankwart Rustow9—provide interesting examples of how various religious
figures participated in the War of Independence. There were considerable
numbers of religious clerics, according to a calculation around 11 percent,10
in the first parliament, which led the war. In order to counter the sheikh al
Islam’s fatwa against the independence war led from Ankara, 147 members of
the clergy issued a religious fatwa in favor of the war of liberation. Religious
intellectuals, like Mehmet Akif and Eşref Edip, preached in the mosques to
mobilize the people.11
It soon became evident that local militias could not liberate the country
unless united. Mustafa Kemal played a critical role in this process of
unification. Mustafa Kemal was born into an insignificant family in 1881 in
the city of Selanik in today’s Greece. His father, Ali Rı za, was a low-ranking
clerk and lumber trader, and his mother, Zübeyde, was a housewife. He
started his education in a local school tied to a mosque but soon transferred
to a private school, Şemsi Efendi Mektebi. At age of twelve, he entered
the military school, studying at Secondary School of Military in Selanik
(1893–1896), High School of Military in Manastı r (1896–1899), Military
College in I˙ stanbul (1899–1902) and finally Military Academy in I˙ stanbul
(1902–1905).
Mustafa Kemal thus grew up in the same milieu that nurtured many of
his generation into arch-opponents of the reigning sultan, Abdülhamit II.
Both during his student years in I˙ stanbul and after his graduation in Damascus,
he was involved in anti-regime clandestine groups. However, when he was
on duty in Damascus (1905–1907), he was far away from the real centers
of anti-Abdülhamit activities in the Balkan territories of the empire. He
returned to one such center, Manastı r, and was stationed there from 1907
to 1909. But it was too late. The Union and Progress Party was already well
established there. Therefore, Mustafa Kemal could not place himself in the
leadership cadre.
Mustafa Kemal first fought in the Trablusgarp War and then in the
Balkan Wars. But he truly distinguished himself in the First World War. He
was the commander of a military unit that halted the advance of the British
land forces in the Dardanelles. His heroic and successful management
even earned him a promotion to the rank of colonel. After the Dardanelles,
Mustafa Kemal was first sent to the Eastern Front and then to the Southern
Front. By the time the Ottoman Empire signed the Armistice of Mondros
in October 1918, he was the commander of the 7th Army in Halep, Syria.
On November 13, 1918, he returned to I˙ stanbul and began to work
in the Ministry of War. He stayed in I˙ stanbul for six months. By the time
he landed in Samsun on May 19, 1919, as the 9th Army inspector, local
resistance organizations and militias had long been formed and fighting for
independence. More importantly, several Ottoman commanders, such as
Ali Fuat and Kazı m Karabekir, were already in Anatolia, planning to initi-
ate a national struggle. Mustafa Kemal set to work by issuing a historic
document, known as Amasya Tamimi, in June 1919. Joined by four other
Ottoman generals, Rauf Orbay, Refet Bele, Ali Fuat, and Kazı m Karabekir,
Mustafa Kemal unequivocally declared that the country was in grave
danger (Article 1) and that the I˙ stanbul government could not undertake its
responsibilities (Article 2). The document also stated that the nation needed
a national council, and it called for a national congress to be held in Sivas.
First, several regional congresses, such as I˙ zmir, Nazilli, Trabzon, Erzurum,
and Redd-i Ilhak, and then a national congress in Sivas, united all local
resistance organizations. This unity found its institutional manifestation in
the opening of the Turkish Grand National Assembly (TGNA) in Ankara
on April 23, 1920.
The sultan’s government in I˙ stanbul, fully controlled by anti-unionists,
would not relinquish power without a struggle. It managed to instigate more
than twenty local rebellions throughout Anatolia against the Mustafa Kemal–
led Ankara government. With no standing army of its own, the Ankara
government relied on militia commanders, the most notable being Çerkez
Ethem, to suppress these rebellions.12
The first military victory came in the Eastern Front against the Armenians.
Kazı m Karabekir, appointed by the TGNA as the commander of the Eastern
Front, led the Turkish forces and scored several victories, imposing upon the
Armenians the Treaty of Gumru in December 1920. On the Western Front,
Mustafa Kemal led the Turkish forces and scored two decisive victories
against the Greeks. An armistice signed on October 11, 1922, thus ended the
Turkish War of Independence.
In addition to military victories against the Greeks and Armenians, local
resistance and diplomacy also contributed to clearing the country of foreign
forces. The French forces left cities such as Urfa, Antep, and Maraş, for they
were unable to crush local resistance in these cities. Through diplomacy, the
French and Italian forces also left Anatolia without any engagement with
the regular Turkish army. Finally, it was through diplomacy that the foreign
forces, including the British, left I˙ stanbul.
The Turkish Grand National Assembly abolished the sultanate on
November 1 of the same year and participated as the sole representative of
Turkey in Lausanne Congress, which met to negotiate the peace agreement.
The elimination of this external threat completed one struggle, but it started
a new internal struggle, particularly among the ex-CUP military and civilian
officials.
Even during the War of Independence, Mustafa Kemal faced challenges
to his leadership.13 Able to instigate successive rebellions, the sultan still
posed a formidable challenge. Unlike his brother, Mehmet Reşat, Vahdettin
was determined to take back the political power the unionists had jealously
guarded since 1913. The sultan must have been quite popular as Mustafa
Kemal put his mission in the beginning as saving the sultan-caliph. Enver
Paşa could also pose a challenge. In fact several former unionists planned
to bring Enver Paşa back to Turkey to replace Mustafa Kemal Paşa as the
leader of the liberation. This plan failed, however, because of a very timely
Turkish victory over the Greek forces. The victory boosted the popularity
and consolidated the leadership of Mustafa Kemal Paşa. More importantly,
a good number of the deputies, including some former CUP members,
formed an opposition group against the leadership of Mustafa Kemal Paşa
in the first parliament. Mustafa Kemal successfully eliminated this group in
the first post–War of Independence elections held in early 1923.14
The popularity of Mustafa Kemal Paşa as the leader of the war of libera-
tion helped his group, reorganized as the Republican People’s Party (RPP),
win the elections in 1923 very easily. Only three of Mustafa Kemal’s opponents
in the first parliament were reelected. The new Turkish parliament declared
Turkey a republic on October 23, 1923. On the same day, Mustafa Kemal
Paşa was elected as the president of the republic.15
The opposition to Mustafa Kemal continued even in the second parliament,
but now he faced even more formidable enemies. In the summer of 1924,
Rauf Orbay and Refet Pele took the lead in organizing an opposition party.
Kazı m Karabekir and Ali Fuat Cebesoy joined the opposition. All these
individuals were the first leaders of the war of liberation and commanded
great reputation and respect in the army. The increasing power of Mustafa
Kemal and their feeling of alienation in the new state must have pushed
them to the opposition. I˙ stanbul bureaucracy and media, which were losing
their privileged position with the shift of power to Ankara, stood behind the
new opposition.16 The party, named the Progressivist Republican Party
(PRP), was founded on November 17, 1924, and further strengthened by
the resignations from parliament of RPP members. Alarmingly, perhaps,
military officials constituted a larger percentage in PRP than in RPP.17
Yet Mustafa Kemal and his clique already held the key positions in the
state. Two events gave them the necessary condition to eliminate this new
opposition. First, a Kurdish rebellion, led by Sheikh Said, broke out in
February 1925. As the rebellion became more serious, the government was
granted extraordinary powers. The PRP and the newspapers supporting the
party were closed down in June 1925. One year later, in July 1926, an assas-
sination attempt on Mustafa Kemal by former CUP members was foiled
in I˙ zmir. The act was interpreted as an attack on the new republic.18 The
government, led by I˙ smet Paşa, ordered the formation of an extraordinary
court to punish the aggressors. PRP deputies, among them Ali Fuat Cebesoy,
Kazı m Karabekir, Refet Bele, Cafer Tayyar Eğilmez, and many former CUP
members, were jailed. Nineteen of them were hanged. Some, such as Rauf
Orbay, were jailed. Others, most notably the first leaders of the war of
liberation, such as Cebesoy and Karabekir, were released but marginalized
thereafter. The outcome of the trial was the exile of all these military leaders
and ex-CUP members from politics during the lifetime of Mustafa Kemal.
It is illustrative to look at the brilliant career of Kazı m Karabekir, the
most formidable of Mustafa Kemal’s challengers. Karabekir was born into a
noble family, Karamanlis, the most formidable opponents of the Ottomans
in Anatolia. He was the son of an Ottoman general: following his father’s
footsteps, Karabekir went to the military schools. He was the top student
in his class, one of his classmates was Mustafa Kemal. Karabekir was one
of the founders of the Union and Progress Party. He took part in successful
military operations. Finally, he joined the First World War. His military
missions were in Iran, the Dardanelles, Iraq, and the Caucasus. Following
the Armistice of Mondros, he was offered the highest position in the armed
forces, the chief of staff of armed forces. He refused the offer and asked for
a position in Anatolia. He eventually went to Erzurum, where he could
mobilize his troops. He joined the four other military officers in signing
the Amasya declaration, which officially started the War of Independence.
Karabekir also pioneered to unite local resistance organizations in the East
under the Erzurum congress. He also secured the membership of Mustafa
Kemal in this congress.
During the War of Independence, Karabekir served as the commander
of armed forces in the east. He fought against the Armenians, defeated
them, and secured the eastern border by signing a treaty with Armenia.
Then he forwarded troops and military equipment to the Western Front,
where Mustafa Kemal was in command. In the first election after the War of
Independence, he traveled with Mustafa Kemal to promote his Republican
People’s Party. According to his diaries, he felt increasingly marginalized by
Mustafa Kemal and people surrounding him.19 He joined the opposition
that materialized in parliament, which came to an end when the party was
closed down. Karabekir was brought to the court for being involved in the
assassination attempt against Mustafa Kemal. He was acquitted, however,
and he withdrew from public and political life and lived a life under police
surveillance. Only after Mustafa Kemal died in 1938 did Karabekir turn
back to political life and become a deputy. He was the chair of parliament
when he died in 1946.
Thus by 1927 the political future seemed secure for Mustafa Kemal and
his clique. That is also the year he delivered his famous speech, Nutuk, in the
party congress. Any reading of this long speech delivered on October 15–20,
1927, will show that Mustafa Kemal’s authority was not well established
until 1927.20 Later becoming the official Turkish historiography, the speech
discredited not only the sultan in I˙ stanbul, but also his former colleagues,
who actually fought in the War of Independence, and emphasized “his own
role and the novelty and originality of the national movement he had led.”21
Seemingly secure in power, Mustafa Kemal and his regime faced yet
another opposition in 1930. The emergence of such an opposition once
again showed the fragility of the political coalition around Mustafa Kemal.22
Ironically, though, Mustafa Kemal personally encouraged the formation of an
opposition party, Free Republican Party, to be led by his close associate. The
new party attracted more support from the public than it was supposed to
attract, and it was subsequently closed down. After this attempt the political
regime in Turkey started another round of purges and closures: one of the
few remaining independent organizations, Türk Ocakları (Turkish Houses),
was also incorporated into the party as Halk Evleri (Public Houses) in 1931.
In 1933, I˙ stanbul University, one of the few places not subordinated to the
regime, was closed down and reopened in the name of university reform,
with faculty unsupportive of Atatürk reforms being purged.
Even an apparently harmless yet independent women’s organization was
not left alone. Nezihe Muhittin’s Turkish Women’s Federation was closed
down by the new regime in 1935. Nezihe Muhittin originally imagined the
federation as a women’s party. She made an application in 1923 even before
Mustafa Kemal’s own party. However, Nezihe Muhittin was refused on
the grounds that women were not granted political rights in Turkey. Instead
she established the Turkish Women’s Federation with female enfranchisement
as an objective. The federation reached 1,000 members and four branches
by 1935. One major success of the federation was to host the 12th Inter-
national Women’s Congress in I˙ stanbul in 1935, in which she complained
about the regime in Turkey to the participants. Refusing to be part of the
political regime and acting independently, the federation was closed down
in 1935 by the state.23
Thus ended the intense intra-elite competition in Turkey. It is worth empha-
sizing once more that no opponent of Mustafa Kemal enjoyed a societal power
base, as their infl uence was rooted in their positions in the state apparatus.
Therefore, the elimination of potential rivals did not lead to massive social
protests. Unlike Russia, the struggle did not turn into a brutal civil war, but
rather remained by and large an intra-elite business. In the midst of it, state
secularization took place. As I will discuss, this nature of regime building in
Turkey affected state secularization. Before that discussion, however, let me
first elaborate how state secularization was accommodationist in Turkey.
ACCOMMODATIVE STATE SECULARIZATION IN TURKEY
In Turkey, state secularization accommodated religion. The state took over

critical public functions from religious community, abolished the religious
law, denounced it as a source of legislation, and characterized itself as a
secular state. Thus the state firmly established its absolute sovereignty.
Secularizing reforms also incorporated religious institutions into the state.
The incorporation found a distinct institutional dimension: the directorate
of religious affairs under the office of the prime minister. The administration
of all religious places such as mosques and the appointment of personnel for
these religious places were put under the jurisdiction of the directorate. The
offices of religious counsels and their personnel in every town were linked
to the directorate.
It is essential to note that the jurisdiction of the directorate of religious
affairs included not only the administration of religious places, but also the
enlightenment of the masses regarding Islam. In this vein, some research
groups previously under the office of the sheikh al Islam, such as Heyet-i
I˙ tfaiyye, Tedkikat and Te’lifat-i I˙ slamiyye, Heyet-i Müşavere, and Tedkik-i
Mesahif, were tied to the Directorate of Religious Affairs.24 As regards activities
in this genre, the directorate financed some religious scholarly projects: for
example, Muhammed Hamdi Yazı r wrote nine volumes of Qur’an interpre-
tation that were published between 1935 and 1939; Mehmet Akif Ersoy
was contracted to write a translation of the Qur’an but did not complete
it—instead, Muhammed Hamdi Yazı r translated the Qur’an into Turkish;
Babanzade Ahmed Naim translated a collection of the hadiths into Turkish
in twelve volumes with commentary, known in Turkish as Sahih-i Buhari
Muhtasarı Tecrid-i Sarih Tercümesi ve Şerhi. Ömer Nasuhi Bilmen, another
famous religious scholar, wrote a practical religious guide, Büyük İslam
İlmihali, and an important work of jurisprudence in six volumes, Hukuk-u
İslamiyye ve İstihalat-i Fıkhıyye Kamusu, for the directorate. The state also
took control of the education of religious officials who were to become its
employees. The Ministry of Education opened a theology faculty at I˙ stanbul
University, as well as thirty I˙ mam-Hatip schools to educate prayer leaders
and preachers for the mosques.
By incorporating religious institutions into its body, the Turkish state in
fact assumed the provision of religious services in its territories. To under-
take this task, the state embraced the religious community and offered its
members positions in its institutions. Biographical information about late
Ottoman religious scholars’ careers in Republican Turkey testifies to this.25
Sadı k Albayrak, in his five-volume Son Dönem Osmanlı Uleması (The Last
Ottoman Ulema), documents approximately 2,840 short biographies of late
Ottoman religious scholars.26 Among these biographies, only 161 of them
give specific information about the career of the subject after the closure of
the religious schools and courts. From these biographies, we can infer the
general state policy with regard to the individual members of religious
communities in Turkey. The state either employed and dispersed them
throughout the state apparatus or accepted them as retired officials and
paid their pensions.27 Of these 161 religious scholars, 21 were employed in
the Ministry of Justice, 12 in the Ministry of Education, 52 in the Directorate
of Religious Affairs, 7 in the university, 8 in the other state offices, and
51 were retired on a pension; 3 of the religious scholars left the country,
4 faced trial, and 3 received no job or regular payment. Furthermore, the law
that closed the madrasahs also stipulated that the students of the seminaries
were to be transferred to state schools under the control of the Ministry of
Education.28
If we look at tens of biographies, available from other general sources
such as Türkiye İslam Ansiklopedisi (Turkish Encyclopedia of Islam), we
see the same picture. It is illustrative to visit some of these biographies here.
A prominent example is Arapkirli Hüseyin Avni, who was born in 1864.
He started his madrasah education in Arapkir, Malatya, and pursued his
studies in I˙ stanbul. In 1887 he passed the prestigious exam of the office of
the sheikh al Islam and became a general instructor (dersiam) in mosques. In
the next fifteen years he offered public religious classes in Beyazı d Mosque
in I˙ stanbul. In 1902 he was promoted to the professorship of theology at
Darülfünun in I˙ stanbul and thereafter assumed various important positions.
When the madrasahs were closed down in 1924, he was the head of a pres-
tigious research institute, Darü’l Hikmetü’l I˙ slamiye. During the republican
period, Hüseyin Avni was appointed to the Faculty of Theology in Darülfünun
as a professor of hadith, history of hadith, and theology.29
Another example is Bekir Hakkı Yener, who was born in 1882. He
graduated from Medresetül Kudat, which was established by the office of the
sheikh al Islam to train religious judges. He also passed the general instructor-
ship (dersiam) exam and became a general religious instructor in 1914.
When the madrasahs were closed down, he was entitled to a retirement
pension. During the republican period, he served as a lawyer in I˙ stanbul for
three years and worked in the office of I˙ stanbul’s religious consulate and in
the Directorate of Religious Affairs.30
Ali Himmet Berki’s career shows even more clearly that the Turkish state
welcomed the graduates of madrasahs into the state service. He was born
in 1882 into an ulama family and graduated from Medresetül Kudat. He
worked in the office of the sheikh al Islam and served as a religious judge in
Tokat, Amasya, and Ankara. During the republican period, he moved to the
judiciary, having served in various courts in I˙ stanbul and Eskişehir. In 1933
he became the head of the second division of the Court of Cessation and
served there until his retirement in 1950. During his tenure, he published
several books: one, Hatemül Enbiya, Hz. Muhammed ve Hayatı, was about
the life of the Prophet of Islam, and the other, İslam Hukukunda Feraiz ve
İntikal, was on Islamic jurisprudence. Two of his sons, Osman Fazil Berki
and Mehmet Şakir Berki, became professors of law, and the third, Sadettin
Berki, became a judge.31
Hasan Hüsnü Erdem’s career paints a similar picture. He was born in 1889
and graduated from Darül Hilafe Madrasah, which was later converted to
an I˙ mam-Hatip school during the republican period. He also passed the
dersiam exam and became I˙ stanbul’s general religious instructor. After the
madrasahs were closed down in 1924, Hasan Hüsnü became a teacher
in the Ministry of Education, teaching various classes ranging from Turkish
to sociology in secondary, high, and I˙ mam-Hatip schools in Antalya. His
teaching in state schools continued until 1944. Between 1944 and 1961,
he was at the Directorate of Religious Affairs and joined the consultation
committee. During his tenure, from 1952 to 1959 he taught at the Faculty
of Theology at Ankara University, which opened in 1949. He became the
director of religious affairs in 1961 and served until 1964.32
Mustafa Fehmi Gerçeker’s biography shows that a political career was
also open to the late Ottoman religious scholars. Born in 1868, he received
his madrasah education in I˙ stanbul and went back to Bursa. He taught at a
madrasah and became a religious counsel in Karacabey, Bursa. He supported
the Ankara government during the independence war and served as the
minister of Sharia and Awqaf. Even though his ministry was closed down in
1924, his membership in parliament continued until the end of his life.
He served as a Bursa representative for thirty years.33
Examples are plentiful of the successful careers carved out by madrasah
graduates. During the republican period, Hüseyin Sadeddin Arel34 became
a lawyer and a composer, Ebu’l Ula Mardin35 a professor of law, Mehmet
Tevfik Gerçeker36 a member of the Council of State and the Constitutional
Court, Abdurrahman Şeref Güzelyazı cı 37 a librarian and a teacher, I˙ smail
Saib Sencer38 a librarian, Ömer Ferit Kam39 a professor of literature, and
Naim Hazı m Onat,40 who suggested the surname Atatürk to Mustafa
Kemal, a parliamentarian and a professor of linguistics.
The biographies of many other late Ottoman religious scholars illustrate
the same point.41 The Turkish state successfully incorporated religious
scholars into the new bureaucracy, the Directorate of Religious Affairs
employing some 5,000 of them,42 and benefitted from their expertise even
in fields such as education and law, which were secularized. It is illustrative
to look at the career of two members of the commission that translated and
adopted the Swiss Civil Code. Such a look also illustrates that the Ottoman
state-building process also produced hybrid figures who pursued both secular
and religious educations.
One of them was Sabri Şakir (Ansay),43 who was born in 1888 in I˙ stanbul.
His father, Şakir Efendi, was a religious teacher. Sabri Şakir first studied in
state schools. After he graduated from high school, he studied in Mekteb-i
Kuzat, the school founded by the office of the sheikh al Islam to train reli-
gious judges. Sabri Şakir served as the religious judge of Boyabat and then
became the head of the Court of First Instance in Iznik. Sabri Şakir was sent
to Germany by the Ministry of Justice to study law, and he stayed for one
year. On his return, he worked as a judge in courts in I˙ stanbul. Sabri Şakir
worked in the commission that translated the Swiss code into Turkish and
then was appointed as professor in the School of Law in Ankara, a school
established in 1925 to train judges for the secular courts of the new republic.
Sabri Şakir taught at the Ankara School of Law until his retirement in 1958
and served as its dean from 1944 to 1946. Sabri also taught Islamic law in
the Ankara Faculty of Theology, founded in Ankara in 1949, and served as
its dean from 1955 to 1957.44
The other was Ebul’ula Mardin, who was born in 1881 in a Balkan town,
Işkodra. He came from a scholarly family, a family that had produced religious
scholars for centuries. His grandfather, Ömer şevki Efendi, was the reli-
gious counsel (müftü) of Mardin, and his father, Yusuf Sı tkı Efendi, even
rose to the top of religious hierarchy. Ebul’ula studied both under promi-
nent religious scholars of the time and at the School of Law in I˙ stanbul.
After he worked in secular state courts, he became a professor of law at
the I˙ stanbul School of Law in 1910 and also taught classes at the I˙ stanbul
School of Administration. In addition to serving as a deputy in the Ottoman
parliament from 1914 to 1920, Ebul’ula also worked in the office of the
sheikh al Islam, first as a secretary and then as a counsel. During the repub-
lican period, Ebul’ula Mardin continued to teach in the Faculty of Law and
retired from the university in 1951.
As this process unfolded, seemingly hostile reforms enacted in Turkey
(from the perspective of religious traditionalists), such as the bans on the
wearing of the fez and religious dress, and on the use of various religious
suffixes before names, effectively eliminated outward differences among
what was now a diverse mix of nonreligious state officials and their new
colleagues from the religious institutions.
In another act the Turkish state likewise sought to consolidate its
monopoly over religious services. By 1925, there were many Sufi orders in
Turkey; they had their own mosques, special houses for praying, and their
own understanding of Islam. Thus, the establishment of the Directorate was
simply the first step in incorporating religious institutions into the state.
Parliament passed a law in November 1925 that banned all Sufi orders.
Thus, the state eliminated its only competitor and became the sole provider
of religious services in Turkey. Like the religious scholars who had worked in
the religious schools and in the Sharia courts, the leaders of the Sufi orders,
the sheikhs, were incorporated into the state apparatus.45 The majority of
Sufi sheikhs did not oppose the state, and some even supported the reforms
and accepted official positions. For example, Abdülbaki Baykara,46 a
Mevlevi sheikh, worked as a teacher; Abdülaziz Bekkine,47 a Nakşi sheikh,
as a prayer leader; Veled Çelebi I˙ zbudak,48 a Mevlevi sheikh, as a parlia-
mentarian from 1923 to 1943; Kenan Rifai,49 a Rifai sheikh, as a teacher;
Hüseyin Nazmi,50 a Nakşi sheikh, as a clerk; Said Özok,51 a Şabani sheikh,
as a clerk in the Ministry of Defense; and Mahmud Sami Ramazanoğlu,52 a
Nakşi sheikh, as a prayer leader and preacher.
However they have been portrayed, the secularization reforms in Turkey
were not hostile to the main religion, Islam. There was no reason to be so. In
contrast to the case in Russia, neither the ulama nor the Sufi sheikhs posed a
direct threat to the new regime. Most, if not all, actively supported the Ankara
government during the independence war. Mustafa Kemal himself took the
lead in securing the support of religious community. As the chair of the first
parliament, for example, Mustafa Kemal picked two sheikhs as his deputies:
one, Abdülhalim Efendi, was a Mevlevi sheikh, and the other, Cemaleddin
Efendi, was a Bektaşi. To secure their support for the War of Independence,
Mustafa Kemal also sent personal letters to numerous Sufi sheikhs.53
Religious community in Turkey did not figure in any opposition to
Mustafa Kemal. For example, according to a calculation, out of 355 depu-
ties in the parliament that led the War of Independence, 41 were religious
figures. While only 2 religious figures sided with Mustafa Kemal’s oppo-
nents, 20 religious figures were among his supporters. The remaining 19
religious figures remained independent in this struggle.54
Some former Islamists, religious scholars, and Sufis were among the
reformers. Şerafettin Yaltkaya, who also served as prime minister during
one-party rule, was an Islamist. As mentioned, Naim Hazı m Onat, the
person who suggested the name Atatürk to Mustafa Kemal, was a former
madrasah graduate. Fevzi Çakmak, the chief-of-staff of the Turkish Armed
Forces under both Mustafa Kemal and his successor, I˙ smet I˙ nönü, was
known to be a member of a Sufi order, and so was the minister of education
under I˙ smet I˙ nönü, Hasan Ali Yücel.55
Even in implementing a reform as controversial as the Turkification of the
language of basic Islamic rituals, Mustafa Kemal found supporters among
the members of the religious community. In the month of Ramadan in 1932,
Mustafa Kemal visited I˙ stanbul to promote the recitation of the Qur’an in
Turkish. He personally participated in the gatherings held in 1932 in Yere-
batan Mosque on January 22, the Sultanahmet Mosque on January 29, and
the most impressive in Ayasofya Mosque on February 3, when not only
the Qur’an, but also the adhan, the Islamic call to prayer, were recited in
Turkish, with whole event broadcast on the radio. The final novelty was
introduced on February 5, when Mustafa Kemal personally asked Sadettin
Kaynak, who later became a famous composer, to deliver the Friday sermon
in Turkish, and while wearing Western clothes rather than traditional reli-
gious garb.56
This does not suggest that the reformers were all practicing Muslims.
They were, however, all comfortable with socializing and befriending those
who were. This neutral, if not friendly, attitude partly explains why the
Turkish state continued to employ religious school graduates and Sufis
(for example, the graduates of the School for Religious Judges [Medresetül
Kudat] could serve as judges in the secular courts in Turkey),57 provided
retirement pensions, and in general turned a blind eye to those religious
scholars and sheikhs who continued their religious activities, provided that
those activities took place within state-owned mosques or private houses.
Many biographies confirm these facts.58
What is particularly striking about the secularizing reforms in Turkey
was that the reformers justified their policies by resorting not to some secular
philosophy or worldview, but to religion itself. The speech delivered by
Seyyid Bey in parliament, for example, provided a very strong religious
justification for the abolition of the caliphate.59 In a sense the Turkish reform-
ers were employing “ijtihad” to shape the dominant religion to their own
understanding of what it should be. As should be clear by now, the Turkish
state in fact monopolized religious services, incorporating most members
of the religious community into its body and going against independent
religious figures, by force if necessary, as the life of Said Nursi particularly
testifies. Through an existing network of mosques and offices of religious
councils, the Turkish state since then has promoted a particular under-
standing of Islam.
The new state-sponsored understanding was quite simple, in fact. It makes
at least three assertions about Islam. First, it asserts, politics is a dirty business,
a view that has since affected the way in which Turkish state officials view
politics. In their view, religion is something higher. Combining these two
ideas, the reformers came up with a powerful third one. Religion should not
have anything to do with such a dirty business as politics. A natural conclu-
sion was that no one should utilize religion for the sake of politics and that
anyone attempting to do so should be stopped, by force if necessary. Second,
the new state-sponsored understanding of Islam argues, no person or group
of people represents Islam, a view refl ected in the often-quoted assertion
that Islam does not recognize any special person or group as acting as a
conduit between God and individuals as Christianity does. Hence, any group
of people pretending to act so should be discredited or destroyed. Third, the
new state-sponsored understanding of Islam claims that there is a pure Islam
as set forth in the Qur’an and practiced by the Prophet. Over time, however,
that purity was corrupted as un-Islamic ideas and practices entered in the
body of Islam. The state assumes the task of cleaning Islam from such ideas
and practices.60
It will be useful to quote from the person after whom the reforms were
named: Mustafa Kemal. In a speech delivered in the city of Kastamonu on
August 30, 1925, Atatürk says,
Our republican government has an office of Directorate of Religious

Affairs. There are a lot of officials, like mufti [religious counsel], hatip
[preacher], imam [prayer leader], employed in this directorate. The level
of knowledge and wisdom these individuals have is known. I see a lot of
individuals, however, who do not have responsibilities in this area, but
still continue to wear the same garb. I came across many among these
who are ignorant, even illiterate . . . it is never permissible to permit this
carelessness.61
Propagating this highly depoliticized understanding of Islam through a

network of mosques and offices of religious counsels, the Turkish state also
skillfully used religious symbols and terminology to give meaning to such
state-sponsored, seemingly secular concepts as the nation, the state, national
anthems, and fl ags. For example, commonly people refer to the Turkish
Armed Forces, often viewed as the bastion of secularism in Turkey, as “The
House of the Prophet”; both ordinary people and the state call the soldiers
of that army Mehmetçik, Mehmet being a Turkish rendering of Muhammad;
the state calls soldiers and officials killed on active duty “martyrs”; clerics
pray for the founding fathers of the political regime, Mustafa Kemal and
his friends, during important religious rituals. The term “anarchy” denotes
extremely antireligious sentiments in Turkey, almost being equated with
godlessness. The term “nation” is translated as millet in Turkish, a term
used during the Ottoman period to denote groups sharing the same religion.
Therefore, in the Ottoman system, Turks, Kurds, Arabs, Bosnians, Circas-
sians, and so forth were in fact just one millet. The Turkish national anthem
employs religious terminology quite often:
Oh glorious God, the sole wish of my pain-stricken heart is that

No infidel’s hand should ever touch the bosom of thy sacred temples.
These adhans [Islamic call to prayer] and these shadahs [witnessing]
that my hearing is accustomed to are the foundations of my religion,
And may their noble sound last loud and wide over my eternal
homeland.
The Turkish state emerged as a major proselytizer, funding a ten-volume

commentary in Turkish, the first Qur’an commentary in Turkey, and trans-
lations of the Qur’an and the Prophet’s sayings into Turkish. Thousands of
copies of the Qur’an commentary, translations of the Qur’an, and the hadiths
were printed and distributed throughout the country. The reforms proved to
be quite effective and were in large part responsible for the fact that during
the republican period no major religious revolt took place against the new
regime.62
WHY DID TURKEY ADOPT ACCOMMODATIONIST

STATE SECULARIZATION?
Why was state secularization accommodative of religion? First, as discussed

earlier in this chapter, the reformers in Turkey found themselves amidst an
ongoing political competition. This competition was an intra-elite competition,
which, unlike the one in Russia, did not involve the masses. All the aspi-
rants to political power, including the new state rulers, had their power bases
within the bureaucracy. Therefore, they could hardly mobilize the masses
for a mass-based political movement. The religious community, staffing the
mosques scattered all over the country, occupied a pivotal position in such
a situation. The effectiveness of the mosques in mobilizing the masses had
already been seen during the war of liberation, when the eloquent preachers,
including Mustafa Kemal Paşa, used the mosques to address the people.63
The existence of such a competitive political environment, which shook
the new rulers’ hold on political power, drove the Turkish state rulers to
merge the religious institutions with the state apparatus. The merger served
two purposes in the struggle to survive. First, the new state rulers decimated
all powers of the Ottoman family, including the position of caliphate, which
was religious in nature. The same act also included closing down the religious
theological schools and abolishing the Sharia courts. If these three acts had
occurred at the same time as the total exclusion of the religious institutions
from the state apparatus, the new state rulers would have given a very
provocative signal to the masses, who would have interpreted these acts,
with the help of the religious community, as acts of aggression against Islam.
Therefore, merging religious institutions with the state apparatus prevented
such a provocative signal being sent to the masses about the intentions of
the new state rulers with regard to Islam.64 Second, merging religious insti-
tutions with the state apparatus stopped other aspirants to political power
from using their organizational resources to reach out to the masses. Hence,
a merger between religious institutions and the state would undermine the
emergence of a wide opposition movement, which would have mass sup-
port. In such a strategic context, the exclusion of religious institutions would
probably create a discontented segment in society, the religious community,
which could give the other aspirants to political power a very strong and
legitimate excuse for rebellion against the new rulers and, more importantly,
a channel for mass mobilization. Hence, the state rulers in Turkey opted for
merging the religious institutions with the state apparatus.
Second, chapter two detailed how the Ottoman state policy toward
religion, ambitious state-building measures, and integration with the world
capitalist economy left religious community fragmented, financially state
dependent, and without any wealthy societal ally. On top of these came the
upheavals of the late Ottoman period.
The late Ottoman period was quite destructive of Turkish society, which
had to bear the costs and consequences of five different inter-state wars, the
Trablusgarp War with Italy, two Balkan Wars, the First World War, and the
War of Independence. The First World War was the most costly in both
economic and human terms for Turkish society. Ottoman armies fought
from the beginning to the end of the war over a vast area covering the
Balkans, the Caucasus, Iraq, Syria, and Palestine. The human costs of waging
a war on such a great scale put great strain on the population. The empire
mobilized more than two million men during four years of war. When the
armistice was signed, only 600,000 troops remained to be demobilized.65
We can assess the human costs of the period. The empire’s population in
areas now within contemporary Turkey was estimated to be approximately
15.3 million in 1913. An official census conducted in 1927 calculated the
population of Turkey as 13.6 million. The population loss was probably
higher than this rough measure shows because two major developments in
this period might have partially compensated for the wartime loss. First,
the Muslims migrated from the areas previously controlled by the Ottoman
Empire to the areas of contemporary Turkey. Second, the population should
have increased owing to the peaceful period between 1922 and 1927.
Kemal Karpat, an Ottoman historian, estimates that in the period
between 1914 and 1922, 18 percent of the Muslim population in Anatolia
was lost because of wars.66 It appears that the majority of these losses were
males of working age and thus decreased the labor power of Turkish society,
especially in agriculture. The gender distribution of the Turkish population
over 30 in 1935 is more telling: the ratio of men to women decreases as the
age interval increases. While the ratio of men to women in age group 30–39
is 0.93, it decreases to 0.71 for age group 40–49, to 0.67 for age group
50–59, and to 0.58 for age group 60–64.67
The wartime losses, the population exchanges between Turkey and
Greece, and the population upheavals of the period owing to population
migrations68 completely changed the religious composition of Turkish society.
Before the First World War, non-Muslims constituted 18 percent of the
overall Anatolian population, but the population census of 1927 estimated
that non-Muslims constituted only 2.6 percent of the overall population.69
Although these population changes increased the religious homogeneity of
Turkish society, the ethnic heterogeneity continued, especially owing to the
migrations of Ajar Georgian, Circassian, and Abkhaz Muslims.
Yet the most striking contrast between emigrants and newcomers was
neither ethnicity nor religion, but occupation.70 The outgoing Greeks and
Armenians had dominated commercial life and had ties with the foreign
markets and engaged in trade. On the other hand, the incoming groups were
largely peasants and settled in rural areas of Turkey. This not only increased
the rural nature of Turkish society, but also weakened the societal structure.
Up to this time, many Turks had worked either for the state or in agri-
culture as small property owners, who produced for the market as well as
for their own consumption. These small owners lived in small villages and
were not unified by any encompassing social organization. Caucasian and
Balkan Muslim newcomers were simply inserted into this already disunited
body of peasantry.
Religious homogenization in Turkey also brought a change in the
occupational composition of Turkish society.71 In the process of Ottoman
integration into the capitalist economy, it was the Christians, the Greeks,
and the Armenians who were the main beneficiaries as they were linked to
international commercial networks.72 This, coupled with the fact that the
incoming Muslims were mostly peasants, led to the disappearance of the mon-
eyed classes in Turkey during this period. It now fell to the Turkish state to
create a new Muslim bourgeoisie,73 and this was openly declared at the I˙ zmir
Economic Congress in 1923. Ayşe Buğra’s State and Business in Turkey
clearly shows that contemporary giant Turkish companies owed a great deal
to the support of the state throughout every stage of their developments.74
Thus, being allied with the state would pay handsomely at that time if you
were enterprising businessmen. And the opposite might also be true. If you
were a dissident, the Turkish state was capable of undermining your wealth.
The war thus severely weakened the societal base upon which religious
community could thrive in Turkey. More importantly, it severely damaged
the societal ties of religious community. Chapter two showed that ambi-
tious Ottoman state building largely diffused religious scholars through-
out the expanding state institutions. The war and the general weakening of
Turkish society negatively affected the Sufi orders the most, as during the
war not only the regular visitors of the orders but also their permanent
members were conscripted.75 Many of the societal supporters of the Sufi
orders probably died in the war.76 From biographies of prominent religious
scholars, we learn that many of them, as well as Sufi sheikhs, actually fought
in the wars, mobilizing their students as military units. Seminary students
and young members of Sufi orders were also recruited into the army by the
state, putting a stop to religious education in this period. Inevitably these
developments disrupted the religious networks across the country. Further-
more, the army used the facilities of the Sufi houses during the war for
a variety of reasons. Religious students, possibly the ulama’s only link to
society, were also conscripted into the army. Many religious schools and Sufi
houses, especially those in Anatolia, were also ruined during the war. The
war of liberation (1919–1922) further weakened the religious community
as foreign armies occupied not only I˙ stanbul but also other urban centers.
The religious community’s societal resources and networks were essentially
destroyed in the last decade of the Ottoman Empire. Having no wealthy
societal ally, financially state dependent, and extremely fragmented, the reli-
gious community had to acquiesce to a secularizing state.
There is another dimension to state secularization in Turkey that made
the religious community more acquiescent to the reforms. That is, the
secularizing reforms were in many ways necessary in that environment
where the reformers were under close international scrutiny to prove that the
new Turkey was truly a secular state.77 This proof was essential to establish
full political independence. A secular image abroad would simply close down
a window of opportunity and could be used by the great powers to intervene
in Turkish domestic politics as they had done so often before.
Introduced on March 3, 1924, three reforms—the abolition of the caliphate
and of the Ministry of Sharia and Awqaf and the closure of the madrasahs—
greatly contributed to that image. The abolition of the caliphate served
another interest. The caliphate might have created undesirable confl icts
for the young republic. Millions of Muslims were living under the rule of
Britain and France, and the young republic was wary of wars and international
confl icts. The abolition of the caliphate simply eliminated one possible
source of frictions with great powers of the period. Furthermore, the futility
of the caliphate as a strategic political tool had long become painfully clear to
many who fought in the First World War. Despite the caliphate’s declaration
of religious war, jihad, against Britain, France, and Russia, many Muslims
sided with them and fought against the Ottoman Empire.
The closure of madrasahs was not that controversial either. It should
be remembered that new schools of religion were opened in their stead,
although they were later closed down. But it should be kept in mind that
there had long been an ongoing debate in Turkey that blamed the madrasahs
for not producing qualified graduates. I am not in a position to judge authori-
tatively on the quality of education in the madrasahs, but even quite famous
Islamists were critical of the madrasah system at that time. In one of his fiery
poems, Mehmet Akif, for example, a famous Islamist of the time, argued that
the current madrasah system was not up to the challenges of the ages.78
Even the archenemy of Mustafa Kemal, the former sheikh al Islam, Mustafa
Sabri, was highly critical of the madrasah system. In one of his articles,
he addressed the issue.79 Said Nursi, the future dissident of the new regime
in Turkey, also aimed to reform the madrasah education. For example, he
proposed to build a madrasah that he would name “Medresetül Zehra.”
Abdülhamid II, the pan-Islamist Ottoman sultan who emphasized the title
of caliphate more than any other Ottoman sultan, shared the same idea,
giving more priority to developing a secular school system, not the madrasah
system. Hence, the reforms closed down a religious institution that had been
subject to criticism even from its own children.
The adoption of the Swiss code is more telling. As Dora G. Nadolski
persuasively claims, Turkey desired to establish full control over its own legal
system. A European code would simply destroy the last vestiges of the capitu-
latory system. It should be remembered that under this system, as G. L. Lewis
puts it, “foreigners were not subject to Turkish laws; they paid no taxes, their
houses and business premises were inviolable, and they could be arrested or
deported only by order of their own Ambassadors.”80 This system not only
allowed foreign powers to intervene in Turkish internal affairs, thus challeng-
ing her sovereignty, but also privileged foreigners and non-Muslim Ottoman
citizens, who took foreign passports, in the commercial life of Turkey.
The capitulations were first abrogated in 1914 unilaterally but were
reimposed after the First World War to be re-abrogated in the Treaty of
Lausanne.81 The abrogation was still not complete because Turkey did not
have a complete civil code, for the existing Mecelle code “did not contain
that portion of the Shari’a which treats procedures of family, marriage and
inheritance.”82 As a result, secular court systems would not be able to deal
with cases related to these issues, which would remain as a possible window
for the intervention of foreign powers in lawsuits involving non-Muslim
foreigners in Turkey.
In any case, under the Treaty of Lausanne, Turkey was obliged to adopt
a Western law system for its minorities. Rather than keep a dual system, the
new regime preferred a unitary legal system within its territories. In short,
the adoption of the Swiss Civil Code “meant the abandonment of the dual
court system, religious and secular, final abrogation of the remaining vestiges
of the capitulatory system, and the abolition of the Mecelle.”83
It is interesting to note that the Swiss Civil Code had been half-heartedly
applied for a long time. This was the finding of the International Association
of Legal Sciences meeting held in 1955. Hilmi Ziya Ülken summarizes the
finding: “Of the 937 articles of the Swiss Civil Code, only 335 have been
used effectively so far, in that in the case of two-thirds of the articles no
circumstances to which they are applicable have emerged.”84 The meeting
also found that the Swiss Civil Code had been barely implemented in two
areas: family law and land law, the former being the area where the Islamic
law matters the most. This finding might indicate the practical mentality,
not the idealism, of the reformers in adopting the Swiss code. It might also
be telling to take a look at some minor introductions into the Swiss code. As
noted by Gotthand Jaschke, for example, the new code banned marriages
between two individuals breast-fed by the same woman. This was clearly
taken from Islamic law.85
In short, Turkey adopted an accommodationist model of state secularity
under unusual circumstances that made it the natural outcome. This model
has survived in Turkey to this day. In the concluding chapter, I discuss the
factors that made this model so resilient.
NOTES
1. The following historical account can be found in any work on the period.
I particularly benefitted from Tuncay (2005), Zürcher (1991), and Ahmad
(2010).
2. The opposition claimed that the elections were fraudulent and that voters
were beaten and harassed. This ignores the fact the Committee of Union and
Progress had the most extensive grassroots organization in the empire. The
committee showed its strength in mobilizing the masses in several incidents.
See Ahmad (1988).
3. The junta members called themselves “Halaskaran Zabitan,” or “the savior
military officials.”
4. See Zürcher (1987).
5. Ahmad (1988) discusses the activities of the CUP during the First World War
in more detail.
6. Zürcher (1987) provides a very detailed discussion of how the unionists con-
tributed to the postwar political developments; see especially chapter 3.
7. Zürcher (1987:141).
8. Toprak (1993:629).
9. Rustow (1957:72).
10. Demirel (2009:148).
11. See sections in Aktay (2004) on Mehmet Akif Ersoy and Eşref Edip.
12. For more on these rebellions, see Çelik (2007).
13. I owe a lot to Zürcher (1987) for the following discussion.
14. For more on the second group, see Demirel (2009).
15. See a very detailed account of the declaration of the republic in Alpkaya (1998).
16. For detailed discussion of Rauf Orbay’s opposition in the party, see Alpkaya
(1998).
17. Frey (1965).
18. A classical rhetoric of Mustafa Kemal was that he always associated and iden-
tified himself with the people, and he represented his opponents as those who
did not understand what the people wanted.
19. Karabekir (2008).
20. See Adak (2003).
21. Zürcher (1991:239).
22. See Weiker (1973). I did not discuss this opposition because it appeared much
later. The reforms regarding religious organizations had already been under-
taken by that time.
23. Arat (2005:17).
24. For a thorough analysis of the Directorate of Religious Affairs, see Kara
(2009).
25. The names of the religious community about whom I could find information
can be found in the appendix.
26. Albayrak (1996).
27. In general, the state offered jobs to the members of the clergy. If the job offer
was rejected, then a regular payment was provided.
28. Alpkaya (1998:241).
29. Yurdagür (1991). For more detail, see Şengezer (2008).
30. Kaya (1992).
31. Berki (1992).
32. Ertan (1995).
33. Ertan (1996a).
34. Sanal (1991).
35. Yavuz (1994).
36. Ertan (1996b).
37. Bayı ndı r (1996).
38. Bilgin (2001).
39. Bolay (2001).
40. Tüccar (2007).
41. The list of biographies on which my claim is made can be found in the
appendix.
42. Kara (2009:110).
43. Sabri Şakir Efendi’s father-in-law, Mustafa Şevket Efendi (Yunt), was also a
member of the commission. Mustafa Şevket was also another hybrid figure the
Ottoman state building produced. Mustafa Şevket’s father, Muhammed Emin
Efendi, was a religious scholar. He studied at Darülfünun Faculty of Theology
and participated in “Huzur Dersleri,” religious classes held in the month of
Ramadan with the presence of the sultan. See Mardin (1966:317–320).
44. On Sabri Şakir Ansay, I relied on Gürsoy (1962).
45. In addition to examples given here, see also Küçük (2007).
46. Özcan (1992).
47. Azamat (1992).
48. Kara (2001).
49. Tahralı (2002).
50. Azamat (2006).
51. Özcan (2007).
52. Tosun (2007).
53. Kara (2002:83–95) published three letters of Mustafa Kemal.
54. Demirel (2009:149–150).
55. I thank I˙ smail Kara for pointing this out in a personal communication via
email, August 5, 2010. See Sayar (2002).
56. Atatürk himself chose the verses from the Qur’an to be read in the sermon.
The chosen verses are quite interesting: “When it is said to them: ‘Make not
mischief on the earth,’ they say: ‘Why, we only want to make peace!’ Of a
surety, they are the ones who make mischief, but they realise (it) not. When it
is said to them: ‘Believe as the others believe.’ They say: ‘Shall we believe as
the fools believe?’ Nay, of a surety they are the fools, but they do not know”
(The Qur’an, 2:11–13).
57. See Kara (2004).
58. See, for example, Kara (2000).
59. Seyyid Bey’s speech can be found in Kara (1986). On the abolition of the
caliphate, see Ardı ç (2012).
60. See Kara (2009:77).
61. Translation is mine. For the full text of the speech, see Atatürk (2006).
62. The Sheikh Said Rebellion has always been portrayed as such. However, this
portrayal largely depends on a problematic assumption that there were no
Kurds in Turkey. This goes back to the new regime’s understanding of the
nature of a nation.
63. On the participation of religious figures in the War of Independence, see
Sarı koyuncu (1995) and Çelik (1999). For Mustafa Kemal’s relations with
religious figures, see Sarı koyuncu (1999).
64. This is still a matter of dispute in Turkey. The new state rulers were very
cautious not to take a position directly against Islam in the eyes of the people.
They explicitly claimed that they were not against Islam, which was in their
view the true and last religion. But rather, the new rulers argued that they were
against people and organizations who claim to represent Islam.
65. For a detailed account of the Ottoman Empire’s participation in the First
World War, see Erickson (2000).
66. Cited in Keyder (1989:112).
67. These statistics are calculated by the author according to Mitchell (2003:27).
68. The CUP passed a law of military conscription for Christians; this led to
massive migrations from Turkey to, especially, the United States. Quataert
(2000:173) argues that Christian migrants numbered more than 800,000.
69. These numbers are from Keyder (1989:112).
70. I depend on Keyder (1989) for this discussion. I discuss the pattern of Otto-
man integration into the world economy in the following.
71. Keyder (1989).
72. Quataert (2000, 194) also points this out, adducing a list of 1,000 merchants
living in I˙ stanbul as evidence. Only 3 percent of the merchants on this list were
foreigners: the vast majority of the rest were non-Muslim Ottomans.
73. This process in fact started in the late Ottoman period under the unionists. See
Ahmad (1980).
74. Bug˘ ra (1994).
75. This information is based on a survey of Sufi sheikhs in I˙ stanbul conducted by
the Ottoman state in 1918. The fifth volume of Albayrak (1996) records the
answers given to the surveys.
76. A sheikh of a house, Ahmet Münip Efendi, answered that there were approxi-
mately 400 participants in the houses. But he could determine only 130 who
were alive after the war. Interestingly, most of these names were either retired
people or state officials.
77. I˙ smail Kara also does not believe that the reformers really intended to take
such strong measures as closing down the madrasahs. He argues that this was
what Turkey promised in the Treaty of Lausanne.
78. In the poem, Mehmet Akif complains that the madrasahs cannot produce
qualified religious scholars who can produce original works. The poem can be
found in Kara (2008:142).
79. The passages from Mustafa Sabri’s article can be found in Kara (2008:147–148).
80. Cited in Nadolski (1977:541).
81. For more on Ottoman/Turkish legal centralization, see Kayaoğlu (2010a)
especially Chapter 4.
82. Nadolski (1977:524).
83. Nadolski (1977:528).
84. Cited in Nadolski (1977:529).
85. Cited in Aktaş (2005:12). I thank Amira Sonbol for this point.
4 Appeasing the Ulama
Religion and the Imperial State in Iran
Pahlavi Iran adopted a model of state secularity in the 1920s and 1930s that
separated the state and religious institutions. The chapter argues that this
choice was the natural outcome in the particular strategic context in which
the state secularizers found themselves. One feature of that strategic context
was that the state secularizers faced a disengaged religious community, which
was able to keep its neutrality toward the newly forming regime. In order to
understand this attitude of the religious community, we have to look at the
resources at their disposal at the time of state secularization. As we will see,
the religious community in Iran was fairly united under a semi-hierarchical
organization and had extensive societal networks. This condition of the
religious community was the historical legacy of the Safavid and Qajar
periods. This chapter narrates the evolution of this historical legacy.
The narrative will also show how the Safavid State was non-secular. This
was because in both the Safavid and Qajar periods, religious community/
institutions had come to assume such critical state functions as education,
judiciary, welfare services, and religious services and performed these
functions virtually autonomously. Like the Ottoman state, the Safavid state
did not share the ambition of the modern sovereign state; therefore, it
left religious community/institutions autonomous in their both public
and religious activities. Given the available technology of state building that
made only a limited state possible, this was natural.
It should be noted, however, that unlike the Ottoman state, the Safavid
state had proved to be more ambitious in giving an order to and shaping
religion and religious community/institutions. In this regard the Safavid state
prefigured even the Russian imperial state under Peter the Great. If it had
not collapsed in the early 18th century, the Safavid state could have assumed
certain features of a modern “secular” state well before the 20th century.
Since the Qajar state, which reunited Iran in the late 18th century, also
proved to be not ambitious in its claim to sovereignty, Iran’s realization of
state secularity had to wait the 1920 and 1930s.
This chapter first discusses the politico-religious context within which
the Safavids rose to imperial power and then illustrates how Safavid policies
sought to shape religion and religious community/institutions in Iran.
The chapter then looks at how the collapse of the Safavid Empire, Qajar rule
in the 19th century, and other developments brought about the condition in
which the religious community found itself in the 1920s.
THE CONTEXT
Pre-Safavid Iran had passed through a historical experience similar to that of

Anatolia in the pre-Ottoman period. Both Iran and Anatolia were part of the
Great Seljuq Empire (1037–1194) and fell victim to the Mongolian armies.
Both regions also fell under the control of the same post-Mongolian state, the
Ilkhanids. Once the Ilkhanids weakened and collapsed, many petty states
appeared not only in Anatolia, but also in Iran, and vied for power—these
states included the Jalayirids (1339–1432), the Muzaffarids (1314–1393), the
Chobanids (1337–1357), and the Sarbadars (1337–1381). Iran, like Anatolia,
became subject to Timur’s invasion. Following the dissolution of Timur’s
empire, Iran fell into political chaos again. Western Anatolia was fortunate
to have the Ottomans, who even though suffering at the hands of Timur,
managed to recover soon. But Iran had to wait for its unification until the
early 16th century.
Anatolia and Iran also experienced the same wave of Sufi revivalism.
Some Sufi orders, such as Kubrawiyya, Sa’diyya, Suhrawardiyya, and
Mawlawiyya, which had widespread followers among the Turks, belonged
to the Iranian Sufi tradition, and the infl uence of Persian-Sufism continued to
dominate Sufi circles in Anatolia. For example, Jalal al-din Rumi, the spiritual
founder of Mawlawism, wrote his famous Mesnevi in Persian. And Persian
continued to dominate Ottoman classical poetry and music up until the end.
Persian Sufism also infl uenced other Sufi orders that do not belong to the
Iranian tradition. For example, the most famous Turkish Sufi, Ahmed Yasawi,
trained under a Persian Sufi, Yusuf al-Hamadani, and became one of his
four successors.1 He later formed a distinctive Turkish Sufi tradition.2 The
Sufi sheikhs and dervishes in Iran also enjoyed greater prestige—as much
as their colleagues in Anatolia. The successive rulers, including Timur, built
for them zawiyahs and tombs and sought their alliance. In some cases, Sufi
sheikhs even became important political players on their own. For example,
Shaikh Hasan Juri and his disciples fought for the Sarbadarids, and the sheikh
died in a battle. In another incident, Muhammad bin Falah—reminiscent of,
but much more successful than, Shaikh Badr-al Din or Baba Ilyas—achieved
to unite discontented Arabian tribes behind himself, which became known as
the Musha’sha’ movement, and established a petty state in southwestern Iran.
In 1514, the region under the control of this movement was reincorporated
into the Safavid Empire as an autonomous region of Arabistan. The move-
ment’s emirs continued to serve as governors in this region up until the 1925.
Yet no Sufi sheikh in Anatolia could ever have imagined what their
colleagues achieved in Iran. In the beginning of the 16th century, by the time
Appeasing the Ulama 75
the Ottomans had already turned into a world power, a Sufi order, Safawiyya,
established a long-lasting empire in Iran: the Safavid Empire.
THE RISE TO IMPERIAL POWER
The rise of the Safawiyya order as an empire builder became possible due
to two developments in the region.3 The first, and possibly most important,
development was that neither Timur and his successors nor such strong
statesmen of the 14th century as Gahan Shah of the Kara-Koyunlu dynasty
and Uzun Hasan of the Ak-Koyunlu dynasty were able to establish a stable,
long-lasting administration to Eastern Anatolia and Iran. The second develop-
ment, as an enabling condition, was the ever-increasing centralization of the
Ottoman Empire in the West. This resulted in marginalization within the
overall Ottoman political system of the Turkish tribes, which had formed
the armed forces of the expanding Ottoman Empire up until that time.
During the reign of Beyazid I (1389–1401), the Ottoman Empire already
showed strong signs of centralization, which increased the discontent of the
Turkish tribes. The defeat of the Ottomans in the war of Ankara against
Timur came mostly because an important tribal force moved to the other
side. Yet the real blow to tribal power came during the reign of Mehmet II
(1451–1481). Until Mehmet II, the Ottoman sultans saw themselves as
“the first among the equals.” With and after Mehmet II, who gained enor-
mous prestige with the conquest of Istanbul in 1453, the Ottoman sultans
became emperors. The top positions in the empire began to be filled by the
devshirmes, who were legally the slaves of the sultan. As they got more and
more marginalized in the Ottoman system, the Turkish tribes turned to the
east and became potential military forces to be recruited at ease.
At the intersection of these two historical developments, the Safawiyya
order underwent a radical transformation in the second half of the 15th
century. The order was founded by Sheikh Safi ad-Din (d.1336) in the city of
Ardabil, Azerbaijan. Safi ad-Din and three leaders after him—all of them his
descendants, his son, his grandson, and his great-grandson—were all known
as “pious men of exemplary conduct and character, loved by their followers
and respected by the temporal powers in Tabriz or Sultaniya, in Bagdad or
Mawara’annahr, by Mongols, Ilhanids, Galayirs, Jubanids, Timur, and the
Timurids.”4 More importantly, in the second quarter of the 15th century,
the order showed no sign of inclination toward Shi’ism or the extremist
doctrines especially prevalent among the nomadic Turks.
The centralization of the Ottoman Empire and the continuing political
fragmentation left in Eastern Anatolia a large, discontented nomadic Turkic
population among whom Bektashism was particularly widespread. This was
the Safawiyya order, which incorporated into its body most of the former
heretical movements appeared among the nomadic Turks. Bektashism, there-
fore, contained strong Shi’ite tendencies, to the extent that Rudolf Tschumi
claims, “in their secret doctrines, (the Bektashis) are Shi’is, acknowledging the
Twelve Imams and, in particular, holding Dja’far al-Sadik in high esteem.”5
Having no Shi’ite inclination of any sort up to that date, the Safawiyya order
met with this body of potential military force and, as a result, underwent a
radical transformation with the succession of Sheikh Junayd. Two aspects of
this change are noteworthy. First, the order began to adopt a strongly Shi’ite
fl avor and incorporate extremist views. More importantly, however, the order
transformed from contemplative Sufism to a militant version. “When the boon
of succession reached Junayd, he altered the way of life of his ancestors: the
bird of anxiety laid an egg of longing for power in the nest of his imagination.
Every moment he strove to conquer a land or a region.”6
Sheikh Junayd assumed the leadership of the Safawiyya order in 1447
and journeyed throughout Anatolia and Syria for seven years. These trips
likely introduced him to his followers and probably helped him realize the
military potential in the order. In any event, we see him in 1456 organizing
a large-scale military attack against the Empire of Trabzon situated in north-
eastern Anatolia on the coast of Black Sea. He later directed his attention
even more to the Caucasus. Junayd’s fame likely impressed many of his con-
temporaries. One of them was Uzun Hasan of the Aq-Qoyunlu dynasty, who
hosted him for three years in his court and gave his sister to Junayd. Junayd
finally lost his life in a battle in 1460 against the Sirvan-shah Khalil-Allah.
The next sheikh of the order, Haidar, was born a few weeks after Junayd
died and came to Ardabil, the center of the order, at the age of ten in 1470.
He assumed the leadership of the order and began to recruit soldiers into
his order to continue his father’s policy. Not surprisingly, the Turkish tribes
responded to his call. The order’s network throughout Anatolia must have
played an important role in this revival. Sheikh Haidar introduced a uniform
for the members of his order. The red turban with twelve gores (possibly
symbolizing the twelve imams) determined the name of the order’s soldiers—
“the Redheads,” or more famously, Qizilbashlar. The Qizilbash forces were
divided into military units according to the tribal affiliations of the troops.
The order then appointed a representative, a khalifa, usually picked from
tribal leaders, to each unit. Khalifat al-khulafa then served as the supreme
leader of all khalifas, linking the sheikh and the order’s forces. Khalifas’
responsibilities included not only controlling and securing the Qizilbashes’
loyalty to the sheikh, but also recruiting Turkish nomads into the Safavid
military forces.
In 1483 and 1487, we see Sheikh Haidar on raid against the Circassians.
In 1488, he was killed in a battle with another Sirvan-shah, Farrukh-Yasar.
The order thus faced another crisis: the adherents withdrew into obscurity
as they did after Sheikh Haidar’s death. Ali succeeded his father, but he was
killed in fighting with the forces of a contender for the Aq-Qoyunlu throne.
Ismail succeeded his brother as the leader of the order. He spent his early
years in Lahijan under the protection of his men. As soon as the Aq-Qoyunlu
state fell into civil strife and chaos, Ismail decided to move. He sent out
emissaries in Anatolia and Syria to join him in Erzincan in Eastern Anatolia.
Some 7,000 followers from various Turkish tribes met with him in Erzincan
in 1500. With that force, he first turned to the Sirvans, who had killed his
father and grandfather. He defeated Sirvan-shah Farrukh-Yasar and moved
against the remnant of Aq-Qoyunlu in Tabriz, capturing the city in 1501.
Shah Ismail thus founded the Safavid state in Iran and proclaimed “twelver
Shi’ism” as the state religion. Then he set out to expand his territories. He first
annexed Eastern Anatolia and Mesopotamia and then turned to the east.
By 1514, his empire stretched from Afghanistan to Eastern Anatolia. In
tandem with this territorial expansion, Shah Ismail pursued a brutal religious
policy forcing the Sunnis to convert to Shi’ism. Those who refused to
convert were ruthlessly executed by Shah Ismail.
As military successes followed one another, the Turkish tribes in Anatolia
fl ocked to his standard.7 This massive infl ux of manpower—men capable of
serving as soldiers—caused suspicion and anger among the Ottoman states-
men. As early as 1502, the Ottomans began to persecute the Qizilbash
sympathizers. A massive rebellion in 1507 led by a Qizilbash, Shah Quli,
severely damaged the Ottomans even though Shah Quli was eventually
captured and killed. The increasing Safavid threat in the east eventually led
to the replacement of Beyazid II, who was too soft on the Qizilbash, with
his son, Selim I, whose title was “the grim,” in 1512. Selim I then set out
an extensive campaign against the Qizilbash in Anatolia and organized a
campaign against the Safavid Empire in 1514. In the Battle of Chaldiran,
Shah Ismail experienced his first defeat. He never recovered from the psycho-
logical trauma of this loss. He never set out again for a military expedition
and spent the remaining ten years of his life hunting, drinking, and playing
competitive games. As a result of this war, the Ottomans annexed Eastern
Anatolia and Mesopotamia. But the Safavid Empire survived8 and continued
to trouble the Ottoman Empire for at least another century. The Ottomans
and the Safavids fought in 1534–1555, 1578–1590, 1603–1611, 1617–1618,
and 1622–1639. In these wars, the Ottomans advanced further in the east,
capturing Azerbaijan and Armenia, but for a short period. The Safavids
regained them back, and the Treaty of Qasr e Shirin finalized the Ottoman
eastern border with the Safavids in 1639. The Safavid Empire continued to
rule over Iran until its collapse in 1722 in the hands of the Afghans.
THE SAFAVID SUPPRESSION OF THE SUFI ORDERS
In more than 200 years of their rule over Iran, the Safavids pursued a policy
completely opposite the Ottoman policy toward Sufi orders. Even though
they were themselves Sufis, the Safavids suppressed other Sufi orders. Even
their own adherents, the Qizilbashes, could not escape this fate.
As described in the previous section, the Safawiyya Sufi order united
otherwise disunited Turkish tribes under a religious banner, organized and
turned them into a formidable military power, and, upon that military
power, founded the Safavid state in Iran in 1501. In return for their services,
the Qizilbash leaders were appointed as provincial governors and also occupied
the highest military posts in the empire. The Qizilbash leaders kept their
own military forces in the provinces, collected taxes, and remitted to the
center only a small share of the province’s total tax revenue.
After the death of Ismail I—who was venerated as a semi-god by his
followers—in 1524, the Qizilbash leaders asserted their control over the
state while the new shah, Tahmasp I (1524–1576), was too young to take
action against them. The Qizilbash leaders were, however, too disunited to
exert a unified attempt to control the new empire. Quite the reverse, they
fell into a bitter struggle among each other. For ten years an interregnum
lasted. As a result, the most powerful tribal Qizilbash forces—the Rumlu,
the Ustajlu, the Takkalu, and the Shamlu—simply weakened each other’s
power. At the end of the interregnum, Tahmasp I established his authority
over the Qizilbash leaders and sought opportunities throughout the rest of
his reign to undermine Qizilbash power.
Following the death of Tahmasp I, the Qizilbash leaders fell into another
cycle of internal fighting, exhausting each other’s power once again and
paving the way for their own end. It was Abbas I (1587–1629) who finally
completely subordinated the Qizilbash forces. His solution was to estab-
lish an alternative military force composed of slave soldiers. This system
was already in place in the Ottoman Empire, where it was known as the
devshirme system, and seemed to be working quite well. The regional source
of slave soldiers was the Caucasus. Georgians and Circassians, captured as
slaves during raids in the Caucasus, were brought to Persia as royal body-
guards. As they were replaced by the slave army, the Qizilbash forces never
regained their previous prestigious position in the empire even after Abbas
I’s death in 1629.
Other Sufi orders, which were generally nonmilitaristic, met the same fate
under the Safavid rule in Iran. The suppression of Sunni Sufi orders started
as early as Ismail I’s reign. For example, the Naqshibandi order entered Iran
in the second half of the 15th century and spread as far as Isfahan and
Tabriz in western Iran. The order’s life was, however, short lived in Iran. The
Safavids extirpated the order in western and central Iran to establish Shi’ite
supremacy in the country. Only in the 19th century did the Naqshibandis
gain some presence in western Iran, under Kurdish auspices; in fact, they led
a rebellion among Kurds under Sheikh Ubaydullah in the late 19th century.9
Another Sunni order, which faced the same fate, was the Khalwetiyye order.
In fact, after Shah Ismail I entered Tabriz in 1501, the leader of the order,
Ibrahim Gulseni, found it expedient to leave Iran. He settled in Egypt and
died there in 1533. For a short period, he also travelled to Istanbul to clear
charges against him and established three zawiyahs in Anatolia.10
The Safavids initially tolerated Shi’a Sufi orders such as the Nurbakhshiyya
and Dhahabiyye. But, especially during the 17th century, both lost their
infl uence in Iran as a result of persecution at the hands of Shi’ite religious
scholars. The Nurbakhshiyya never recovered in Iran, while the Dhahabiyye
began to revive only in the second half of the 18th century, through the
struggle of Qutb al-Din Nayrizi (d.1759). Nayrizi’s books provide detailed
account of how the Shi’ite ulama persecuted the Sufis and destructed the
zawiyahs. By 1998, the order’s official convents numbered just seven.11
Another Shi’a Sufi order, which revived in the 19th century, was the
Ni’matullahi order, which rushed to ally itself with the Safavid state. In fact,
Shah Ismail appointed a Ni’matullahi sheikh, Mir Nizam al-Din Abd al-Baqi,
to what was then the highest religious post—the office of sadr—in Iran.12
The order kept its infl uence through zawiyahs throughout the 16th century.
The relative security of the Ni’matullahi order is perhaps one reason why the
Ismailis developed ties with it in the early Safavid period.13 But during the
reign of Abbas I, the Safavid state attacked the order, forcing its dervishes
to migrate to India.14 The order was reintroduced in Iran only in the 19th
century. The revival of the Ni’matullahiyya was far more impressive than
that of the Dhahabiyye. The order now seems to be the largest in Iran, with
some sixty convents throughout the country in 1998.15
Especially after the reign of Abbas II (1642–1666), the Shi’a religious
scholars undertook the prime responsibility in the persecution of the Sufi
orders. Even after the fall of the Safavids, they continued to suppress the
Sufis. A famous Shi’a scholar, Aqa Muhammad Bihbahani, earned the nick-
name Sufi-kush (Sufi-killer).16 In the words of Juan Cole, “The campaign
against the Sufis created an atmosphere of witch-hunting . . . A man could
be publicly disgraced and cursed on mere suspicion of Sufi tendencies.
While these practices benefited the ulama in helping to cut off patronage to
their Sufi competitors, they made life unpleasant for respectable persons of
slightly unorthodox views.”17 In one such incident, Mushtaq Ali Shah—one
of the devotees of Ma’sum Ali Shah, who reintroduced Ni’matullahiyya to
Iran—was recognized in the mosque by its mullah, who issued a fatwa of
death on Mushtaq on the spot. Mushtaq could not escape and was stoned
and beaten to death by the mullah’s followers in the mosque.18
The late 17th-century Shi’a scholars also targeted their criticisms against
former Shi’a religious scholars of such caliber as Sheikh Baha’ al-Din Amili,
Mir Muhammad Baqir Damad Husaini, and Sadr al-Din Shirazi,19 who pro-
duced scholarly works on Sufism. For example, a prominent (and possibly
the most powerful) Shi’ite scholar, Muhammad Baqir Majlisi (d.1699), called
them “followers of an infidel Greek.”20 Under the assault of Majlisi and his
like-minded colleagues, “Sufism was divorced from Shi’ism and ceased to
infl uence the mainstream of Shi’i development.”21 The title of a recently
published book summarizes the outcome: The Rise of Religious Externalism
in Safavid Iran.22
The hold of anti-Sufism continued from then on so strong among the
Shi’a ulama that even such an infl uential scholar as Ruhollah Khomeini
complained about it in the 1980s. The following excerpt is from a letter
written by Khomeini long after the revolution. The letter was addressed
to some members of the Iranian clergy, who criticized Khomeini of advis-
ing Michael Gorbachev to read such mystical philosophers as Ibn Arabi,
Avicenna, and Sohraverdi.
This old father of yours has suffered more from stupid reactionary
mullahs than anyone else. When theology meant no interference in
politics, stupidity became a virtue. If a clergyman was able, and aware
of what was going on [in the world around him], they searched for a
plot behind it. They were considered more pious if you walked in a
clumsy way. Learning foreign languages was blasphemy; philosophy
and mysticism were considered to be sin and infidelity. In the Feiziyeh
my young son Mostafa drank water from a jar. Since I was teaching
philosophy, my son was considered to be religiously impure, so they
washed the jar to purify it afterwards. Had this trend continued, I have
no doubt the clergy and seminaries would have trodden the same path
as the Christian Church did in the middle Ages.23
As a result of suppressive Safavid policies, all sorts of Sufi orders lost their
networks among the Iranian populace as their convent networks were extir-
pated throughout the Safavid domains. In the early 1840s, Zayn al-’Abidin
Shirvani, a famous Ni’matullahi sheikh, complained that “in the whole land
of Iran there is neither abode nor site where a dervish can lay his head. . . .
In the rest of the inhabited quarter of the world, among all its different
races and peoples, hospitals for the sick and khanaqahs for the dervishes
are built—except in Iran, where there is neither khanaqah nor hospital!”
In contrast, at the beginning of the 20th century, there were more than 200
˙
zawiyahs in Turkey’s capital city, Istanbul, alone.24
THE ULAMA: INSTITUTIONALIZING THE IMPERIAL RULE
In contrast to their differences in policy toward Sufi orders, the Ottomans

and the Safavids pursued strikingly similar policies toward the ulama class.
Like the Ottomans and other predecessor states, the Safavids also extended
state patronage to the ulama class, building monumental mosques and
madrasahs and endowing them dearly. Not dissimilar from the Ottoman
ulama, the Safavid ulama played important strategic, bureaucratic, and
judicial roles.25 The ulama class contributed critically to the institutionaliza-
tion of the imperial rule in Iran, during the course of which tribal forces lost
their importance and were replaced by slave-origin soldiers and statesmen.
As in the Ottoman case, the ulama class also became highly dependent
on the state in the Safavid Empire; however, the Safavids achieved this in
a remarkably different way. Unlike the Ottomans, the Safavids ruled over
populations in which the majority were Muslim. Long before the Safavids,
Iran had been Muslim. Therefore, by the time the Safavids came to power,
there were many madrasahs. In fact, one objective of the Safavid architectural
activity in religious buildings was “to repair and extend earlier monuments.”26
Only in Isfahan did the Safavids, under Abbas I (1587–1629), engage in
major construction of madrasahs and mosques. More importantly, these
madrasahs and mosques had been run and administered by strong native
ulama families who also occupied bureaucratic posts and controlled waqfs.
The rising and falling dynasties, whether the Seljuqs, the Timurids, the
Aq-Qoyunlus, or the Qara-Qoyunlus, simply recognized the status of already
strong ulama families in the regions they ruled and sought their cooperation.
The Safavids attempted to break their dominance by introducing twelver
Shi’ism as the state religion in Iran.27 Some regions of the country, such as
Khurasan, and cities, such as Qum, were inhabited by Shi’a Muslims; but
Iranian society was, by a large ratio, mainly Sunni. Hence, the Safavids had
to import Shi’a ulama from elsewhere because there was basically no Shi’a
ulama in Iran to teach Shi’a Islam. It has even been suggested that when
Shah Ismail declared Shi’ism as the state religion of Iran in Tabriz, no Shi’a
text could be found in Iran except one, in a private library. To solve this
problem, Shah Ismail invited Arab Shi’a theologians from Iraq, Lebanon,
and Bahrain to Iran to spread their creed among the Iranian masses. This
was truly a revolutionary break with the past for Shi’a ulama because it
was the first time they had been able to ally with a political power since
the Buyid state, which was established around Baghdad after the fall of the
Abbasid Empire. Moreover, this set the stage for a much stronger Iranian
state, compared to the situation in Ottoman lands. It looked as though the
Safavid rulers would do what Henry VIII did in England later in the same
century, establishing his own official state church and turning the religious
organizations into adjuncts of the state. Shi’a ulama thus came to completely
alien territories.
Shi’a ulama faced formidable competitors in this alien territory: not only
Sunni and Shi’a Sufi orders, which gained unprecedented strength during the
Mongol invasion,28 but also, as noted previously, strong local notable ulama
families, who controlled important religious and state offices. The Safavids,
as long as these families confessed Shi’ism—and many did—appointed them
to the same offices. The local notable ulama families were so powerful that
no Shi’a religious scholar had been appointed to the highest religious office
in Iran, the office of sadr, in the 150 years since the Shi’a ulama’s entry into
Iran, except for a student of Al-Karaki (d.1534) who held the office for a
short time.29 Another group that challenged Shi’a ulama was the sayyids,
the descendants of Islam’s Prophet, who refrained from taking administra-
tive functions in the state but collected religious taxes (alms and one-fifth
taxes) and received regular stipends from the office of sadr. Without the
active and persistent support of the Safavids, which the Shi’a ulama in Iran
held dearly, Shi’a ulama would not have gained even a small foothold in
Iran. The resulting nature of the relationship is easy to guess: as Algar says,
“they [Shi’a ulama] were initially obedient and loyal servants of the State,”30
dependent on royal patronage.
Shi’a ulama worked as juridical consults and judges in the cities, prayer
leaders in the leading mosques, professors in theology schools, and judges
in the army.31 Thus, the nature of the relationship between Shi’a ulama
and the Safavid state resembled the one between Sunni ulama and the
Ottoman state, in the sense that both ulama were dependent upon the
revenues coming from state appointments. In the words of Arjomand:
“In the sixteenth and the most part of the seventeenth century, the structural
relationship between the religious and political institutions in Shi’ite Iran
did not differ appreciably from the ‘caesaropapist’ pattern to be found
in the Sunni Ottoman Empire.”32 The differences are in degree rather than
in nature. The dependence of Shi’a ulama was probably much more severe
than that of Sunni ulama because they were imported into an alien envi-
ronment and faced competitive groups in Iran in the provision of religious
services both to the state and to the masses. This does not mean, however,
that the Shi’a ulama had no autonomy in performing their duties. The
Safavid state did not regulate their activities in the way a modern sovereign
state would do.
The combination of policies the Safavid Empire pursued toward religious
community/institutions led to a very different religious environment that
was much more homogenous than that in the Ottoman Empire. As discussed,
the Safavids eradicated all Sunni and Shi’a Sufi orders in Iran. Thus, the most
important rivals of Shi’a ulama were in fact eliminated in Iran. This enabled
the Shi’a ulama to manipulate their rivals in Iran through undertaking the
organization of the masses’ religious lives. Some orders had their own pious
foundations that provided a host of welfare-improving activities. This
extensive network among the masses gave the sheiks of Sufi orders opportu-
nities to play infl uential roles. But, by eradicating both Sunni and Shi’a Sufi
orders, the door was opened for Shi’a ulama to take the organization of the
masses’ religious lives into their hands. In this way, Shi’a ulama had access
not only to state resources, but also to the masses.
It took quite some time for Shi’a ulama to realize the potential of the
masses as an alternative power base. Although the Safavids fully supported
the Shi’a ulama, their support did not go so far as eliminating the local
ulama families. Understandably, the latter strongly resisted the incorporation
of Shi’a ulama into the state bureaucracy. They were quite successful, in
fact, keeping their power over the state for such a period that only one Shi’a
scholar, Mir Ni’metullah Hilli (d.1534), had been appointed to the highest
religious office in Iran, the office of sadr, in the 150 years following their
entry into Iran. The office of sadr can be understood by looking at its
functions: “(1) the supervision and administration of the religious endow-
ments and distribution of their revenue to the students and clerics and to
charitable undertakings; and (2) the supervision of the administration of the
sacred law as the chief judiciary authority of the State.”33
The most prominent figure in shifting the Shi’a ulama’s power base
toward the masses was Muhammed Baqir Majlisi (d.1699). Up to his time,
“it would be true to say that Shi’ism had sat lightly on the population of Iran,
consisting mostly of mere expressions of love for Ali and hatred of the first
three caliphs.”34 Majlisi sought ways to bring Shi’ism to the level of the
ordinary people and tried to make it encompassing in the lives of the people.
This move, in a sense, meant shifting the power base of Shi’a ulama from
the state to, especially, the urban masses. It was a tactical move on the side of
Shi’a ulama, who had not competed effectively with the local ulama families
at the state level until the time of Majlisi, which changed the battle ground.
His major contributions in this vein were as follows: (1) Shi’ifying popular
rituals in Iran and encouraging visitations of the tombs of the imams and
their descendants as parts of Shi’ism; (2) stressing the roles of the imams as
mediators between the masses and God; (3) writing many books on theology,
history, manuals of rituals, and the lives of the imams in Persian, thus making
Shi’ism accessible to the masses; (4) putting the fundamentals of Shi’ism in
dogmatic terms understandable to the masses, and so on.35
His achievement was great indeed: in the words of Arjomand, “Majlisi’s
massive output of religious writings reached down to the masses and succeeded
in capturing their imagination and enlisting their loyalty.”36 As the masses
converted to Shi’a Islam, in part due to persecution, the Shi’a ulama began
to fill the religious market in Iran left by the Sufi orders. Even though the
details are not clear, in this process, Shi’a ulama began to send their students
to the local mosques as prayer leaders and preachers. Thus, gradually,
Shi’a ulama and their students monopolized the religious services in Iran.
The relationship between the ulama and mosque staff would not remain as
student-teacher relations but would develop further, refl ecting a specialty of
Shi’a Islam in contrast to Sunni Islam.
THE COLLAPSE AND THE SHI’A ULAMA
The Safavid state weakened in the second half of the 17th century and even-
tually collapsed in 1722 when the Afghans attacked and overthrew Safavid
rule. Iran plunged into political turmoil and chaos. Internecine tribal warfare
paralyzed the country for the rest of the century. Bakhtiyaris, Qashqayis,
Afshars, and Zands in central Iran, Kurdish and Arab tribes in western Iran,
the Turkoman and Shahsaven tribes in northeastern Iran, and different clans
from the Qajar tribe on the south coast of the Caspian Sea asserted their
control over their regions and started to fight each other for political supremacy.
In the interregnum, two dynasties—the Afsharids and the Zands—came very
close to uniting Iran, but failed. This period devastated the economic and
human resources of Iran. Major cities were repeatedly sacked and plundered
by wandering tribal forces. One estimate claims that two-thirds of the urban
population was lost due to tribal anarchy in this period of chaos. The tribal
warlords imposed heavy tax burdens upon the peasants in order to finance
their armies, forcing many to leave for safer places.37
This period was also detrimental to both Shi’a ulama and local ulama
families in Iran. The Afsharid ruler, Nader Shah (d.1747), dealt serious
blows to both groups. He systematically confiscated all religious endow-
ments, discouraged Muharrem ceremonies, forbade the cursing of the first
three caliphs, restricted all jurisdictions to state courts, and so on. Likewise,
Karim Khan of Zand was not sympathetic to Shi’a ulama, regarding them as
parasites.38 The collapse of the state in this period and the unfavorable policies
followed by the tribal warlords forced many Shi’a ulama to emigrate to the
learning centers in Iraq, which was then under Ottoman rule.39 The existence
of a strong Shi’a community and the learning centers in Iraq facilitated
the survival of Shi’a ulama during this time.40 The losses that Shi’a ulama
had to bear in this period turned out to be short-term. In the long run, the
overthrow of the Safavid rule, resulting in a period of interregnum, would
prove helpful to Shi’a ulama.
This critical period left three legacies for Shi’a ulama. First, Shi’a ulama
had to develop their own financial resources accruing not from state services,
but from their ties with the masses. Thanks to the efforts of Majlisi to bring
Shi’ism to the levels of the masses, Shi’a ulama could become the organizers
of the masses’ religious lives. As Said Arjomand puts it: “The Shi’ite Ulama,
for their part, incorporated many of the features and practices of popular
Sufism into the official belief system during the seventeenth century. These
developments eliminated the rivalry of the Sufi shaykhs as popular religious
leaders and enabled the emergent Shi’ite hierocracy in Iran to control the daily
religious life of the masses to an extent unknown in other Islamic lands.”41
Second—a legacy that interacts with the first—Shi’a ulama could get
out of the boundaries of state bureaucracy; they approached the masses
even more closely, which eventually put them in a coalition with the urban
groups against the state. Finally, the clerical notables, who were dependent
only on state services, were liquidated, leaving Shi’a ulama the only religious
authority in Iran.
THE 19TH CENTURY AND THE FAILURE TO BUILD

A MODERN SOVEREIGN STATE
In the last decade of the 18th century, a Turkish tribe, the Qajars, defeated all
their tribal rivals and united Iran once again.42 The Qajar conquests stopped
once they reached the boundaries of the British colonies in the east, those of
the Russians in the north, and those of the Ottomans in the west. The Qajars
faced a no less hostile international environment in the 19th century. The
first formidable challenge appeared in the north from Russia, which began
to penetrate deep into the Caucasus and threaten the newly conquered
territories of Iran. The war started in 1804 and ended with Russian victory
in 1813. Under the humiliating terms of the Treaty of Gulistan, signed in
1813, Iran lost all of its territories north of the Aras River and recognized
the authority of Russia over these lands.
Another war with Russia erupted in 1826 and ended with a crushing
defeat at the hands of the Russians. The Treaty of Turkmenchay, signed
in 1827, brought further territorial losses to Iran. As a result of two wars
against Russia, Iran lost Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan. Severely damaged
by the losses in the Caucasus, Iran turned to the east and laid siege to Herat
in western Afghanistan in 1838. But intense pressure from the British forced
Iran to abandon the project in 1839. Iran laid another siege to Herat in
1856, which led to the Anglo-Persian War of 1856–1857. The war ended
with the Treaty of Paris in 1857, by which Iran gave up all her claims over
eastern Afghanistan to Britain.
Especially after the defeat it tasted in the Crimean War in 1853–1856,
Russia turned its attention to Central Asia, over which Iran had claimed
authority. By 1885, the Russians advanced their frontiers to include such
cities as Marv, Sarakhs, and Ashkhabad up until Elburz Mountain range
in northeast Iran. Only British intervention halted further Russian advance
beyond the Elburz Mountain range.
Like the Ottomans, the Qajars also initiated state-building reforms in the
early 19th century; however, as they simply could not overcome internal
opposition, all their attempts failed. In fact, Iran entered the 19th century in
a more advantageous position than that of the Ottomans. Almost all societal
forces that could act as barriers to state building or bases upon which to
launch new state-building projects were drastically weakened in the 18th
century as central rule collapsed in Iran after the Afghan invasion, which
started in 1719. In addition, the Qajars were able to find some foreign
financial and military support early in the 19th century that could serve
as a stepping stone for further military reforms. First the French, then the
British, offered help to the Qajars in the form of financial aid and military
personnel at the beginning of the 19th century.43
The pioneer of state building in Iran was Crown Prince Abbas Mirza, the
governor of Azerbaijan, who observed the advance and the military superiority
of the Russians. He established a new army of 6,000 troops “equipped with
mobile artillery and fairly up-to-date weapons, paid regularly by the state,
dressed in uniforms, housed and drilled in barracks, and trained by European
officers.”44 He sent students to Europe to study sciences necessary for the
military. However, Abbas Mirza could not continue on his path—he was
prevented from doing so by an array of groups, including his own brothers.
Another attempt to build the state came in 1848 when the new shah, Naser
al-Din, appointed Amir Kabir as his prime minister. Amir Kabir also introduced
state-building measures such as strengthening the army and establishing facto-
ries to satisfy the needs of the army, introducing austere financial measures
to pay for these. This second attempt also failed, for the same reason: an
array of groups, most notably the courtiers, reacted against Amir Kabir’s
measures of financial austerity. Finally, the queen mother persuaded her son
to dismiss Amir Kabir from office in 1851. Mirza Husayn, another minister
of Naser al-Din Shah, faced the same failure in state building in the period
between 1871 and 1873.
The formation of the Persian Cossack Brigade in 1879 is the only success-
ful case of Qajar state building.45 A total of 400 of the shah’s own men and
another 200 army volunteers formed the first regiment. In 1880, another
regiment of the same strength was formed. These two regiments thus
constituted the only regular force in Iran and were designated as the Cossack
Brigade. A Russian lieutenant-colonel became the first head of the brigade.
In 1914, the total strength of the brigade was 2,754 men, under a Russian
commander. From its establishment, however, the brigade was seen as a
Russian arm of Iranian politics. “Neither the shah nor the government had
any control over the appointment of Russian officers to the brigade. . . . They
were assigned to the brigade without reference to the Iranian government,
which had no knowledge as to when they were to come or when and why
they left.”46 In response, the Iranian government had little incentive to
provide payments to the brigade. By 1907, for example, the Iranian govern-
ment had stopped making payments. Eventually, the brigade’s payment fell
upon customs administration, which reserved the revenue of northern customs
to the brigade. It seems that the Russian government then assumed the cost
of the brigade. After the revolution in Russia, which cut the brigade’s ties
with Russia, the British came in. By 1921, the brigade possessed 300 Iranian
officers and 7,000 men.
The brigade’s involvement in the constitutional struggle in favor of
the shah forced the constitutionalist Iranian government to establish an
alternative military force—the government Gendarmerie—in 1911, under
the supervision of Swedish officers.47 At the end of 1913, the Gendarmerie
possessed 36 Swedes and nearly 6,000 Iranian officers and men. Payments
to the Gendarmerie also became financially troublesome to the Iranian
government, consuming approximately half of the Iranian budget. The
British offered financial help for the force, which was declined. Instead,
German money was sought. German sympathy with the Iranian nationalists
in the Gendarmerie eventually pushed the force into a series of confronta-
tions with the British during the war, which cost the Gendarmerie dearly.
Except for a few Swedish officers and a few hundred men who preferred
neutrality between the Germans and the British, the Gendarmerie lost all
of its men. The post-war Iranian governments rebuilt the Gendarmerie
upon that core Gendarmerie force. Due to the high prestige that it gained
during the war, the Gendarmerie regained its manpower in a short time.
By 1921, it possessed 360 Iranian officers, 358 cadets, and 9,270 men.
Thus throughout the 19th century, state power in military, finance, and
administration gradually deteriorated in Iran. Agha Muhammed Khan, the
first Qajar monarch, was truly a tribal leader, charismatic enough to establish
an alliance among the disunited clans of the Qajar tribe. He lived a very
simple life, eschewing the palace in favor of a tent. His bureaucracy was
minimal, consisting of only three officers other than him: a revenue officer
for the army, an accountant, and a vizier. He carried out all other govern-
ment functions.48 Following his death in 1797, however, Iran faced another
civil disorder. Yet the weakening of the tribal coalition did not result in a
tribal nightmare such as the one that had paralyzed 18th-century Iran.49
The Qajars, in fact, did well in managing the tribal danger—not through
establishing military superiority, but through strategic tactics such as divide
and rule, promoting one tribal group over another, and creating rivalries
among different segments of the society.50 The tribal leaders were also
appointed as governors of provinces, thus securing their loyalty to the center.
The members of the royal family, however, constituted the main pool of
candidates for governorships. Governors, whether tribal leaders or royal family
members, were not paid from the central treasury of fixed monthly salaries,
but were granted the right to collect the taxes in their administrative units. In
return, the governors had to provide troops upon the request of the shah. The
provincial armies under the command of the Qajar princes, and tribal cavalry
forces under their tribal leaders, thus formed the backbone of the Iranian
army in the 19th century. The shah had only the palace guard under his direct
command; this numbered only 2,000 horsemen in 1890.51 The triple structure
of the army continued without much change until the end of the century.
The second half of the 19th century witnessed the increasing sale of
governmental offices of every rank, including governorships, ambassador-
ships, and ministries, through annual auction in the capital. In general,
the positions went to the highest bidder.52 The shah also approached the
Europeans in the second half of the 19th century. The deal was simple: the
shah would grant concessions to an entrepreneur in return for an initial
payment and future share of the profits. In the first grand-scale concession,
a Briton—Baron Julius de Reuter—obtained, in 1872, “the exclusive right
to finance a state bank, farm out the entire customs, exploit all minerals
(with the exception of gold, silver and precious stones), build railways and
tramways for seventy years, and establish all future canals, irrigation works,
roads, telegraph lines, and industrial factories.”53 However, both pressure
from Russia and domestic protests forced the shah to cancel the concession
in 1873. Despite the cancellation, smaller-scale concessions were granted.54
Another big concession was granted in 1890, when the shah, Naser al-Din,
granted the right to produce, sell, and export Iran’s entire tobacco crop to a
British company. This led to a series of huge protests, mainly organized by the
religious scholars of Iran, that forced the shah to cancel the concession once
again in 1892.55 Hence, in the second half of the 19th century, the Qajar
state sold whatever they could: “titles, patents, privileges, concessions,
monopolies, lands, tuyuls (right to collect taxes on crown lands), and most
detrimental of all, high offices—judgeships, ambassadorships, governor-
ships, and even ministries.”56 The monarch remained desperate to generate
new revenues at the close of the 19th century. The process culminated in
the constitutional revolution, when a coalition of bazaar merchants, religious
scholars, and a tiny group of intellectuals rebelled against the shah in December
1905. Unable to move against the protests, the shah granted a constitution to
the country in December 1906, just before his death. This was, however,
just the beginning. Iran once again plunged into a civil war.
THE FAILURE AND THE ULAMA
The Qajars brought peace and order to Iran. In this century, the Shi’a ulama
managed to acquire what the Sunni ulama in the Ottoman lands lacked—
financial independence from the state, organizational capacity within an infor-
mal hierarchical structure, and monopoly over religious services. Financial
independence was made possible by the elimination of the sayyids, the descen-
dants of the Prophet of Islam, as rivals in religious services, who had col-
lected religious taxes up to then. They faced the same fate as the local ulama
families of Iran, losing the prestige and status they had enjoyed during Safavid
rule. During the Qajar period, many of the sayyids entered into the patronage
networks of either Qajar rulers or the ulama. Hence, Shi’a ulama became the
only religious authorities in Iran. Then religious taxes began to accrue into
their hands.
This set in motion a process of selection. Some individuals among the
ulama distinguished themselves as the most learned, increasing their reputa-
tions over time. As their reputations increased, more religious taxes accrued to
them, which made it possible to finance more students in their madrasahs. This,
in turn, brought more followers. This process culminated in the emergence
of an institution called marja-i taqlid (the source of imitation) in the 19th
century.57 It also found a place in the doctrine, which stated that the ulama
as a whole were to imitate the most learned among them. As stated, this
took some time. It evolved over time through the choices of the masses, as
they chose some members of the ulama over others, and in part through the
choices of the ulama themselves. The emergence of marja-i taqlid consider-
ably increased the organizational capacity of Shi’a ulama within an informal
hierarchical structure.
It is important to note that the resurfacing of rival religious movements
in Iran in the meantime gave further impetus to the organization of Shi’a
ulama under this informal hierarchical structure. For example, the Sufis
challenged Shi’a ulama in the Iranian religious market and appealed to some
groups. One of them, Hajji Mirza Aqasi, was even able to gain the loyalty
of the third Qajar shah, Muhammad Shah, and became his highest official
in Iran. The Sufis found patronage during his rule: lands were granted,
new Sufi buildings erected, posts at court and government missions given to
the Sufis, and so forth.58 In addition to the Sufi threat, heterodox religious
movements such as Shaykism, Babism, and Baha’ism emerged and seriously
challenged the authority of Shi’a ulama. Babism, whose originator, Sayyid Ali
Muhammed, claimed that he was the gateway (Bab) to the hidden Imam,59
probably presented the biggest threat to the authority and monopoly of the
ulama, some of whom even faced physical violence from the Babis. Not
only some laymen, but also the lower ranks of Shi’a ulama and theology
students, joined this heterodox religious movement.60 Only with the support
of the Qajar state were the ulama able to remove the threat of the Babi
movement and its leader, who was killed by the state. While Sufism and
other heterodox movements presented varying degrees of challenge to Shi’a
ulama, they could not undermine its monopoly of religious services in Iran.
Instead, these movements forced Shi’a to develop the institution of marja-i
taqlid, thus, as an unintentional consequence, strengthening their hand in
the provision of religious services and, by extension, in local social control
at the expense of the state.
This institution solved some additional problems faced by Shi’a ulama.
It was very likely that the religious taxes produced both competition among
the ulama to attract them and practical problems for the masses, such as
to which particular individual scholar it was better to pay the taxes. These
practical problems, if not resolved, could jeopardize the position of Shi’a
ulama in the society and undermine their respectability. A competition for
the religious taxes could be seen by the masses as being at odds with piety,
abstention, and the honor of being a scholar. The spread of such views
could invite alternative religious groups to gain ground among the masses.
Therefore, the introduction of the institution of marja-i taqlid proved a very
important step for Shi’a ulama for keeping their positions in Iranian society.61
The Qajar state, if we exclude the reign of Muhammad Shah, either helped
or allowed Shi’a ulama to suppress the ability of rival religious groups to get
a foothold in the Iranian religious market. In addition to this general policy
with regard to Shi’a ulama, the Qajar dynasty helped Shi’a ulama in some
other ways.
The Qajars were among the Turkish-speaking tribes of Iran. During the
interregnum following the collapse of Safavid rule, they also fought for
political supremacy in Iran, achieving success under the leadership of Agha
Muhammed Khan in 1779. Following in the footprints of previous rulers,62
the Qajars distributed the lands as pastures among the tribal leaders who
joined their coalition. In return, the tribal leaders were expected to administer
their own tribes, supply men during war, and collect taxes from their tribes for
the Qajar shah. The Qajar family also apportioned some land for themselves,
which would grow in size in the following century. Family members and
people personally attached to the family also staffed the provincial govern-
ments. The governor of a province had to pay tributes to the shah from
taxes collected in the province but remained relatively autonomous in local
affairs. This system continued without any drastic changes throughout
the 19th century, refl ecting the lack of interest on the side of the Qajars
in initiating state building through these means of domination, except for
some sporadic and unsuccessful attempts. Seen from a different angle,
the Iranian case is an example of “patrimonial” state building. This strategy
did not require any challenge of groups close to the rulers, who probably
could have frustrated state builders’ aims and possibly even threatened the
dynasty’s control.
What changed was the size of the court and its beneficiaries. It has been
said that Agha Muhammed Khan, the first Qajar ruler, administered state
affairs with just two ministers and himself. The size of the court increased
considerably during the reign of the second Qajar ruler, Fath Ali Shah. The
rest of the century saw continued growth in the size of the court and its
beneficiaries. To finance the court and its beneficiaries both in the capital
and in the provinces, “taxes were farmed, governorships put up to auction,
and royal or state domains sold.”63 In the second half of the century, the
Qajars also began to look for foreign loans and sold a variety of privileges to
the Europeans in return for more money to finance the court’s beneficiaries
and the shah’s expensive trips to Europe.
With the rise of the Qajars, Shi’a ulama returned to Iran at an official level.
During the early years of the 19th century, the Qajars extensively supported
the ulama both politically and economically for reasons on which we can
only speculate. The most probable seems that the Qajars were nomadic
and alien to the native Iranians. Thus, they probably saw the ulama as a
good urban ally, helping their rule to be easily accepted, especially, by urban
groups. The ulama, in turn, needed the Qajars in order to be reincorporated
into Iranian urban society. Hence, from the reign of Fath Ali Shah onward,
the Qajars included the ulama and their religious organizations, theology
schools, and shrines among the main beneficiaries of court disbursements.
Throughout their rule, shrines had been embellished and repaired, mosques
constructed, the ulama paid, theology schools erected and endowed, gifts given
to the ulama and the shrines, interventions of the ulama for extending par-
dons to rebels and criminals accepted, the advice of the ulama sought, waqf
lands confiscated by Nadir Shah restored, and tax exemptions granted to
the ulama.64 The Qajar dynasty’s support of Shi’a ulama went to the extent
of suppressing the Babi movement, which challenged the religious authority
of Shi’a ulama in Iran. This implicit cooperation between the state and the
ulama even found its place in Shi’a doctrine: Qashfi (d.1850–1851) claimed
that in the period of occultation,65 the religious and political jurisdiction
of the imam was to be appropriated by the political rulers and the ulama.
He further claimed that the ulama willingly left the political jurisdiction of
the imam to the political power of the time; in return, the political power
left the religious sphere to the ulama.66
The failure of state building during the Qajar period consolidated the
position of the ulama among the urban groups even further. The Qajars
left the ulama almost autonomous in the administration of religious foun-
dations and educational and legal services. Theology schools provided
manpower that the ulama could muster in case of necessity. Religious
foundations enabled them to provide public services to the people, acting
as the guardians of orphans and widows.
INTEGRATION WITH THE WORLD CAPITALIST
ECONOMY AND THE ULAMA
Failed state-building attempts in Qajar Iran not only left intermediary bodies
intact, but also strengthened them in the course of the 19th century. For
example, the guilds could organize their members in mass protests against
the shah, who wanted to raise financial resources through concessions to
foreign firms toward the end of the 19th century. In one such protest, as
mentioned before, the shah cancelled a tobacco concession granted to a
British firm after mass protests organized by the guilds and Shi’a scholars.
The most effective weapon the guilds could use was forcing their members
to close their shops and paralyze the local economies.
At the same time, the provincial administrators and tribal chiefs appro-
priated state land as their personal property. The merchants also bought
estates as Qajar rulers began to sell state land in order to raise money to
cover their expenditure. High-ranking religious scholars who administered
religious endowments also acquired huge estates in this time period. Thus,
toward the end of the 19th century, a class of major landowners emerged in
Iran. Ann Lambton marks the Qajar period as “the final break-up of the old
system of land-holding”67 due to the conversion of state land into private
property. As an example, she points to Isfahan, where all state land but for
some ruined villages was sold in the latter half of the 19th century. M. Ali
Kazimbeyki provides more detailed information from the Mazandaran
region. By 1848, most of the 1,000 villages in Mazandaran were state land,
and a considerable proportion was granted in return for military service.
In 1888, the government owned only 50 villages in the province. The rest
of the lands became hereditary assignments to certain individuals. In 1899,
that number decreased to 4 unsold villages. In the early 20th century, it was
not the shah but local powers who were the largest landowners in the province.
The state’s land in Mazandaran also fell into the possession of either the
courtiers or a few wealthy merchants from Tehran.68 The landowners in Iran
did not constitute a distinctively new class. Instead, it is better to consider
them a hybrid class of former high-ranking state officials, merchants, and
high-ranking religious scholars who also invested in land.
The Qatar state engaged in neither road nor railroad building.69 As a
result, transportation within Iran was extremely difficult due to rough terrain.
The state did not introduce the necessary legal regulations for market-friendly
institutions such as property rights. Neither a system of courts nor any other
mechanism existed in order to enforce contracts. Arbitrary confiscation
was widespread. The legal system was extremely slow. Ann Lambton, for
example, recounts lively examples of two Iranian merchants who could not
solve their business problems in more than two decades through the formal
legal system, although both the shah and British envoys intervened on their
behalf.70 In a well-written biography, Shireen Mahdavi depicts the fascinat-
ing life story of a 19th-century Iranian merchant, Hajj Mohammad Hasan
Amin al-Zarb. He made his enormous wealth despite a variety of problems,
including confiscation, even though he had strong ties with the court in
Tehran and even served as a minister of mint.71 Ironically, the same barriers
that an Iranian merchant had to face in his business life made the Iranian
market inaccessible to foreigners. The extremely low number of foreigners
in Iran at the beginning of the 20th century adduces to this fact. In other
words, the Iranian market remained in the hands of Iranian merchants.
In due course, the high-ranking ulama became extremely rich, to the
extent that they could establish business deals with rich merchants and
lend money at high interest rates, all of which helped solidify ties between
the ulama and the merchant class. This linkage was further strengthened
through marriage alliances between the ulama and the merchants.72 The
merchants, apart from finding business partners, also found support in the
ulama’s power to reverse policies that were detrimental to their interests.73
The tobacco concession of 1891 represents a classic example of ulama-
merchant alliance against the Qajar rule. This concession granted the right of
sale and distribution of tobacco in Iran, and the monopoly over exporting all
tobacco produced in Iran, to a British company, the Imperial Tobacco Coop-
eration. The company, in return, would pay fifteen million pounds a year
to the shah. The Shi’a ulama and merchants’ opposition to the concession
began immediately after the concession was granted. The merchants closed
down their shops, paralyzing the market in towns. The ulama stopped
teaching in the theology schools and mobilized the masses against the shah.
The ulama went as far as issuing a religious order “declaring the use of
tobacco in any form to be tantamount to war against the Hidden Imam.”74
Eventually, the shah had to cancel the concession. Thus, the last decades of
the Qajar rule feature an ever-weakening state in the face of an urban alli-
ance led by Shi’a ulama. The weakening state left a “power vacuum,” as
Keddie (1972) calls it, inviting the ulama to fill it: “In Iran, however, there
is rise in ulama power, which is directly related to a governmental ‘power
vacuum.’ ”75
NOTES
1. Trimingham (1998:54).
2. See the discussion on the difference between Turkish and Iranian Sufisms in
Ülken (2004).
3. See a detailed discussion in Mazzaoui (1972).
4. Mazzaoui (1972:53).
5. Quoted in Mazzaoui (1972:62).
6. As such, a Sunni writer, Fadl Allah ibn Ruzbihan Hungi, describes the transfor-
mation the Safawiyya order underwent. Quoted in Mazzaoui (1972:72–73).
7. See Sümer (1992) on the role of Anatolian Turks in the establishment of the
Safavid Empire.
8. This discussion of the Safawiyya order’s rise to power in Iran depends partly
on Mazzaoui (1972), but mostly on Roemer (1986).
9. Algar (1976:139). Algar (1976) recounts very nicely the history of the
Naqshibandi order and its political significance.
10. On the Khalweti order, see Martin (1972).
11. For more on the revival of Dhahabi order, see Lewisohn (1999).
12. Uyar (2000–2001).
13. “Ismailism is a branch of Shi’ite Islam which differs from Ithna ‘Ashari Shi’ism
in viewing Isma’il ibn Ja’far rather than Musa ibn Ja’far as the seventh imam.”
See Pourjavady and Wilson (1975:113). For the connections between Ismailis
and Ni’matullahis, see Pourjavady and Wilson (1975).
14. Arjomand (1984:116–118).
15. For more on the revival of Ni’matullahi order, see Lewisohn (1998).
16. Lewisohn (1998:441).
17. Quoted in Lewisohn (1998:440).
18. Recounted in Pourjavady and Wilson (1975:120–121).
19. For these and other Shi’ite scholars who contributed to high Sufism, see Nasr
(1986).
20. Cited in Momen (1985:115).
21. Momen (1985:116).
22. Turner (2000). See a very sound critique of the book in Rizvi (2003).
23. Quoted in Moin (1999:276). The Feiziyeh is a madrasah in Qum, Iran.
24. These zawiyahs belonged to twelve different Sufi orders. See Albayrak (1996).
25. See Akyol (1999) for a persuasive case for this assertion.
26. Hillenbrand (1986:759).
27. The forthcoming discussion owes to Arjomand (1984, 1988) and Algar (1983).
28. As I described here, this was not unique to Iran. In the Ottoman Empire as
well, Sufi orders were among the masses as their spiritual leaders.
29. Arjomand (1984:125).
30. Algar (1983:15) continues, “One finds one of the earliest among them, for
example, a certain Shaykh Ahmad Karaki, even writing a treatise defending
the practice which was to be found, not only in Iran, but in neighboring Sunni
countries, of prostration before the monarch.”
31. Uyar (2004:111).
32. Arjomand (1983:138).
33. Arjomand (1984:123).
34. Momen (1985:116).
35. See more details on this point in chapter 9 of Momen (1985) and Arjomand
(1984:155–159).
36. Arjomand (1984:156).
37. Cited in Arjomand (1988:21).
38. Arjomand (1984:215–217).
39. Litvak (1990:33).
40. Keddie (1972:226).
41. Arjomand (1988:12).
42. This period is vividly depicted by Avery (1991), Perry (1991), and Hambly
(1991), all in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 7.
43. See Martin (1996) for further discussion of British help.
44. Abrahamian (1982:52).
45. The following discussion is based upon chapter 2 in Cronin (1997).
46. Cronin (1997:55).
47. The following discussion is based upon chapter 1 in Cronin (1997).
48. For the development of Qajar administration in their early years, see Meredith
(1971).
49. See Lambton (1977) for the details of the tribal resurgence in 18th-century
Iran.
50. See Abrahamian (1982:41–49) for more detailed discussion of these strategies
of survival.
51. Arjomand (1988:24).
52. See Sheikholeslami (1971) on the sale of offices in the second half of the 19th
century.
54. See Abrahamian (1982:55–56) for examples.
55. For the details of the tobacco grant and its cancellation, see Keddie (1966) and
Algar (1969).
57. See Moussavi (1985, 1994).
58. Algar (1969) discusses the reign of Muhammad Shah in detail in chapter 6.
59. It will be clear why this was against Shi’a ulama when I discuss Shi’a doctrine
in the next chapter. Simply, Shi’a ulama claimed that they were the representa-
tives of the imams. Therefore, the Bab clashed with the ulama.
60. One estimates that 400 ulama accepted Babism. Cited in Algar (1969:148).
61. Sometimes a single individual, sometimes a few individuals, occupied the
office of marja-i taqlid. The first marja-i taqlid was Muhammad Hasan Najafi
(d.1850), who was followed by Morteda al-Ansari (d.1869) and Mirda Shi-
razi (d.1895). After Shirazi, a period of multiple marja-i taqlid followed,
such as Shirazi Khurusani (d.1911), Tabataba’I Yazdi (d.1918), Taqi Shirazi
(d.1920), Isfahani (d.1920), Naini (d.1936), Hairi (d.1936), and Hasan Isfah-
ani (d.1946). Between 1946 and 1961, Burujirdi appeared as the single marja.
After his death, the office was held by eight mujtahids, including Khomeini. See
Moussavi (1994:292).
62. Lambton (1991:459) says, “The Qajar land system was inherited from the
Safavids and goes through the Ilkhans and Saljuqs to the early centuries of
Islam.”
63. Keddie (1972:213). Classical references are Sheikholeslami (1971, 1977).
64. Algar (1969) details all these activities for each Qajar ruler until 1905.
65. Shi’a Islam believes that only the descendants of the Islam Prophet have legiti-
macy to rule. They count twelve of them, where the last one went into occulta-
tion. I will discuss the doctrinal aspects in the next chapter.
66. Uyar (2004).
67. Lambton (1969:151). Ann Lambton’s study is a classic in the study of land
holding in Iran.
68. Kazimbeyki (2003:100–102).
69. In contrast to the absence of railroads, by 1913, Egypt had 4,500 kilometers,
and the Ottoman Empire had 3,500 kilometers of railroads. See Issawi (1993).
70. See Lambton (1987).
71. See Mahdavi (1999).
72. Lambton (1993:166).
73. Algar (1969) gives us a historically detailed account of how the urban alliance
under the leadership of the ulama grew against the Qajar dynasty. This process
would culminate into the constitutional revolution of 1905.
74. Algar (1969:211). See chapter 12 in Algar (1969) for more detail. Keddie
(1966) is a more detailed historical source on the tobacco concession.
75. Keddie (1972:213–214).
5 Separationist State Secularization
in Pahlavi Iran
This chapter explains why state secularization was separationist in Iran.

The chapter argues that two factors were critical to the outcome. First, the
reformers introduced secularizing reforms after they had already consoli-
dated their powers. Hence, there was no strategic urgency to take on the
cost of incorporating religion into the state. Second, religious community
had an alternative source of power in society and so could more peacefully
part from the state and the regime.
The chapter starts with an account of how the reformers in Iran came
to power; the discussion is needed to get a sense of the strategic context of
state secularization. Prior to the reform period, Iran did not experience an
exhausting international war, but rather had its own tragedy—civil war.
The chapter goes on to describe the impact of the civil war on the religious
community/institutions. Finally it discusses how and why the state and the
religious community/institutions separated in Iran.
STRATEGIC CONTEXT: THE COMING

TO POWER OF REZA SHAH
On July 19, 1906, fifty clerics and merchants opposing the Iranian govern-
ment took sanctuary in the garden of the British legation in Gulahek, a town
close to Tehran, having obtained an informal promise by the head of the
legation, Grant Duff, not to use military force to expel them. Religious leaders
and their students, numbering 1,000, took sanctuary and joined in demon-
strations against the government in the city of Qum to show their support.
The number of people claiming sanctuary gradually increased to 14,000
and included merchants, traders and clerics, intellectuals, and students.1
A committee formed by the protesters to negotiate their demands with the
government demanded a written constitution and the opening of a parliament.
On August 5, 1906, the shah of Iran, Muzaffar al-Din, capitulated to the
demands of the protesters. The electorate was divided into six groups:
the princes and the shah’s tribe, the aristocracy and the nobles, the clerics
(the ulama) and their theology students, the landowners and the farmers, the
merchants, and the guilds. Elections were held, and parliament was con-
vened in October 1906. The shah also ratified the constitution proposed by
parliament, in December 1906, just before his death.
In the beginning of 1907, the new shah, Muhammad Ali, and his court
seemed alone against the whole country. However, the revolutionaries
could not keep up their unity for long and began to fragment in mid-1907:
“A new phenomenon made its appearance in the streets: the conservative
crowd demonstrating for the court and against the constitution. . . . They
[the constitutionalists] had lost the monopoly of the streets.”2 The same
conservative societal elements swelled the ranks of the royalists, merchants,
craftsmen, clerics, and theology students, supported by aristocrats. The
ensuing two years witnessed street battles between the supporters of the
shah and the constitutionalists. Although disunity among the crowd boosted
the shah’s efforts to bring the old regime back, the constitutionalists forced
the new shah to sign the supplementary constitution, which took place in
October 1907. A failed assassination attempt on the shah in mid-1908 was
a turning point. He staged a coup against the government: he first ordered
the Russian-led Cossack Brigade3 to bomb parliament, and then he dissolved
parliament.
The military balance between the constitutionalists and the royalists
tilted in favor of the constitutionalists in 1909 when the Bahktiyari tribal
and Caucasian fighters joined in the struggle on their side. The entry of these
new constitutionalist forces into Tehran in 1909 concluded the civil war.
The shah of Iran, Muhammad Ali, took refuge in the Russian embassy and
abdicated in favor of his twelve-year-old son, Ahmad Shah. New elections
were held, and parliament met again in November 1909.
The main outcome of the constitutional revolution was twofold: the
elimination of the shah’s court as an executive power and the installation of
a powerful legislative body in its place. Without a strong executive, parlia-
ment would not achieve much, mainly due to the opposition to the proposed
reforms from entrenched groups, such as the aristocracy and the ulama, in
parliament. The parliamentary “proceedings increasingly looked like end-
less pointless squabbles, a waste of time that got the country nowhere. While
the country was burning, it seemed that the Majlis [parliament] was playing
second fiddle to the parliaments of Europe.”4 The only notable achievement
in the meantime was the creation of an internal security force, called the
Gendarmerie, with Swedish help.
To reform the finances of the country, an American economist, William
Morgan Shuster, was employed as the treasurer-general, to protests from
Britain and Russia. The end came when Shuster’s measures confl icted with
Russian interests. An ultimatum to dismiss Shuster was defied by parlia-
ment as Russian troops marched toward Tehran. Parliament was dissolved
in 1911, and Shuster was dismissed.
The decade following 1911 brought further decentralization of power
due to the failure of successive cabinets to implement ameliorating reforms.
Separationist State Secularization in Pahlavi Iran 97
A report to the British Foreign Office dated 1914 claimed that the central
government had lost control outside the capital.5 The First World War made
the situation even worse for the Iranians, despite the fact that the Iranian
government claimed neutrality in the war. British, Russian, and Turkish
armies conducted military operations on Iranian territory and occupied various
parts of the country. The government of Iran could do nothing to prevent
this occupation. In the meantime, tribalism became rampant. “Brigandage
and tribal lawlessness were alarming. Highway robbery was universal; in
fact, highway men often raided towns and, in the absence of any authority,
sometimes remained, wrecking all economic activity.”6
In the face of these challenges, the central government came to the brink
of total collapse. The extent of the political crisis can be assessed by looking
at the change in intellectual opinion regarding the appropriate political
solution for the problems of the country. For Iranian intellectuals the model
to be emulated became not the constitutional monarchies of Europe, but
rather fascist Italy. “While the early generation of reformers saw progress
as possible only through a constitutional regime, the reformers of the 1920s
began to see democracy as an impediment to progress.”7
In the meantime, the clerics became disillusioned with the constitutional
revolution as the costs of participating in the revolution began to accumulate.
First, they lost their unity as a social stratum. Some, like Sayyid Muhammad
Tabatabai, Sayyid Abd-Allah Bihbahani, and Shaikh Abd-Allah Mazanda-
rani, sided with the constitutionalists, while others, like Shaikh Fazl-Allah
Nuri and Sayyid Muhammad Kazim Yazdi, sided with the royalists. Yet the
dividing line was one of theological disagreement, which would lose its impor-
tance when the ulama united against the Russian invasion of Iran in 1911 and
issued their religious authorization for the defense of the country. Second, and
more importantly, two clerics were executed, Shaikh Fazl-Allah Nuri in 1909
by the revolutionary forces and Sayyid Abd-Allah Bihbahani in 1910 by the
radical constitutionalists. The disillusionment caused by their most sustained
involvement in politics brought about a partial withdrawal from politics.8
The strong man desperately looked for by Iranian intellectuals would
appear on February 21, 1921. The commander of the Cossack Brigade, Reza
Khan, marched toward Tehran with 3,000 men and overthrew the existing
government in the capital without any resistance from the Gendarmerie
or the Central Brigade in Tehran. Reza Khan was not, however, the
sole mastermind of this coup. Two Gendarme officers, Major Mas’ud Khan
Kayhan and Captain Kazim Khan Sayyah, acted in cooperation with him.
Sayyid Ziya Tabatabai, a civilian journalist in Tehran, became the prime
minister of a new government, Major Kayhan the minister of war in the
cabinet, Captain Sayyah the military governor of Tehran, and Reza Khan
the de facto commander of the army.
The unity among the instigators of the coup was soon to dissolve. Reza
Khan’s Cossack Brigade engaged in a bitter struggle with Sayyid Ziya and
the Gendarmerie. The power of the Gendarmerie peaked in the immediate
post-coup period: it was bigger than the brigade in size; Gendarmerie officers
held the military governorships of Tehran and of several provincial capitals
and the Ministry of War; and it had prestige that the brigade had never
enjoyed. Yet Reza Khan proved to be a most intriguing and skillful politician.
First, he succeeded in removing Major Kayhan, his Gendarmerie collaborator,
from the post of minister of war. Reza Khan himself became the minister of
war, while keeping his post as commander-in-chief of the army. In the next
step, he succeeded in removing his other collaborator, Kazim Khan Sayyah,
from the post of military governor of Tehran. In Sayyah’s place, a friend
from the brigade was appointed. Reza Khan soon succeeded in putting the
Gendarmerie under the authority of the Ministry of War, which he headed
at that time.
Reza Khan also played the nationalist card. His last collaborator, Sayyid
Ziya, was trying to secure more executive authority for British officers. Reza
Khan initiated a campaign to expel all foreign officers from the army. His
success came at the expense of Sayyid Ziya, who was asked to resign by
the shah. All these achievements became possible because Reza Khan could
secure the support of the Qajar shah, who had the authority to approve
official appointments, through his frequent expressions of loyalty to the
shah. In early July 1921, after less than five months, Reza Khan had thus
cleared the field of all his collaborators in the coup. As minister of war, he
also increased the size of the brigade from 7,000 to 17,000 by August 1921.9
Meanwhile, as a protest against the ousting of Sayyid Ziya as prime minister,
Gendarmerie officer Muhammad Taqi Khan Pasyan rebelled against Tehran
in Mashad, where his troops were stationed. Yet the tribal rebellions in the
eastern provinces overwhelmed his forces. In an engagement with the Kurdish
tribes, Colonel Pasyan was killed in October 1921. The most dangerous
obstacle for Reza Khan thus luckily disappeared. In December 1921, Reza
Khan announced the unification of the brigade and the Gendarmerie and the
removal of all Swedish officers from their posts. In January 1922, another
Gendarmerie officer, Major Abu’l Qasim Khan Lahuti, incited a rebellion in
Azerbaijan. The Gendarmes could effectively force the retreat of the military
forces sent from Tehran to put down the rebellion, and they set up a revo-
lutionary committee in Tabriz. But another force sent from Tehran crushed
the rebellion and established central control over Tabriz.
Reza Khan also sought popular support. He immediately took a more
aggressive stance in solving the most urgent need of the country, the resto-
ration of internal order and security, by suppressing tribal rebellions. As
discussed previously, because of the civil war that had erupted in Iran in the
constitutional period, highway robbery and brigandage had been menacing
the countryside, and the looting of towns had been rampant. By 1921,
large-scale political and tribal rebellions began in provinces such as Gilan,
Azerbaijan, Kurdistan, Luristan, Khuzistan, Fars, and Mokran. After merging
the two military units, the Cossack Brigade and the Gendarmerie, Reza
Khan began to conduct a series of campaigns against the tribes and local
rulers. These were not always successful, but he eventually put down tribal
revolts in Azerbaijan, Luristan, Kurdistan, Fars, and Khorasan. His deter-
mination to establish internal security and order won him much popularity
among urban Iranians.10
Reza Khan also sought the support of the Shi’a ulama in his struggle.11
An opportunity arose when the British, by then the colonial rulers of neigh-
boring Iraq, expelled two prominent Shi’a ulama, Sayyid Abol Hassan
Isfahani and Shaikh Muhammad Hussein Naini, from Najaf in Iraq. Reza
Khan allowed them to come to Iran and settle in Qum. In April 1924, after
visiting them in Qum, Reza Khan made a public statement: “My only personal
aim and method from the beginning has been, and is, to preserve and guard
the majesty of Islam and the independence of Iran.”12 In return, Isfahani and
Naini issued a religious order, or fatwa, saying that obedience to Reza Shah
was a religious duty. After Isfahani and Naini returned to Iraq, Reza Shah
visited them in Najaf during a pilgrimage he performed to the holy shrines
of Najaf and Karbala.13 All these (and other) exchanges between Reza Shah
and the two prominent Shi’a ulama, and Reza Shah’s public shows of piety,
also won him approval among the Shi’a ulama.
His rising popularity among the urban groups, the support of the Shi’a
ulama, his skills in political intrigue, and the strong loyalty of his comrades
in the former Cossack Brigade enabled him to overcome all attempts to oust
him from power. He also succeeded, between 1921 and 1926, in eliminat-
ing, one by one, his potential rivals, especially among the ex-Gendarmerie
officers.14 Eventually, in October 1925, the fifth parliament deposed the last
Qajar shah, Ahmed Shah, from the throne, by eighty-five to five votes with
thirty abstentions, and appointed Reza Shah as the regent. Reza Shah in
return banned gambling and the sale of alcohol and promised to enforce
the laws of Islam. The sixth parliament, which was convened in December
1925, after the deposition of Ahmed Shah, unanimously (with only three
abstentions) declared Reza Shah the monarch of Iran. In the sixth parlia-
ment, 40 percent of the deputies were ulama. Reza Shah did not forget to
express his gratitude to them in the speech he delivered at his coronation:
“My special attention has been and will continue to be given to the pres-
ervation of the principles of religion and the strengthening of its founda-
tions because I consider the complete reinforcing of religion one of the most
effective means of achieving national unity and strengthening the spirit of
Iranian society.”15
SEPARATIONIST STATE SECULARIZATION IN IRAN
An incorporation of secularization reforms into this story reveals that the

political and socioeconomic contexts of the reforms were different in Iran
compared to Turkey. Unlike the latter, secularization reforms were undertaken
in Iran after the new regime consolidated its hold onto power in Iran.
State-building reforms affecting the religious community/institutions fall
into three broad categories: educational reforms, legal reforms, and other
reforms that undermine the financial resources of the religious community/
institutions. Legal reforms in Iran started in 1927 with the reorganization
of the Ministry of Justice, which began to be staffed with new personnel
who had obtained their legal education in Europe. The new staff replaced
the clerics in the ministry. The ministry introduced new regulations on legal
procedures and thus constrained the independent actions of what had been,
up to that time, religious judges in state offices. A new civil code was intro-
duced in 1926 and was ratified by parliament in 1928. Yet this was not
a radical change, since the code combined existing religious law and the
French civil code:16 “In the parts dealing with general subjects . . . it was a
verbatim translation of the civil code of France. But in matters of personal
status it was a codification, simplification, and unification of the shari’ah.”17
The parliament passed a law in 1931 defining the religious courts as special
courts. The law limited the jurisdiction of religious courts to marriage,
divorce, and the appointment of guardians and trustees. The religious courts
could only decide whether an accused was guilty or not. Only state attor-
neys could pass sentences on those who were found guilty. The law also
stipulated that the state courts were superior to the religious courts and that
only the former could refer cases to the latter, and not the reverse. Finally,
a law concerning the reorganization of the judiciary and the employment
of the judges was passed in 1936 and made it almost impossible for clerics
to serve as judges in the courts. The law specified that only the holder of a
degree from the Tehran Faculty of Law or from a foreign university could
sit as a judge in the courts. It further required that the judges in the ministry
“who do not possess such a degree must pass special examinations in Iranian
and foreign law in order to remain in the employ of the Ministry, and, at
any rate, may not rise above the rank of six on an eleven point promotion
scale.”18 This law prevented clerics from serving in the ministry.19
The educational reforms in Iran began with the improvement and expan-
sion of elementary and secondary schools. The expansion of the public school
system reduced the number of students and teachers in religious schools.
First, the graduates of public schools had better job opportunities, especially
in state employment. For example, the law mentioned earlier made a degree
from the University of Tehran mandatory for judges. Second, several laws
provided opportunities for state officials to harass religious students.20
An example of these laws, the Uniformity of Dress Law, passed in 1928,
required all males to wear European dress and hat. Although clerics were
exempted from this law, another law passed in 1929 tightened the condi-
tions for exemptions for students and teachers, with their status having to
be approved by the Ministry of Education. Another track in educational
reforms was taken by increasing the control of the state over religious
schools. A government decree was issued in 1929 and specified that the
Ministry of Education would establish boards to examine religious students
in Persian and Arabic language and literature, jurisprudence, and logic.
In addition to this, a person had to pass examinations to get a certificate to
be a teacher in a religious school. A law of 1930 specified the examination
schedule for religious schools. In 1934, the Ministry of Education took
over the responsibility for providing a curriculum to be followed in the
theological colleges.
In Iran, the state began to increase its control over the pious foundations,
the waqfs, with the ratification of the civil code in 1928. Yet the most exten-
sive regulation came with the ratification of the Endowments Law in 1934
and the passing of an administrative statute in 1935. These steps broadened
the jurisdiction of the department of endowments over the waqfs. After these
changes, the department was authorized to take over the administration of
all waqfs lacking a known administrator. More importantly, the department
would oversee “revenues, expenditures; registration of property, contesting
claims, initiating legal proceedings; approving or rejecting applications for
long-term leases; and ‘comprehensive supervision over all matters related
to the interests of the endowment.’ ”21 The department was also authorized
to approve or reject budgets submitted to it. These measures allowed the
state to take over many religious schools. Another measure taken by the
state in this area was the passing of the Law Concerning the Registration
of Documents and Property in 1932. Previously, the religious courts had
monopolized the registration of legal documents related to property, marriage,
and divorce. As Banani notes, such notarial work had constituted the largest
source of revenue for religious organizations. The law required that all
documentation be registered only in the state courts.22
As this discussion illustrates, the consolidation of the new regime and
secularization reforms happened successively, not simultaneously, a fact that
had an impact on the type of secular state that emerged in Iran. The new
state rulers in Iran came to political power through a coup d’état amidst
the civil disorder that gripped Iran. The coup was most welcomed by the
urban groups who had been under constant tribal threat. Through succes-
sive military campaigns under the direction of Reza Khan, the state could
pacify the tribal elements and bring internal order and peace to the country.
“Reza Khan’s military leadership, and later government, attracted a good
deal of support from an even larger public because of the peace and stability
which it bought.”23 This achievement of the state rulers against the tribes
further helped the new rulers consolidate their hold on power and increased
their prestige, especially among the urban groups.24
The support of the religious community added further speed to the
consolidation of their power, whose support in the parliament enabled
the new rulers to depose the Qajar dynasty and replace it with the Pahlavi
dynasty. These two acts marked the consolidation of the power of the new
state rulers in late 1925. Hence, when the new state rulers introduced these
reforms affecting religious community/institutions, it must be remembered
that they had already consolidated their power and hence created a relatively
safe political environment. Once the reforms started in Iran, there was no
serious possibility of a nationwide rebellion against the new state rulers.
As for protests led by the ulama against the state-building measures, the
show of even a small-scale military reaction would prove to be a highly
persuasive device to stop their evolution.25
The distinguishing feature of the reforms in Iran, as emphasized so far,
was the lack of political competition among the state rulers in the same
degree as we observed in Turkey. Thus, there was no strategic incentive for
the state rulers to merge religious institutions with the state apparatus in an
attempt to undermine the possibility of a coalition forming against them.
Ironically, the state was weaker overall than the state in Turkey. When the
new rulers came to power in Iran, they inherited a failed state from the
previous period, as evidenced by the extreme fragmentation of power in
that society. As the discussion in the previous section showed, the central
authority in Iran had no central army to enforce peace and order beyond the
boundaries of the capital, Tehran. Creating internal order and security was
at the top of the agenda of every government established during the period,
but success was spectacularly lacking in this area.26 The only effective military
force in the country was the Cossack Brigade, which numbered just 4,000.
Moreover, this force had served as a Russian tool during the period up to
1917 and had been staffed by Russian officers. Reza Khan could rise to the
top of this military force only after the Russian revolution, which allowed
purges in the army as the Cossack militia lost its primary foreign backing.
At this point, the force of foreign fighters became more politically depen-
dent upon their Iranian patron. When Reza Khan marched toward Tehran
to take over the government, the incumbent government could do nothing
but accept the takeover. This centralized power of the newcomers, however,
did not extend beyond the capital. When the country faced the danger of
invasion by the Russians and the British, it was not the state officials who
organized local militias to defend Iran, but the clerics.
Thus, in administration, the army, education, and the legal system, the new
rulers of Iran and Turkey inherited opposite legacies from their predecessors.
Refl ecting this, in a book comparing the reforms of Mustafa Kemal Pasha
and Reza Khan, Eric Jan Zürcher, says, “When looked at from an Ottoman
perspective, therefore, the task that faced Reza Khan, and his accomplish-
ments, resemble those of the reforming Sultan Mahmud II (1808–39) as
much as they do Atatürk’s.”27 While Reza Khan had first to build the very
basics of modern state, Mustafa Kemal Pasha was at a much more advanta-
geous position: he could build on the Ottoman Empire’s former investments
on a European-style army and state bureaucracy.
The new state rulers in Iran needed financial resources for more immediate
needs than incorporating religious institutions. First and foremost, they had
to build an army almost from scratch and demilitarize the tribes to provide
internal security.28 Between 1921 and 1941, an average of 33.5 percent of
the total state revenue was spent on the army. Oil revenues, which were not
included in the budget, were largely allocated to military purchases of ships,
planes, and tanks.29 On the other hand, the state allocated only 4 percent
of its total expenditure to education.30 Although the state revenues went to
the army, the state could not even pay the army field officers well or feed the
soldiers.31 Moreover, it took time for the state to recover from its financial
weakness. It was not until 1932 that oil revenues increased, after an agree-
ment between Iran and the British Petroleum Company. Oil revenues still
accounted for a small share of government revenue and even in 1937/1938
were just 13 percent of the total.32
In addition to the weakness of the state in Iran, the high organizational
capacity of the religious community would also have made a “merger” a
very costly choice for the state rulers. A high organizational capacity of the
religious community increases the cost of merger for three reasons. First,
it allows them to bargain with state rulers collectively. This implies higher
wages for the members of the religious community. Second, incorporating
such a religious community into the state creates a state within a state and
thus poses a more direct challenge for state rulers. Third, less bureaucratic
states incur more costs in creating new posts within the state apparatus.33
Religious institutions in Iran presented a different picture, in terms of
internal organization, from the picture in Turkey. They were administered
and staffed by the same hierarchically structured group of religious scholars,
the ulama, who were tightly connected with each other through the networks
of religious schools (medrese), mosques, and shrines. At the top of the ulama
hierarchy stood the religious scholar called the marja-i taqlid, or the source
of emulation. “Superiority in learning is generally held to be the primary
prerequisite for the selection of marja’, though no clear cut set of criteria
governs the choice. Ultimately, the followers (those who are muqallid to the
marja’) decide which marja’ to follow. Ideally, one mujtahid is so renowned
and revered for his knowledge and piety that he is recognized as the object
of emulation for all Shi’a in matters of religious law.”34 The superiority in
knowledge and the sheer number of followers and students determine the
scholar who will occupy this top position. Yet there were times when several
members of the ulama occupied this position.35 Below the position of
marja-i taqlid stood the body of religious scholars, the mujtahids, who had
permission to issue authoritative opinions on Islamic law. This second tier
of religious scholars was also divided into two groups. The religious class,
called the mulla, occupied the lowest ranks among the ulama. They served
different functions such as leaders of daily prayers, preachers, instructors,
and reciters of religious tragedies.36 The lowest ranks of the ulama, while
performing these functions, also represented the marja they followed in
their localities and collected religious taxes in the name of the marja from
his followers. In return, the mulla were paid almost half of the religious
taxes they collected, giving these groups far more autonomy than their
counterparts in Turkey enjoyed. Therefore, religious institutions of all sorts,
such as religious schools, courts, endowments, shrines, and all other rituals,
were administered and staffed by this hierarchically structured group of
religious scholars. The ulama of Iran were also divided; the top echelon of
the ulama, especially, frequently disagreed with each other. Yet these matters
were mostly ideological issues, such as the extent of involvement in political
events and so forth.37 In emergencies the ulama could easily suppress ideo-
logical disagreements and act in unison.
Even if the Iranian state rulers had wanted to incorporate the religious
institutions for some other reason, such as to staff the growing bureaucracy,
the opportunity cost of incorporation for the religious community was still
very high. There are several reasons for this.
First, Iranian society had gone through a different experience from Turkish
society in the period prior to the rise of Reza Shah. It did not experience
any interstate war, but rather underwent civil disorder. As it had the Ottoman
economy, the First World War also paralyzed the Iranian economy. But
the broader society did not have to provide significant economic or human
resources for a war effort. This is evident from the population statistics.
Iran’s population was 10.5 million in 1910. It became 11.3 million in 1920,
a 7 percent increase.38 Also, the population did not suffer from large-scale
dislocations or migrations. Even the invasion of Iran in this period by
Russia and Britain did not lead to any society-wide mobilization of human
and economic resources. In fact, there was no central authority that could
have organized that. With no central authority to mobilize them, the urban
dwellers, such as the merchants, craftsmen, money lenders, religious organi-
zations, and absentee landowners, simply had to take care of themselves
against the independent tribal forces. This common enemy strengthened
the interrelationships among these groups, which had already formed a
common alliance (further strengthened by intergroup marriages)39 against
the Iranian shah in the 19th century. As discussed earlier, it was the power
of this alliance that forced the shah to grant a constitution and to open
the parliament.
The economic institution called the bazaar served as a center around
which this alliance materialized. It was the bazaar where “landowners sold
their crops, craftsmen manufactured their goods, tradesmen marketed their
wares, borrowers raised loans, and philanthropic businessmen endowed
mosques and maktabs (traditional schools). The bazaar was, in fact, the
granary, the workshop, the marketplace, the bank, the religious nucleus, and
the educational center of the whole society . . . each craft, trade and occupation
was tightly structured into asnaf (guilds), with their own separate organi-
zation, hierarchy, traditions, ceremonies, and sometimes even their own
dialects.”40 This institution served not only an economic purpose but also
a political purpose in helping these groups to organize and act collectively.
As the previous chapter discussed, the ulama in Iran had been a part
of this grand urban coalition, mostly serving as their leaders, especially in
political events leading to the constitutional revolution. The leadership of
the ulama was evident in the disproportionate ratio of ulama deputies in
parliament, partly because most of the guilds chose members of the ulama
as their representatives.41 The leadership of the ulama and their strong ties
with the societal forces made them a formidable group in the politics of Iran.
Nonreligious intellectuals had to appeal to the ulama to arouse nationalistic
feelings to oppose the dynasty and to make political reforms;42 Article 2 of
the constitution created a board of five top clerics to review parliamentary
legislation. As we have seen, Reza Khan also needed the support of the
ulama in his rise to power. Even his brutal policies could not eradicate the
power of the ulama among the masses: when he abdicated from power,
his son, Muhammad Reza Khan, had to appeal to the ulama to consolidate
his position.43
Second, the religious institutions themselves were a source of opportunity
and upward mobility for local people, through the availability of jobs for
graduates of the religious schools. Since the Iranian state lacked the capacity
or political program to increase the opportunities available to local busi-
nesses, and could not provide much in the way of state-sector employment,
it presented a poor image compared with that of the Turkish state. It is
likely that some of the ulama took jobs for the Iranian state, but we can
legitimately conclude that the constitutional revolution initiated a period
that saw the increasing autonomy of the ulama from the state in financial
and employment matters.
More importantly, perhaps, the financial resources of the ulama in Iran
were much more autonomous from the state and depended instead on the
ulama’s strong ties with the masses. The religious community had various
sources of income, such as land income and religious taxes. Without any
effective redistribution of land, which was not implemented until the 1960s,
the income from land would help the religious community/institutions
survive financially. In addition, the organizational capacity of the religious
community allowed them to collect religious taxes and gifts from the
masses more effectively, without engendering competition among different
segments of the religious community. Their already existing ties, especially
with the urban groups, facilitated the infl ow of religious taxes and gifts into
the hands of the ulama. One estimate is that in about 1860 the religious
community could spend 2 million tomans per year, which was half of the
state budget of 4 million tomans; 75 percent of this amount came from the
lands belonging to the religious institutions. If we include payments from
the government and gifts from the masses, the amount increased to 2.4 million
tomans.44 As we discussed before, the constitutional revolution of 1905 led
to the collapse of the state in Iran, which further cut whatever economic ties
had existed between the state and the religious community/institutions.
Hence, the opportunity cost of incorporation was very high in Iran, which
meant that the state rulers would have had to offer much higher wages to
the religious community in order to merge the religious institutions with the
state apparatus. Therefore the state rulers did not choose a merger. Instead,
they took measures that gradually excluded the religious community from
the political system. The religious community, in their turn, mostly remained
aloof and in due course developed their own internal organization and
school system. A few attempts at protests remained local and were easily
ended with a show of military force, despite the lack of close coordination
within this state agency.
AFTER SEPARATION
In the face of an ever-encroaching state apparatus, the religious community

kept its loosely structured internal hierarchy and its close ties to the
merchant class in Iran.45 Dismantled from the state, the religious commu-
nity began to invest in strengthening their financial base, developing their
religious school system and engaging in an even greater variety of welfare
activities. The seminaries formed its backbone. The graduate seminar-
ians staffed the mosques all around the country, forming a strong link
between the masses and the higher-ranking scholars. Religious taxes and
gifts fl owed from the followers into the hands of a few high-ranking
religious scholars.
The Iranian religious community remained very politically inactive during
most of the Pahlavi period. There emerged a few individual religious scholars
who were actively involved in politics: for example, Hassan Modarres
and Abol Ghassem Kashani46 served in parliament. Yet these individuals did
so at the expense of losing their infl uence in religious institutions. A telling
anecdote comes from Ruhollah Khomeini, who had a deep respect for both
Hassan Modarres47 and Abol Ghassem Kashani. According to Khomeini’s
account, Kashani enters a full room where religious students and scholars
are meeting. No one, not even religious students who are far below Kashani
in religious learning, leaves their seat for Kashani. Only Khomeini leaves his
seat so Kashani can sit.48 Both Haeri-Yazdi and Borujerdi, the administrators
of the Qum seminaries and the marjas of their times, refrained from active
political participation. Except for a few protesting declarations, neither was
involved in any political activity. Borujerdi’s antipathy toward politics went
as far as prohibiting the members of the religious community from becoming
involved in politics. In this vein, he convened a meeting in Qum in 1949 and
invited more than 2,000 members of the religious community. The meeting
adopted a strong resolution against involvement in politics. The resolution
further mandated that “opposition to this resolution by clergymen would
result in a withdrawal of recognition of the offender’s status as a professional
in the religious institution.”49
The separationist model of state secularity survived in Iran until the
Iranian revolution of 1979. In the concluding chapter, I will discuss the
fate of this model and refl ect on what made it succumb to the turmoil of
the 1970s.
NOTES
1. Cited in Abrahamian (1969:294).

3. The Cossack Brigade was created during the reign of Naser al-Din Shah in
1879 and was organized by Russian officers. The unit was the most effective
military force in Iran. See Banani (1961:53).
4. Najmabadi (1993:667).
5. Najmabadi (1993:667).
6. Banani (1961:35).
7. Cited in Najmabadi (1993:667).
8. Hiro (1985:22).
9. Cronin (1997:95).
10. Reza Khan’s tribal policy continued until the end of his rule. Not only did
he put down tribal revolts through a series of military campaigns against the
tribes, which continued until the 1930s, but he also tried to destroy their
social and economic foundations by forced settlement of the tribes after the
1930s.
11. The following is based on Arjomand (1988), Avery, Hambly and Melville
(1991), Faghfoory (1987), and Hiro (1985).
12. Cited in Hiro (1985:23).
13. Hiro (1985:24).
14. See chapter 5 in Cronin (1997) for a more detailed account of Reza Khan’s
struggle with the ex-Gendarmerie officers.
15. Cited in Arjomand (1988:81).
16. Even the revolutionaries of 1979 left the civil code almost intact. See Gill and
Keshavarzian (1999).
17. Banani (1961:71).
18. Akhavi (1980:39).
19. Arjomand (1988:66).
20. Harassment of religious students by officials led to protests even by some cler-
ics, such as Ha’iri, who were aloof from politics during this period. Ha’iri sent
a telegram to Reza Shah, saying, “Although I have up to now not interfered
in any [political] matter, I hear that steps are being taken that are openly con-
tradictory to the Ja’fari path and the law of Islam, [in the face of which] it is
difficult for me any longer to restrain myself and remain tolerant.” Quoted in
Akhavi (1980:44).
21. Akhavi (1980:57).
22. Banani (1961:73).
23. Katouzian (2006:19).
24. On social support helping the rise of Reza Khan, see Katouzian (2003).
25. Algar (1991) provides a few examples of protests easily terminated by a small
show of military force. The protests remained very ineffective and local.
26. Banani (1961:32–36).
27. Zürcher (2004:98–99).
28. Cronin (1997).
29. Banani (1961:59).
30. Banani (1961:108).
31. Cronin (1997).
32. Issawi (1971:374).
33. It is highly probable that after a threshold in the strength of the state, the costs
of creating new posts within the state apparatus increase if inefficiencies aris-
ing from over-employment are taken into account. Thus, the functional form
of the relationship between the strength of the state and the cost of incorpora-
tion is probably U-shaped.
34. Walbridge (2001:4).
35. For example, both Naini and Isfahani, who played supporting roles in Reza
Khan’s rise to power, occupied the position of marja-i taqlid. During the same
time, Ha’iri, who revived and developed the religious institutions in Qum, was
also marja-i taqlid. After these marjas, Burujirdi became the sole marja. Buru-
jirdi was followed by eight marjas, one of whom was Khomeini. See Moussavi
(1994).
36. Moussavi (1994:297).
37. Ideological disagreements still continue among the ulama in contemporary
Iran, especially about the appropriate level of political involvement of the
ulama.
38. Mitchell (2003).
39. Lambton (1993).
40. Abrahamian (1969:290). The guilds were an important aspect of Ottoman
economic life too. In particular, Muslim merchants, craftsmen, and tradesmen
were organized into guilds. But during the 19th century, the importance of
these organizations declined; at the end of the century, they were no more than
registers of the members of the groups.
41. Hiro (1985:19).
42. See Keddie (1962). More than a century later, Shirin Ebadi, the Iranian female
Nobel laureate, still says that democracy could not come to Iran if its coming
opposed religion. This is from a talk she delivered at Northwestern University.
43. Hiro (1985:30).
44. Taken from Floor (2001:68).
45. An interesting statistic is provided by Fischer (1980:94). Fischer looks at the
genealogies of four prominent scholars—Kazem Shariatmadari, Sehab ed-din
Marashi, Hadi Milani, and Reza Golpayegani—and finds out that out of 275
people in the genealogies of these religious scholars, 88 were either merchants
or shopkeepers and 105 religious scholars.
46. For more on Kashani, see Faghfoory (1978).
47. A picture of Modarres appears on the Iranian 100 rial banknote.
48. This anecdote is cited in Moin (1999).
49. Akhavi (1980:62:63).
6 Taming the Church
Religion and the Russian Empire
Soviet Russia adopted a model of state secularity in the 1920s that

sought to eradicate religion and religious institutions. The next chapter
argues that this choice was the natural outcome in the particular strate-
gic context the state secularizers found themselves in. One feature of that
strategic context was that the state secularizers faced a confrontational
religious community that actively sought to undermine and resist the
new regime. In order to understand this attitude of the religious community,
we have to look at the resources at their disposal in the time of state
secularization. As we will see, the religious community in Russia was
hierarchically organized, but also deeply divided, and enjoyed no extensive
links with a broad spectrum of societal groups. Still, the religious com-
munity put up a quite stubborn opposition against the new regime. This
condition of the religious community was the historical legacy of the
Russian Empire for Soviet Russia. This chapter narrates the evolution of
this historical legacy.
The narrative shows that like the Ottoman and Safavid states, the Russian
state was not ambitious in claiming and establishing absolute sovereignty
within its territories and delegated critical public functions to religious
community/institutions. This began to change in the early 18th century as
the Russian rulers began to claim absolute sovereignty and implemented
reforms to that effect. In other words, the Russian state had been secular
in many ways well before the early 20th century.
This chapter first discusses the post-Mongol politico-religious context
in Russia and then illustrates how intensely the religious community,
unified under a hierarchical structure, the Russian Orthodox Church,
had taken active part in the Russian imperial state-building project from
the early 14th century to the late 17th century. The chapter then looks
at how the Russian imperial state had become proto-secular starting
with the early 18th century and how the successive developments had
brought about the condition in which the religious community found
itself in the 1920s.
THE RUSSIAN ORTHODOX CHURCH:
GROOMING AN IMPERIAL STATE1
Orthodox Christianity entered Russia in the 9th century. Unlike the spread of
Islam among the nomadic Turks, which was led by disorganized Sufi
orders, it was spread by the organized and systematic campaigns of the
patriarchate of Constantinople. In this missionary campaign the church
found a secular ally, the Kievan state. In the two and a half centuries after
the introduction of Christianity, Russia underwent tumultuous historical
developments—from the fragmentation of the Kievan state to the ensuing
internecine warfare among the Kievan princes. In each of these developments,
however brutal on the Russian people, the church found a way to survive
and even became politically indispensable and economically wealthier. The
church attained autonomy from the Russian state; increased its landholdings;
protected its judicial privileges, given and acknowledged by successive
Russian princes; and penetrated deeper into the society through churches
and monasteries.
Even the reign of the Mongols would prove to be beneficial to the church.2
For example, both the grand prince and the metropolitan were directly put
under the Mongol khan, thus completing the process by which the church
emerged as an agent on its own. The Mongols also granted special privileges
to the church, such as exempting its personnel and lands from tax and other
duties. In return the church recognized the Mongols as legitimate rulers,
conferring upon them a religious title, “tsar,” symbolizing the divine sanction
behind the Mongol rule.
Like the Safavids in Iran and the Ottomans in Anatolia, the Muscovites
in Russia rose to power in the post-Mongol period. The Muscovites shared
the same religion with the people, and a powerful religious community,
hierarchically organized under the church, had enjoyed great prestige and
had at its disposal both material and human resources. Not surprisingly,
the Muscovites sought the support of the church and received that support
generously. What symbolized the church’s support behind the Muscovite
state most clearly was that Alexis, the metropolitan who served from 1353
to 1390, transferred the metropolitanate from Kiev to Moscow. The church
provided a critical help to the ruling dynasty, the Daniilovichis, to solve their
legitimacy crisis. The church “leaders developed concepts and mythologies
that served their ecclesiastical interests, but also imparted legitimacy to the
Daniilovich princes and elevated their status above the other members of
the dynasty.”3
In one crucial attempt, the church presented the Daniilovichis as the
defenders of Orthodox Christianity. The fall of Constantinople in 1453 before
the Turks added a considerable weight to this assertion. In one further step,
Filofei, the elder of the Yelizarov Monastery in Pskov, argued in an epistle
addressed to Vasili III (1505–1503), the grand duke of Moscow, that
Moscow became the third Rome, which should not fall: “Instead of Rome
Taming the Church 111
and Constantinople, there now shines throughout the universe, like the sun
in the heavens, a third new Rome in your sovereign empire, the Holy Synodal
Apostolic Church . . . for two Romes have fallen, but the third stands, and
a fourth there will not.”4
Once the Mongol yoke was thrown off in the middle of the 15th century,
the Muscovites swiftly expanded their territories, eventually covering
much of the former Kievan Rus territories by the second decade of the 16th
century.5 Under Ivan IV (1533–1584) they further expanded toward the
east, opening the gates of Siberia. This territorial expansion came in tandem
with subordinating the noble families to the central authority. Refl ecting the
increasing power of the grand prince of Moscow vis-à-vis the noble families,
in 1547, a powerful metropolitan, Makarii, bestowed upon Ivan IV a
religious title, “tsar,” whom he instructed his folk to obey: “If the tsar’s
heart is in the hand of God, then all subjects should obey and fear, according
to God’s will, the tsar’s commands.”6
Ivan IV also pursued military reforms that consolidated his status within
the Muscovite political system. Between 1545 and 1550, he established
the first semi-standing army of the Muscovite state, musketeer regiments,
which were paid and trained regularly. The number of musketeers increased
steadily throughout the rest of the century. A sign of the growing power of
the tsar, Ivan IV also introduced regular service rules for the landholding
families, applicable to all sorts of lands: even the hereditary landowners
owed service to the tsar to keep their privileges intact, to enjoy extra
benefits, and to avoid punishment.7
Fifty years later, the church’s status was further raised to match the
Russian tsar. The church had already achieved an autocephalous status by
the middle of the 15th century. In 1589, it became a patriarchate. This was
in fact an act carried out on the initiative of the tsar in order to match the
status of the head of the church with that of the head of the state: only a
patriarch could crown a tsar.
In the early 17th century, the Russian state collapsed as Russia plunged
into a period called the “Time of Troubles.” First, the wars against Poland
and Sweden exhausted the resources of the Muscovite state. Then, Ivan IV’s
domestic terror, known as oprichnina, took its toll on Russia. The rest came
rather swiftly. A succession crisis, then a terrible famine, and finally a disas-
trous rebellion began the “Time of Troubles” in 1603. Poland and Sweden
invaded parts of Russia, including the capital city, Moscow. The period only
ended in 1613 with the election of Michael Romanov as the tsar.8
Once the Romanovs, the new ruling dynasty, consolidated their power,
they restarted the subordination of the nobility to the central authority. The
declining power of the nobility was refl ected in the military power balance.
For example, in the Smolensk War of 1632–1634 against the common-
wealth of Poland and Lithuania, the Russian army could muster around
100,000 men, out of which only around 27,000 were cavalrymen provided
by the Russian hereditary landowning elite.9
Not only quantitatively, but also qualitatively, the Russian landowning
military elite could not catch up with the recent developments in military
techniques. In contrast, starting in the 1630s, the successive tsars began to
devote their attention and resources to the newly formed regiments, which
had both infantry and cavalry sections. Trained and officered by foreigners,
new formation regiments gradually increased in size and eventually out-
numbered all the hitherto existing military categories of the Russian army.10
The old cavalry forces, the traditional prerogative of the landowning military
elite, and the musketeers continued to serve the Russian army well until the
end of the 17th century, but with declining importance.11
The growing size of the Russian military necessitated a more refined and
better functioning bureaucracy as the need for finance increased in tandem,
the number of clerks increasing from some 1,600 people in the middle of the
17th century to 4,600 by the beginning of the 18th century.12
As the state in Russia transformed along the lines described here, the
power balance between the tsar and the nobility shifted favorably toward the
former. However, the nobility had not ceased to exist, nor had the nobility’s
importance declined. The nobility continued to play critical roles in the
Russian political system. The tsar depended on the nobility not only in filling
the top positions in the Russian military and central bureaucracy, but also in
administering the provinces. As the landowning class, the nobility’s interest
was well protected often at the expense of the rest of the Russian population.
For example, serfdom was introduced and enforced by the Russian state,
which often brought the fugitives back to their lords.13
In the meantime, the church reached the apex of its power. Six years after
Michael Romanov became the Russian tsar, his father, Filaret Romanov, was
enthroned as the patriarch of Moscow and all Russia. As the father of the tsar,
Filaret enjoyed more privileges than any other patriarch: he carried the title
“great sovereign,” reserved for the tsar only, and in the next fourteen years
he basically ruled the country in the name of his young, inexperienced son.14
It was then a short step to argue that the patriarch and the tsar were corulers
of Russia: “Because the patriarch is the guardian of the Christian truth, he
should be given equal dignity to the tsar as called for by canon law with
the title of Velikii Gosudar’ [great lord].”15 Patriarch Nikon, who served
from 1652 to 1666, took this step.16 Signifying the newly elevated status of the
church, Nikon carried the title “great sovereign” with Alexis’s (1645–1676)
permission. This had previously been used by only one patriarch, Filaret.17
SACRIFICING THE CHURCH UNITY
As this account shows, the history of the Russian church in the period
spanning from the late 10th century to the early 18th century can be char-
acterized as one of accumulation of great political and economic power.
This accumulation coincided with an increasing entrenchment of the church
hierarchy with the Russian state. However, this achievement came at a great
cost: first, it alienated the nobility, and second, the church lost its internal
unity. In both cases the church had become increasingly dependent on the
support of the tsar, with a resulting loss of autonomy of action.
First, the church alienated the nobility. As mentioned before, the church
had enjoyed extensive legal and economic privileges, as a result of which it
accumulated extensive tracts of land. To have a comparative perspective,
in 1678, the patriarchate owned lands with 7,128 peasant households,
the six metropolitanates 7,167 households, six archbishoprics 4,494, and
monasteries and churches around 100,000 peasant households. In contrast,
the total number of households owned by the nobles in the boyar council
was 46,771, with the richest layman owning 4,609 households.18
More importantly, the church was instrumental in the creation of
autocracy in Russia by elevating the status of the ruling family. Both develop-
ments became a cause of envy and hatred for the Russian nobility.
A legal code, ratified by the so-called Assembly of the Land convened
by the tsar Alexis (1645–1676) in 1649, refl ects the nobility’s discontent
with the church. The code’s primary objective was to curtail the economic
power of the church.19 The code confiscated some of the urban properties
of the church and forbade further land acquisition.20 More importantly, it
drastically curtailed the legal privileges of the church. The church contin-
ued to be responsible for adjudicated spiritual issues, which involved cases
such as blasphemy, heresy, witchcraft, family law, inheritance, and divorce,
involving all Christians,21 but put “brigands, robbers, thieves, fugitive serfs,
and the accomplices of all such persons living on patriarchal, Episcopal and
monastic estates”22 under the tsar’s jurisdiction. The code of 1649 also
instituted serfdom in Russia. Thereby, the landowners obtained extensive
judicial rights over their peasants. The same rule applied to the church as
well, which was, after all, the largest landowner.
Fortunately for the church, the code proved to be ineffective in creating
a change in the fortunes of the church, for the code had not been rigorously
implemented. The tsar, Alexis, apparently did not intend to implement the
code with full consequences. He even did not follow the prescriptions of
the code in bequeathing land to the church: in 1672–1673, for example,
he granted huge tracts of land in Ukraine to the patriarchate, the bishoprics,
and the monasteries.23 Contrary to the code’s objectives, the church in
fact enjoyed an increase in the number of peasant households in its lands
between 1653 and 1718—37 percent in patriarchal and Episcopal lands and
36 percent in monastic lands.24
Second, starting in the second half of the 14th century, the church became
increasingly subject to intense criticisms raised within its own ranks. Rather
than being seriously considered, these criticisms were branded simply as
heretical and to be dealt with harshly. A number of church councils, which
met in 1488, 1490, 1504, 1525, and 1531, addressed the problem of heresy,
signaling the end of the doctrinal unity of the Russian church.25
In the first serious incident, known as the Strigol’niki heresy, critics
accused the church of charging the clerical candidates fees for ordination,
something they found un-canonical. Furthermore, they claimed that all
sacraments performed by the Russian clergy, who obtained their clerical
positions through payment of fees, should be rejected as invalid. In this
first instance, the Russian church was lenient, asking the Novgorod and
Pskov authorities, then not under the rule of the Muscovite state, to counsel
against the heretics, not use force against them.26
In the second incident,27 which also appeared in Novgorod,28 the critics,
known as the Judaizers for being accused of spreading Judaism in Rus-
sia, raised more serious objections to the church: monasticism and trin-
ity (hence, the divinity of Jesus) were to be rejected, and icons were to be
desecrated. This heresy became more threatening when it found support in
Moscow: supported by Ivan III, two of the critics became rectors of two
important cathedrals in Moscow. As a result the church could not infl ict
any serious punishment on the Judaizers for a long time. Only after Ivan
III repented for his support did it become possible to punish the heretics. In
1504, with support from Ivan III, a church council met, condemning a few
heretics to death and imprisoning several dozen others.
In another serious incident,29 the Russian church was shaken by a con-
troversy about the monastic acquisition of land. The critics found extensive
landholding, or excessive wealth, and spirituality incompatible. The struggle
went on throughout the 1520s and ended in 1531 with a church council
condemning two leading critics, Vassian and Maxim, to confinement in a
monastery on charge of heresy.30
In the most serious case, however, the church hierarchy itself initiated
the great schism. Well until the 17th century, the church could not find the
time and did not have the power to standardize its liturgy and regularize its
calendar of events. Its liturgy, for example, contained many pagan practices
common among the formerly pagan populations in Russia.31 The church
hierarchy had also not established a strong infl uence over the monasteries
and the parish clergy. Large monasteries were autonomous organizations,
having their own economic resources and staff. Small monasteries were even
more on their own: without any official control, they mushroomed through-
out Russia. Wandering monks and nuns or self-declared priests simply added
more chaos to the Russian religious structure.32 The relationship between
the church hierarchy and the parish clergy was more distanced. In fact, they
constituted two distinct social strata. The church hierarchy, known as the
black clergy, was celibate and distant from the people and enjoyed the
real fruits of the church’s economic and political power. The parish clergy,
known as the white clergy, acquired their positions largely because they were
born into clerical families. They were married and lived among the people,
like all Russian villagers, tilling the land, charging fees for their religious
services, and getting drunk. Their training in the priesthood included only
basic reading and writing skills and on-site training in liturgy.
Starting from the first half of the 17th century, the church hierarchy
attempted to assert more control over the monasteries and the parish
churches.33 In this vein Patriarch Filaret greatly expanded his office to
collect the patriarch’s share in the religious services offered by the bishops
and local priests: as a result of expansion, in 1627–1629, the number of
patriarchal officers exceeded that of the tsar’s officers. Filaret also attacked
the financial and juridical privileges of the monasteries: he set up an office
investigating the privileges of the monasteries, most of which were curtailed
by the office. All monasteries, but few major ones, were required to pay
certain taxes to the patriarchate.34
An important move by the church hierarchy to establish greater control
over the parish clergy came with the church council of 1666–1667.35 New
bishoprics were established to extend the patriarchate’s control over distant
regions and independently functioning monasteries.36 In a similar vein,
the council abolished a rule set by Metropolitan Peter in the 14th century:
priests were to be suspended from their offices upon the death of their wives,
remarriage being possible if the widowed priest left the priestly office and
took another occupation. The 1667 council changed this rule: a young
widowed priest could marry again, without leaving his employment in
the church, if his bishop gave him a special license. The applications for
special licenses were interrogated in the Episcopal palaces about their previous
experiences, dependents, personal lives, and confessions. More importantly,
the licenses were granted for a period of time, after which the priests had to
renew them again after going through the same ordeal.37
The establishment of more administrative control over the monasteries
and the parish churches was accompanied by an equally powerful drive
to reform the church.38 This initiative came from the tsar. Having his own
international ambitions, possibly “the eventual unification of all Orthodox
peoples under the aegis of the Russian Tsar,”39 Tsar Alexis staged a coup
within the church hierarchy and, between 1649 and 1651, brought a group
of reformist clergy to the high positions in the church. In the last step of
this coup, Nikon was installed as the patriarch in 1652.40 Known as Zealots
of Piety, this group had long advocated the regulation of the liturgy and
the elimination of moral laxity in the church. When he was metropolitan
of Novgorod, Nikon, for example, fought against moral corruption in the
Solovki Monastery: in August 1649 he warned monks and priests not to
“feed feminine-looking children and keep them in their cells.”41
Patriarch Nikon’s ecclesiastical reform simply aimed at adjusting the
liturgy of the Russian church in line with those of other Eastern Orthodox
churches. In 1652–1654, he introduced a number of ritualistic changes,
such as, among others, in the sign of the cross, in the form of the cross, in
the number and manner of prostrations and bows, in the number of Alleluia
gratifications, and in the transliteration of Jesus into Slavonic.42 The Print-
ing Office published new liturgical books and a treatise written to justify
Nikon’s reforms in 1654 and 1655.
Nikon’s reforms provoked the great schism of the 17th century. This was
partly caused by Nikon’s strategy for dealing with opponents. He convened
a series of church councils in 1652–1654 to approve his reforms, but also
to have his opponents condemned. For example, two prominent critics of
Nikon’s reforms, Ivan Neronov and Archpriest Avvakum, were sent far away
from Moscow: the former was excommunicated and jailed in a monastery
and the latter was exiled to Siberia.
Meanwhile Nikon’s personal relationships with Tsar Alexis deteriorated.
In 1658, Nikon withdrew to a monastery without leaving his post as
the patriarch. The disagreement between Nikon and Alexis could not be
reconciled. Finally, Alexis convened an ecumenical council in 1666–1667
with the participation of the patriarchs of Antioch and Alexandria. The
council deposed Nikon and imprisoned him in a remote monastery.
The ecumenical council of 1666–1667 ended Nikon’s career but did not
touch his reforms. Instead, the council confirmed that the changes made
by Nikon were in accordance with Orthodox teachings. After confirming
Nikon’s reforms, the ecumenical council threatened the dissidents with
excommunication.43
The council of 1666–1667 thus could not stop, but rather further
entrenched, the schism.44 Avvakum and his colleagues continued their viru-
lent attacks, expressed in apocalyptical terms, on the official church: Mos-
cow, the third Rome, accepted the heresy. Therefore, the end of the world
should be approaching. Hence, the antichrist was about to come, Nikon and
Alexis thus being the precursors of the antichrist. The date of the ecumenical
council was even meaningful in this respect: 1666 marked the beginning of
the apocalypse, for 666 was the number of the antichrist.45
Worse, the schism spread and turned into an antistate and antichurch
movement known as “Old Believers” in order to emphasize their devotion
to traditional Russian practices. The Russian state stood behind the church
with its full force: neither persecutions and intimidations, nor the burning
of Avvakum at the stake in 1682, helped. Old Believers managed to survive,
fl eeing to the distant corners of the empire, founding their own communities,
and spreading their message. As a result, the Russian Orthodox Church was
permanently divided.
BUILDING A MODERN SOVEREIGN STATE
By the late 17th century, the basic features of the Russian political system,
autocracy, serfdom, and Orthodoxy, had already been well established. With
the ongoing military and administrative reforms, Russia became a potential
European power, able to defeat Poland in the war of 1654–1667 and make
territorial gains at her expense in Ukraine, including Kiev. It was Peter the
Great who turned that potential into a reality. As that potential turned into
reality, the imperial Russian state also assumed many critical features of the
modern sovereign state and, therefore, become proto-secular.
Born in 1672, Peter became the effective ruler of Russia in 1696. In 1697
he set out on a grand tour of Western Europe to study and collect firsthand
information on shipbuilding in the Dutch Republic and England. On his
return he instigated major military reforms. He introduced a new recruitment
system in 1705. In 1699, for example, the army could muster only 32,000
of what was supposed to be around 80,000 men. With the new system, by
the end of Peter’s reign Russia could muster about 200,000 men, giving
Russia one of the largest armies in Europe. More importantly, perhaps,
Peter managed to create internal cohesion, solidarity, and an esprit de corps
within the army.46
Peter also reformed the Russian educational system, which had been
dominated by the church. The military and other state institutions, which
were growing in tandem, needed better trained officers and a more efficient
bureaucracy than the church’s school system could produce. Peter established
the School of Mathematics in 1701, the Artillery Academy in 1705, the
Engineering Academy in 1712, the Naval Academy in 1715, the School of
Mines in 1716, and the Academy of Sciences in 1725. To provide students
for these schools of higher education, Peter also established elementary
“cipher” schools, which were later absorbed by garrison schools, also
established by Peter.47
Peter’s reforms brought a process, which had already been in motion, to
its natural conclusion by changing the terms of ennoblement. Service to the
state had already been an important way into the Russian nobility, but so
had family lineage, or heredity. Peter introduced a new ranking system,
the Table of Ranks, in 1722, according to which “service to the tsar, not the
mere acquisition of noble lands or serfs, constituted the only legitimate source
of noble status.”48 However transformative they were, Peter’s reforms
nonetheless consolidated the basic Russian social structure and the relationship
between the state and the landowning nobility. The lives of the great Russian
masses remained largely unaltered.49
Finally, Peter became a conduit of Western culture among the Russian
nobility; he forced the nobles, for example, to shave their beards, and he
introduced official assemblies to be attended by men and women wearing
Western-style tight-fitting dress, rather than loose Muscovite kaftans.50
The thorough Westernization of the Russian elite continued for the rest
of the 17th century. This destroyed the cultural similarity between the
nobility and the masses as the adoption of much of Western culture gave the
Russian nobility “a sense of identity and of separateness from the dependent
population.”51
Peter’s reforms paid off and turned Russia into a major European power.
Except for some exceptions, such as the defeats in the hands of the Ottomans
in 1711 and the War of the Third Coalition in 1805–1807, the Russian
army emerged victorious from every major confl ict it engaged in between
1709 and 1856. The most prestigious one was undoubtedly the victory over
Napoleon’s France, turning the tsar, Alexander, into the savior of Europe
as the Russian troops “paraded victoriously down the Champs Elysees in
Paris in 1814, champions of what was now seen as the leading continental
power.”52 As a result, Russia continuously expanded its territories in the
South; took control of an outlet on the Black Sea; made territorial intrusions
into the Caucasus, the Balkans, and Central Asia; and expanded further in
the West until it neighbored Prussia and Austria-Habsburg.
Successive Russian rulers simply built upon the foundation laid down
by Peter the Great. Peter’s system of recruitment continued to enable the
Russian state to muster bigger armies. The changes in recruitment were mainly
related to the terms of service: in 1736, the term of mandatory service for
nobles was reduced to twenty-five years, and in 1762 it was abolished, with
service to the state becoming voluntary.53 In 1793, the lifetime conscription
of soldiers was reduced to twenty-five years. The total size of the army
increased from 164,396 in 1725, to 303,529 in 1765, and to 507,538 in
1796. By 1800, the Russian army became the largest in size among the
European armies. The army continued to grow in the first half of the 19th
century, totaling 779,257 in 1866.54
The Russian state further invested in military and nonmilitary education at
all levels. In 1731, the first Cadet Corps school was opened in St. Petersburg,
and its graduates were commissioned in the army after nine years of education.
The Russian state increased the number of Cadet Corps schools to twenty
by the mid-19th century. A military academy, Nikolaevskaia Academy of
the General Staff, and the Medical-Surgical Academy were opened in 1832
and 1835 respectively.55 In 1755, Moscow University was founded with
three faculties, Law, Medicine, and Philosophy.56
A humiliating defeat in the Crimean War, 1853–1856, against Britain
and France was a wake-up call for Russia. Two problems were particularly
manifested in the war. First, Russian weapons were outdated. Second, the
Russian supply system was not effective. Announced in 1857, a major wave of
reform, called the Great Reforms,57 started with the emancipation of the serfs
in 1861 and was extended to state peasants in 1866. The ex-serfs were given
land allotments, the size of which varied from region to region, in return
for annual dues to be paid to their former masters. In addition to annual
payments from their former serfs, the serf owners were also entitled to keep
at least one-third of their former land. The ex-serfs did not obtain the right
to move freely, however; they still had to get permission from their village
communes, which were made self-governing bodies as the reform transferred
the former landlords’ authorities to them. In the district and provincial
administrative levels, too, the reform created representative governments in
regions where the Russians were elites and constituted the majority.
Another legislation in 1864 extended the reform to education. Establish-
ing primary and secondary schools was made much easier given that certain
conditions were met, one of which was equality in admission. The reforms
increased literacy levels among the Russian populations. In 1880, for exam-
ple, the number of pupils in elementary schools was 1,141,000, making up
1.16 percent of the total population. By 1915, that number increased to
8,147,000, now making up 4.93 percent of the total Russian population.
According to the census of 1897, 46 percent of the male population and
22 percent of the female population in the age group 10–20 were literate. As
the age group increased, the literacy levels in the male and female populations
decreased consistently to 15 percent for the male population and 11 percent
for the female population over 60 years old.58 The reform also opened the
doors of the universities to the former serfs and eased the restrictions on the
sons of the clergy. The number of university students increased from around
4,000 in 1854 to 21,000 in 1904 to more than 38,000 by 1909.59
The Great Reforms of Alexander II (r.1855–1881) also opened a new
page in Russian industrialization efforts. Under two long-serving ministers
of finance, Mikhail Kh. Reutern, from 1862 to 1878, and Sergei Witte, from
1892 to 1903, Russia engaged in intensive railroad construction in order to
facilitate internal transportation; pursued monetary policy to attract foreign
capital to finance investments in mines, metallurgy, industry, finance,
commerce, and transportation; and initiated new industries, which were
protected through high tariffs.60 As a result, Russia recorded an average of
5.72 percent growth in industrial output annually throughout 1885–1914,
surpassing the United States, Germany, and the United Kingdom,61 and
maintained its position among the major economic powers of the world.62
Alexander II’s Great Reforms also addressed the military, which in fact
drove the whole reform process. One area that needed immediate attention
was to improve the Russian supply system, which miserably failed in the
Crimean War. In addition to commercial and industrial purposes, railroad
construction therefore followed a military logic. Starting with the tenure of
Mikhail Kh. Reutern as minister of finance in 1862, railroad construction
became a chief priority for the Russian state. Before 1862, a little more
than 2,000 kilometers of railroad had been constructed in Russia, half of
which came after the Crimean War. In the next fifty years, the Russian state
constructed more than 65,000 kilometers of railroad to improve internal
transportation.63 The Russian state introduced universal conscription in
1874 according to which all Russian males became subject to military service.
The term of service was reduced from twenty-five years to fifteen years:
six years in active duty and nine years in the reserve. As a result of universal
conscription, the total size of the army increased to 1,100,000 in 1912.
The expansion of popular education swelled the ranks of the slowly
growing and discontented intelligentsia. This is best refl ected in the tre-
mendous increase in the number of published books, periodicals, and
newspapers. The number of books published in Russia increased from
2,085 in 1860 to 32,338 in 1914, while the number of periodicals in Russian
increased from 170 in 1860 to 606 in 1900 and further tripled until 1914.64
Newspaper circulations increased from tens of thousands in the 1870s to
hundreds of thousands in the early 1900s.65
The Great Reforms created new opportunities for this growing body of
intelligentsia to reach out to the Russian masses. First, the reforms created
local representative institutions at district and provincial levels and delegated
to them considerable power in education and health. Even though the
landowners dominated the local governments at both levels, the local
governmental institutions could not have functioned without trained
specialists; hence, teachers, doctors, medical orderlies, agronomists, and
veterinarians increasingly filled the ranks of the local government institutions.
In other words, education and health provided the increasingly discontented
intelligentsia invaluable ways of reaching out to the masses and spreading
their views among them.66
Second, as industrialization proceeded, the great Russian masses became
more accessible to the intelligentsia, for the masses migrated to the industrial
centers to find jobs. In the early 19th century, the urban population in
Russia constituted around 6 percent of the total population. That percent-
age increased to 10 percent in 1867 and 14.7 percent in 1914. In absolute
numbers, the urban population increased from around 7 million in 1867 to
around 23 million in 1914.67 Urbanization and industrialization created a
new socioeconomic class, the industrial working class, who found them-
selves in wretched living and working conditions. Among other factors, long
hours of work, low wages, a lack of employment security, and overcrowded
and unsanitary housing turned the workers into “a potent revolutionary
force.”68 The working class’ discontent became increasingly manifest
in the number of strikes and disturbances. The annual average number of
strikes increased from 20 in the period from 1870–1885 to 33 in the
1886–1894 period and to 176 in the period from 1895–1904. The strikes
peaked in 1903 when more than 130,000 workers stopped work in more
than 500 instances.69
Russia also nurtured a rural problem. After emancipation the peasants
lost some portion of the land they used to have under serfdom, as their
average landholdings decreased by more than 20 percent.70 At the same
time, however, the numbers of the rural population increased exponentially
from 66 million in 1867 to 101 million in 1897 and rose to 135 million in
1914, making the land problem even more acute.71 In addition to taxes they
had to pay to the state, the peasants now had to make redemption payments
to their former landlords. Peasant unrest took a variety of forms, including
targeting landowners, state officials, police, troops, clergy, and merchants.72
The defeat of Russia in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905 pre-
cipitated the first “simultaneous attack on autocracy from all levels of
society.”73 The tsardom was shaken, but not destroyed. Its recovery simply
delayed its end, which eventually came in the third year of the First World
War as the same forces were unleashed even more forcefully under the great
strains of the World War.
ABSORBED BY THE SOVEREIGN STATE
Starting with Peter the Great, the Russian imperial state had assumed many
features of the modern sovereign state. This transition had also transformed
the church and its relations with the state and the society. Having been
instrumental in transforming the grand prince of the principality of Moscow
into the tsar, the Russian Orthodox Church reached the apex of its political
and economic power by the late 17th century. It was the largest landowner in
Russia after the state, having successfully thwarted all attempts to curtail
its economic power. The patriarchs were also politically powerful figures.
In the 17th century, two of them carried the title “great sovereign,” a titled
previously reserved for the tsar only. However glorious it might seem, the
church’s place in the Russian political system was also fragile. Firstly, its
wealth in land was attracting too much envy and enmity in a country where
the land was in short supply and the state was hungry for revenues to defend
its territories. Second, it was overdependent on the support of the tsar to
protect its wealth and privileges. Finally, its unity had recently been shattered
by the great schism of the 17th century, the Old Believers.
The Russian Orthodox Church entered the reign of Peter the Great in
a precarious position. In his first years, Peter showed no interest in church
affairs, partly because he was preoccupied with the war with the Ottoman
Empire and then with his grand tour in Europe. More importantly, perhaps,
Peter had to deal with a powerful patriarch, Adrian. Adrian’s view of the
relationship between the patriarch and the tsar was essentially Nikonian.
Adrian equated the patriarch with the tsar as “two supreme rulers on earth”
installed by God. He even argued that “kings, princes, governors, military
leaders, and the plain and rich and crippled, men and women of all ages and
rank. They are all my sheep and they listen to my arch-pastoral voice.”74
“The voice of the patriarch was that of Jesus, and whoever ignores . . . my
words, ignores the words . . . of our Lord God.”75 Fortunately for Peter,
Adrian suffered a stroke in 1696, was partially paralyzed, and withdrew
to a monastery.
Patriarch Adrian had another stroke four years later and died in October
1700. Peter postponed the election of a new patriarch indefinitely and
instead appointed an unknown Ukrainian—Stefan Yavorsky, a young
professor in the Kiev Academy—as the acting head of the church in
December 1700. In January 1701 Peter reestablished the Monastery Office
to administer the land and financial affairs of the church, with the extra
resources to be transferred to the state. Using different occasions as excuses,
Peter also purged potential troublemakers from the top of the hierarchy of
the church. In 1702, Bishop Ignati of Tambov was exiled to a monastery for
keeping publications presenting Peter as the antichrist; Metropolitan Isaiah
of Nizhni-Novgorod was also exiled because of failing to meet the demands
of the Monastery Office; Bishop Dosithei of Rostov was sentenced to death
for being involved in the conspiracy against Peter; Metropolitan Joasaf of
Kiev, Metropolitan Ignati of Krutitzk, and Yakov Ignatiev, who was Alexis’s
confessor, also suffered from Peter’s rage.76 Peter promoted foreign, mostly
Ukrainian, clergy to the positions of Russian hierarchs in the church. It can
be readily seen in that out of 44 prelates who were consecrated between
1700 and 1725, 28 were non-Russians.77
Peter was also interested in finding out and promoting clerical figures
who could collaborate with him. Firstly, he put trust in Stefan Yavorsky, who
proved later to be undependable: he first condemned Peter’s second mar-
riage to Martha Skavronskaya (future tsarina Catherine) while his first wife,
Evdokia Lopukhina, was still alive, and then supported Peter’s son, Alexis,
presenting him in a sermon in 1712 as “the only hope Russia has.” In the
same sermon, Stefan listed Peter’s sins: not observing the fasts, offending
the church, and abandoning his first wife. From then on Stefan’s sermons were
subjected to censorship.78 Disappointed by Stefan, Peter turned to another
candidate, Theodosei Yanovski. Theodosei was first promoted by Peter to be
the rector of Alexander Nevsky Monastery, built by Peter in St. Petersburg, and
was made responsible for all spiritual affairs in the St. Petersburg region.
In 1716 Theodosei became the metropolitan of Novgorod.
However, Peter found his real Trojan horse in the personality of Feofan
Prokopovich, another Ukrainian and a professor at the Kiev Academy.79
Feofan first gained Peter’s confidence in 1709, when he eulogized Peter after
the victory in Poltova against Sweden. In 1711 Feofan participated in the
Pruth campaign against the Ottoman Empire as the leading the military
chaplain and, after the campaign, became the rector of Kiev-Mogilyanskoi
Academy and abbot of Kievo-Brethren Monastery. In 1716 Feofan moved
to St. Petersburg on Peter’s orders and became advisor to the tsar on church
and educational affairs. In 1718, he was consecrated as the bishop of Pskov
and became archbishop in 1920.
In return for this meteoric rise in the church hierarchy, Feofan Prokopovich
provided an invaluable service to Peter. First, he reversed a theological
current getting stronger among the clerical circles that equated the tsar and
the patriarch. Prokopovich argued exactly the opposite. The tsar was “the
head of the church, which had no authority to dictate to its superior what
his obligations were, or to inform him of God’s requirements of him. On the
contrary, it was the Church that was subject itself to the understanding of
God’s requirements as interpreted by the emperor.”80 From a different angle,
Prokopovich in fact reorganized the church hierarchy. Now the tsar was not
an outsider to the hierarchy, but was at the top of it. Second, Prokopovich also
provided a theological justification, blended with Western political theory, for
the supremacy of the tsar and the autocratic nature of his power. Prokopovich
argued that autocracy was necessary as, if unrestrained, people would make
war with each other. Only autocratic rule could establish peace among the
Russian people and maintain Russia’s unity and goodness.81
The practical implications of Feofan Prokopovich’s political theory
appeared in “the spiritual regulation,” which was completed in 1718.
The regulation was finalized jointly by Peter and Prokopovich and read in an
ecclesiastical council met in 1720. The most radical change the regulation
brought was the dissolution of the patriarchate, which, according the
regulation, had become a potential source of political instability:
The fatherland need have no fear of revolts and disturbances from a

conciliar administration such as would proceed from a single, independent
ecclesiastical administrator. For the common people do not understand
how spiritual authority is distinguishable from the autocratic, but
marveling at the dignity and glory of the Highest Pastor, they imagine
that such an administrator is a second sovereign, a power equal to that
of the Autocrat, or even greater than he, and that the pastoral office is
another, and a better, sovereign authority.82
The regulation left the administration of the church to the newly instituted
“the Most Holy All-Ruling Synod,” which was originally proposed as
“a College of Spiritual Affairs” under the Senate but became a parallel insti-
tution directly under the control of the tsar. The Holy Synod consisted of
one metropolitan, two archbishops, three archimandrites, four married
archpriests, and one Greek monastic priest. Over time, however, the synod
became a body of twelve clerics, all of whom were bishops administered by
the chief procurator, a position Peter introduced in 1722 as the repre-
sentative of the tsar in the council.83 The regulation also specified that an
oath of allegiance was to be taken by members of the synod, each member
swearing to be “a loyal, true, obedient, and devoted servant of” Peter the
First and after him all lawful successors.84
The spiritual regulation turned the lower levels of the church hierarchy,
the parish priests, into the state’s local administrators. The priests became
responsible for “collecting and compiling statistical information on births,
marriages, and deaths, and for reading out newly promulgated legislation
to parishioners in church.”85 More controversially, the priests became
sort-of-secret police of the state in the parishes. A decree issued in 1722
stated that if someone confessed to the priest of his intention to commit a
crime, especially treason or rebellion or “an evil design against the honor or
health of the Sovereign and his family,” the confessor was obliged to report
to the appropriate authorities.86
Having acquired equal status with the Senate directly under the tsar,
the synod pushed for a recovery from the losses incurred under Peter’s
previous regulations. Its first priority was to take back the control of its
accumulated wealth in land and real estate that had serfs on them. Peter
agreed to the Holy Synod’s demands and placed the Monastery Office under
the jurisdiction of the Holy Synod. Catherine II (r.1762–1794) took over the
church lands again in 1764 and thus made the church financially dependent
on the Russian state. However, this situation lasted for only a short period.
Paul (r.1796–1801) in 1797 and Nicholas I (r.1825–1855) in 1838 endowed
every monastery with arable lands to compensate them for their losses under
Catherine II. Thereafter the church began to accumulate land and real estate
once again. By 1905, the monasteries had accumulated two million acres
of land throughout Russia, excluding Siberia, and dioceses and parishes
another five million acres.87
Even though not all of them were achieved immediately, Peter’s church
reforms set the agenda for and had an impact on the long-term evolution
of the Russian Orthodox Church. The Holy Synod continued to administer
the church as the highest authority until 1917. In the meantime, in a period
spanning almost 200 years, the synod devoted its resources to establish a
more effective and centralized control over all aspects of religious life,
a process that can be appropriately called “church-building.”88 First, in
the 1740s and then in the 1780s, the dioceses were reorganized into much
smaller territories with smaller populations. A new administrative organ,
the office of superintendent, was established as being directly appointed
by the bishop to oversee ten to fifteen parishes. The new institutional structure
enabled the bishops to establish stricter control over the parish priests.
Taking one step further, the bishops obtained the power to select and
remove the priests, which previously had been in the hands of the parishioners.
Likewise, the synod developed a much higher capacity to implement
empire-wide policies across a better supervised diocesan administration,
“mandating approval for diocesan resolutions, requiring annual reports and
data, and dealing harshly with obdurate prelates who fl outed its orders or
ignored its authority.”89
Effective control over the lower levels of church administration went hand
in hand with the increasing “bureaucratization” of the church by adopting
various techniques of the modern state, with the church becoming much
more like a state90 within a state. The new power of the church became
evident in the running of its own court system, which had jurisdiction not
only over cases involving the clergy, but also marriages and divorces among
the Orthodox populations. As the church developed a larger administra-
tive capacity, it established a vigilant watch over marriages and divorces,
bringing, as a result, “a marital order of rigidity unknown elsewhere in
Europe.”91 In tandem with this increasing institutional capacity, the Russian
church turned its attention to regulating the religious life of the masses and
reshaping them in its own image. This was not an easy task, though, for
what was to be regulated was a bewildering diversity of religious practices
and beliefs. As Gregory Freeze eloquently states:
Russian Orthodoxy was Russian Heterodoxy—an aggregate of local

Orthodoxies, each with its own cults, rituals and customs. Religion,
like other dimensions of life, was intensely particularistic, with kalei-
doscopic variations from one parish to the next, not to mention broad
regional differences. Each parish had its own traditions (icon proces-
sions, special services, favored saints, and the like), icons of particular
reverence (sometimes with miracle-working properties), and unique
forms of religious observance. Even the liturgy itself varied from parish
to parish, as local clergy arbitrarily omitted “superfl uous” sections of
the full monastic service to reduce it to manageable proportions.92
The Russian church in fact started to clean its own house first by devoting
more care and resources to increasing the quality of its own staff. Effective
administration and increasing control over the dioceses enabled the church
to combat vagrancy in the church more effectively and discipline the clergy.
More importantly, the church devoted more resources to and put more
emphasis on the education of the clergy. Prior to the 18th century, education
was not a prerequisite for a career in the church. The parishioners simply
elected their priests, and the bishops usually approved and ordained their
choices. This practice was understandable given the broader negativity
associated with theological education in Russia: learned monks were identi-
fied with Roman Catholicism.93
It was during Peter the Great’s reign that the church began to give
importance to clerical education. Even though clerical education started
before Peter, it nevertheless remained miniscule in size and encountered great
resistance within the church. For example, in 1682 Tsar Feodor allowed
Sylvester Medvedev to establish an academy in Moscow, which was short-
lived due to the tsar’s unexpected death. Medvedev’s Catholic inclinations
gained him enemies within the church, which brought in two Orthodox
Greek brothers, Innokenti and Sofronius Likhud, to build an academy in
1686. The academy initially met with great success: however, the issue of
translating the Bible into Russian sealed the fate of the Likhud brothers,
who were dismissed in 1694. The academy continued to operate with great
difficulty in the ensuing years. Only after Peter the Great bestowed his grace
upon it did it begin to revitalize. Under Stefan Yavorsky, the Moscow
Academy developed along the model of the Kiev-Mogilyanskoi Academy,
with Latin replacing Greek as the language of education.94
Despite the boost given by Peter, “seminaries remained miniscule in size,
poor in quality, and vulnerable to frequent closings” well into the 1760s.95
In the subsequent decades, thanks to the efforts of prelates such as Platon
Levshin and Gavriil Petrov, the number of clerical students in seminaries
steadily increased from 4,673 in 1766 to 29,000 in 1808.96 In 1814 a four-
tiered system of clerical education was established, involving parish schools,
diocesan schools, seminaries, and academies.97 By the 1860s, a seminary degree
became a prerequisite for appointment as a priest and an academy degree as
a bishop, which was possible in four academies, Kiev, Moscow, St. Petersburg,
and Kazan.98 The emphasis on clerical education paid off: in 1805, only
15 percent of priests had a seminary degree. In 1860, that number rose to
83 percent and further increased to 97 percent in 1880.
The church’s role in education did not remain restricted to clerical education
only. Over the course of the 18th and 19th centuries, the church became
the primary supplier of primary education through its own parish schools.
In fact, the Russian state entered the field of primary education quite late,
with a serious drive really only beginning in the 1890s.99 The parish schools
joined the Russian three-tiered education system in 1804 as the fourth tier
after district schools, provincial schools, and universities. By the end of
Alexander III’s (r.1881–1894) reign, the church had 31,835 parish schools
with 981,076 students. A decade later, in 1904, the church had 1,909,496
students in its primary school system, compared to 3,360,167 students in
the state primary schools administered by the Ministry of Education.100
In tandem with increasing administrative efficiency and expanding outreach
through its schools, the church came to pay more attention to the spiritual and
material well-being of the parish churches. New churches were built, and old
ones were renovated. The newly created office of superintendent ensured the
maintenance, cleanliness, and even aesthetics of the parish churches—for
example, by removing “ugly” icons from the churches. The church waged an
incessant war against the taverns situated close to the churches and against
economic activities being conducted on Sundays and religious holidays. The
parishioners were required to behave in certain ways that were acceptable
to church authorities. For example, entertainments and secular music, noisy
talk, and disruption of the liturgy were forbidden inside the churches.101
These measures were in fact part of the church’s broader project, that
of reconfiguring the local religious practices and popular piety in line with
its own Orthodoxy. The church sought to regularize the religious services
undertaken in the churches and, in this vein, supplied them with hundreds of
thousands of volumes of proper liturgical books to be followed. The church
also attempted to change liturgical music, introducing new musical forms to
be performed in religious rituals.102 In addition, the church went beyond the
confines of its established authority and attempted to extend its control over
the whole spiritual domain. It now required all sacraments and marriages
to be performed in parish churches only, rather than in other, more private,
gatherings. More ambitiously, the church endeavored to control what the
laity venerated as miraculous, such as springs, icons, and saints.103
Peter’s reforms effectively killed some powerful church hierarchs’ dreams
of promoting the church, or the patriarch, as being equal to or above the
state, or the tsar. But, as the previous discussion shows, the reforms also
created new opportunities for the church to exert unprecedented levels of
infl uence over the society. Refl ecting this infl uence, the church grew in size.
From 1738 to 1915, the number of churches increased from 16,901 in 1738
to 66,000 in 1915. The monasteries also recovered after the assaults of Peter
and Catherine. Their numbers were at their lowest, 547, in 1840, but this
had risen to 1,025 by 1915.104 The church hierarchy also grew in size from a
mere 26 prelates in the early 18th century to 147 by 1917.105 With its grow-
ing size, its expanding educational and court system, its ever more pervasive
infl uence over the society, its better functioning administration, its extensive
lands, and its large bank accounts, the church’s self-confidence also grew
stronger. By the early 20th century, the clerical establishment began to talk
about a possible breakup with the Russian state, with articles appearing
in religious press asking for the separation of the state and the church in
Russia and the reestablishment of the patriarchate.106 Commenting on an
article critical of Peter’s reforms, Metropolitan Antonii Vadkovskii spoke to
the tsar of the inevitability of the approaching end: Russian “public opinion
would be obliged to declare it shameful and impossible for Holy Rus to live
under such an abnormal system of ecclesiastical government.”107 In fact,
at the first opportune moment, which came immediately after the fall of
Romanov dynasty, the church reestablished the patriarchate.
On the negative side, even though homogenized through clerical education,
the clergy was transformed into a closed caste in the period concerned and,
hence, lost its other societal allies, especially the nobility. In the early 18th
century, men of noble origin filled more than half of the church hierarchy,
while the clergy’s sons made up 11.5 percent. However, three factors shaped
the future social origin of the clergy and the church hierarchy. First, only
the sons of the clergy could enter the seminaries. Second, monastic tonsure
became inaccessible to the nobility. Finally, endogamous marriage became
widespread among the priests. The church practically closed its doors to
those with nonclerical origins.108 As a result, throughout the 19th century,
more than 90 percent of the bishops had clerical origins. Out of 486 prelates
consecrated between 1721 and 1917 whose origins are known, out of a
total 731, 420 prelates came from clerical families.109 The same trend can
be observed among the parish priests: by 1914 only 3 percent of the white
clergy came from nonclerical origins.110
More importantly perhaps, in the post-Petrine period, the church neither
could heal the old wounds infecting both its own body and the Orthodox
population, nor could it fully contain the newly emerging religious move-
ments under its banner. Despite the persecutions they suffered at the hands
of the Russian state, the Old Believers continued to command the loyalty
of a sizable portion of the Orthodox population. Splintered into numer-
ous groups,111 the Old Believers were thought to number twenty million by
1900 and were overseen by twenty bishops.112 Even more troubling than
the continuing presence of the Old Believers, new and alternative moral-
spiritual movements, non-Orthodox Christian denominations, and other
forms of deviant popular Orthodoxies gained adherents among all segments
of Russian society, from intellectuals to peasants to workers, challenging the
monopoly of the church in spiritual salvation as Romanov rule in Russia
drew to a close.
The Orthodox Church “frequently branded these and other movements
as sectarian . . . and actively tried to restore its infl uence among the urban
population by challenging ‘sectarians’ to debates, attacking them in a fl urry
of pamphlets and on occasion (as against the Brethren) anathematizing and
excommunicating the most visible leaders.”113 In possibly the most well-
known case, the Holy Synod excommunicated Leo Tolstoy, who was accused
by the church of heretical views that, Tolstoy himself admitted in his letter
to the Holy Synod, had “practically nothing in common with the mystery of
Christ, as the Church experiences it and teaches it.”114 In a counter-attack,
Tolstoy even wrote, “I believe that God has most clearly made known His
will in the teaching of Christ the Man, whom to regard as God, however,
and to pray to, I regard as a blasphemy.”115
More consequential to the future fate of the church, the deep rift between
the black and the white clergy continued to widen in the post-Petrine period.
While the black clergy filled the church hierarchy, seminaries, academies,
and monasteries, hence enjoying the prestige and richness of the church, the
white clergy populated the parish churches, hence shouldering the difficulties
of parish life. The Great Reforms intended, but failed, to help them. Instead,
by reducing the available posts through merging parishes and abolishing
the sons’ hereditary claims to their fathers’ posts, the reforms aggravated
conditions for the white clergy. The reforms also established the parish
councils, which further pushed the white clergy away from the black clergy,
who then associated themselves more with their parishioners.
Refl ecting on the white clergy’s long pent-up discontent, a philosophical cur-
rent spread among the parish clergy in the 19th century. Known as clerical
liberalism, this current was “critical of both ecclesiastical and governmental
authority, sympathetic to public needs, and supportive of the parish clergy’s
social and economic interests.”116 As Russia plunged into revolutionary
turmoil, clerical liberalism created a new schism in the Russian Orthodox
Church even more divisive and dangerous than the previous one.
NOTES
1. I benefitted from several books in accounting the broader developments

in Russian history, such as Perrie (2006a), Shubin (2004a), Martin (1995),
Hosking (2001), Longworth (2003), and Ascher (2009).
2. See Kaiser (1992), Pospielovsky (1998), and Ostrowski (1986).
3. Martin (1995:179).
4. Cited in Trepanier (2010:56–57).
5. Ostrowski (2006:2).
6. Cited in Trepanier (2010:51).
7. Paul (2004:17). Ivan IV’s oprichnina terror drastically undermined the power
of the nobility vis-à-vis the tsar. See Martin (1995:348–368).
8. For the details of this period, see Perrie (2006).
9. See the discussion in Stevens (2007).
10. See a detailed discussion in Stevens (2007).
11. See Keep (1970:211).
12. Hosking (2001:155).
13. In Kievan Rus there was no serfdom. It started as a restricted ban on the
movement of peasants in the 1450s by a few monasteries that asked the gov-
ernment to forbid their peasant debtors to travel except around St. George’s
day, November 26. From then on the practice was extended to all peasants
and was finalized in the law code of 1648, the Ulozhenie. See Hellie (2009).
14. See Keep (1960).
16. In some instances Nikon seems arguing for the supremacy of the church over
the state: for example, he writes in a letter in 1662, “It is the tsars who are
anointed by the priests and not the priests by the tsars. . . . The priesthood
does not come from men but from God Himself. The tsar’s authority is derived
from the priesthood, as the rites of the tsar’s coronation testify. . . . Priestly
authority is superior to civil power as heaven is superior to earth.” Cited in
Trepanier (2010:84).
17. Crummey (2006:630–631).
18. The numbers are from Crummey (2006:625).
19. Starting around 1500 repeated attempts were made to stop the growth of
the church land. For example, in 1584 the church council was forced to con-
firm a previous decision forbidding land bequests to monasteries. See Pavlov
(2006:272).
20. Hellie (1999:498).
21. Kollmann (2006).
22. Cracraft (1971:101).
23. Cracraft (1971:84).
24. Cited in Cracraft (1971:84).
25. Ostrowski (2006:227).
26. Pospielovsky (1998:51).
27. See Pospielovsky (1998:52–55) and Miller (2006: 348–351).
28. Heresy did not coincidentally emerge in Novgorod. See Denissoff (1950).
29. For the earlier cases, such as the Strigol’niki heresy, see Pospielovsky (1998:51),
and for the challenge of the Judaizers, see Miller (2006:348–351).
30. The standard view accepts the existence of two separate parties to the contro-
versy on monastic landholding: the possessors versus the non-possessors. See,
for example, Karpovich (1944). For a critique of this view, Ostrowski (1986).
31. See Miller (2006).
32. Michels (1992).
33. See Michels (1992). For an illustrating case, the Solovki Monastery, of how
the church attempted to increase its control over the monasteries, see Michels
(1992).
34. Keep (1960:340).
35. Zenkovsky (1957:42).
36. The Northern bishoprics were, for example, of this genre. See Michels (1992).
37. Coulter (2002:467–68).
38. It should be noted that the reform of the liturgy in Russia started in the 14th
century. See Cherniavsky (1966:6).
39. Zenkovsky (1957:46).
40. For a more detailed account, see Lobachev (2001).
41. Michels (1992:9).
42. Crummey (2006:632).
44. It should be noted that a council of Russian bishops met in 1666 to resolve
the confl ict. The council approved Nikon’s reforms but refrained from calling
the old rituals heretical. It also asked the critics not to condemn new rituals
as heretical. Avvakum and his friends rejected this compromise. See Cherniavsky
(1966:8).
45. See the discussion in Cherniavsky (1966:14–15).
46. Hosking (2001:197).
47. Lee (1993:66–67).
48. Wirtschafter (2002:224).
49. Dixon (1999:64).
50. Marker (2009).
51. Hosking (2001:205).
52. Hosking (2001:253).
53. It was Ivan IV (1533–1584) who made service to the state mandatory for the
landowning elite, which started at the age of fifteen and continued until death.
Ray (1961).
54. See Table 5 in Pintner (1984).
55. Ray (1961).
56. Bryner (1955).
57. My discussion of Alexander II’s reforms depends on Hosking (2001), chapter 7.
58. These statistics are from Timasheff (1942).
59. Waldron (1997).
60. Owen (2009).
61. Wade (2000:4).
62. Owen (2009: 219).
63. Calculations are based on Table I and Table II in Ames (1947).
64. Waldron (1997:17), Hosking (2001:382).
65. Ely (2009:232).
66. Polunov (2005:113–115).
67. Spulber (2003).
68. Wade (2000:5).
69. Ascher (2004:6).
70. Ascher (2004:7).
71. Spulber (2003).
72. Perrie (1972) enumerates 7,165 different instances of peasant unrest in 1905–
1907, with these instances being observed in all regions of European Russia
except the Baltic and Transcaucasian provinces.
73. See Perrie (1972:123).
74. Cited in Shubin (2004b:170).
75. Cited in Pospielovsky (1998:105).
76. Shubin (2004b), especially Part 6.
77. Plamper (2000:7).
78. Shubin (2004b:179–182).
79. See Cracraft (1978).
80. Shubin (2004b:187).
81. Cited in Pipes (2005:56).
82. Cited in Daniel (2006:17).
84. From the Oath of the Holy Synod, printed in Cracraft (1993:119).
85. Dixon (1999:140).
86. Hosking (2001:199).
87. Shubin (2005:207).
88. Freeze (2006:285).
89. Freeze (1998:213).
90. Freeze (1985).
91. On the growing power of the church to regulate marriage and divorce in Rus-
sia, see Freeze (1990).
92. Freeze (1998:215).
93. Plamper (2000).
94. Shubin (2004b:203–207).
95. Freeze (1998:213).
96. Dixon (2006:328).
97. For an account of clerical education, see Swan (1964).
98. Chulos (2006:353).
99. Waldron (1997:95).
100. Seton-Watson (1988:477).
101. Freeze (1998: 215–227).
102. For a more detailed discussion, see Freeze (1998:215–218).
103. On the church’s ambition to establish its authority on icons, see Shevzov
(1999).
104. Shubin (2005:208). Christel Lane argues that in 1914 there were 54,174
churches and 23,592 chapels in Russia. Lane (1978:31).
105. Freeze (2006:289).
106. Chulos (2006:351).
107. Cited in Dixon (2006: 341).
108. See Freeze (2006:293–294), Plamper (2000:9).
109. Plamper (2000:9).
110. Freeze (2006:295).
111. See the discussion in Kizenko (2009) and Cunningham (1981:30–40).
112. Cunningham (1981:37).
113. Steinberg (2006:81).
114. Stepun (1960:164).
115. Cited in Stepun (1960:164).
116. Roslof (2002:5).
7 Eradicationist State Secularization
in the Soviet Union
This chapter explains why state secularization was eradicationalist in the

Soviet Union. The chapter argues that two factors were critical to the outcome:
first, the reformers introduced secularizing reforms in the midst of a brutal
civil war. Second, religious community had been staunchly opposed to the
new regime and was stubborn in its opposition.
The chapter starts with an account of how the reformers in Russia
came to power, a discussion needed to gain a sense of the strategic con-
text of state secularization. The chapter then describes the participation
of the church in the revolutionary upheaval and its opposition to the new
regime. The narrative will thus show how and why state secularization was
eradicationist.
STRATEGIC CONTEXT: THE COMING TO POWER

OF VLADIMIR ILYICH LENIN1
Already in the beginning of the 20th century, Russia was ripe for a revolution.
From workers to peasants, the disappointment and the discontent were
running deeper and deeper through all segments of Russian society. The
tsarist political system was shaken by the 1905 revolution but could recover
from it. This recovery would prove to be temporary, however. As the First
World War began to incur heavy human and economic cost, an increasing
number of protests, strikes, and mutinies brought down the tsarist system.
Nicholas II’s abdication in favor of his brother, Grand Duke Mikhail, on
March 2, 1917, and the latter’s refusal to take the crown meant the end of
the 300-year-old rule of the Romanov dynasty.
The Provisional Government, formed immediately on the same day, could
not address the major concerns of the masses. It showed no intention of
stopping the now highly unpopular war, stood neutral on worker-employer
relations, and refused to distribute the land the peasants demanded. In
reaction, the masses took matters into their own hands. The soldiers and
the workers established their self-government committees to run their own
affairs, and the peasants began to seize lands from the landowners.2
Eradicationist State Secularization in the Soviet Union 133
In the wake of this total disintegration of the central authority, Vladimir
Ilyich Lenin rose to prominence. Born in 1870, Lenin had long been
involved in Marxist agitation against the tsarist regime. He was exiled to
Siberia in 1897 for his involvement in subversive activities and then lived in
Europe, except for a brief period, until he returned to Russia on April 3,
1917, as the leader of the Bolsheviks. In the next six months, Lenin agitated
against the Provisional Government in every possible way. For example, he
called for an end to the war and demanded the distribution of land from
the landlords to the peasants.3 By October 1917, Lenin’s Bolsheviks were
ready for the takeover. On October 25, 1917, the Bolsheviks stormed—rather
peacefully—the Winter Palace, where the Provisional Government held its
meetings. With this coup d’état, Russia withdrew from the First World War by
signing an armistice with Germany on December 2, 1917, but plunged into a
brutal civil war, a civil war by and large ignited by the Bolsheviks themselves.
For Lenin and the Bolsheviks, civil war was a means of destroying the
enemy,4 namely those who would stand against the Bolsheviks. In order to
do this, the Bolsheviks deliberately stirred up the hatred, already unleashed,
of the lower classes toward the privileged classes. In Lenin’s popular
slogan, the masses were encouraged to “loot the looters.” For example,
the Bolsheviks gave official sanction to the ongoing land seizures in the
countryside and legalized the de facto workers’ control over “the production,
storage, purchase and sale of all products and raw materials . . . in all
industrial, commercial, banking, agricultural and other enterprises.”5
The Bolsheviks not only encouraged the masses to plunder the properties
of the privileged classes, but also engaged in their own looting. With a series
of decrees, the Bolsheviks robbed the former privileged classes. Private indi-
viduals’ shares and bonds in factories were annulled; the banks nationalized;
the private boxes in the banks emptied; foreign money, gold, silver, and other
precious items confiscated; the bourgeoisie taxed heavily; and the former
privileged classes forcefully conscripted for manual labor.6
In tandem with this plunder, the Bolsheviks waged a brutal campaign
against their opponents, unleashing such terror that touched almost every
segment of Russian society. The opponents were randomly arrested, tortured,
and, if luck was not on their side, summarily executed. The greatest chal-
lenge to Bolshevik rule came from former tsarist generals who raised armed
resistance forces, known as the Whites, in different parts of Russia.7 Yet, in
the first few months, the White Army was no match against the Bolsheviks
in numerical terms: while the Bolsheviks could muster between 100,000
and 150,000 men at the southern frontier, the Whites could barely muster
6,000 men in mid-April 1918. Not surprisingly, the Bolsheviks rather easily
extended their rule over most of the imperial territories stretching from
Poland to the Pacific. By March 1918 only Transcaucasia, Finland, Ukraine,
and South Russia were outside Bolshevik control. The Bolshevik victory was
so obvious that in April 1918 Lenin would declare with certainty “the civil
war has ended.”8
But it had not. In May 1918, some 50,000 armed Czech soldiers who had
fought in the Russian Army during the war rebelled. Known as the Czecho-
slovak Legion, the Czechs defeated the Bolsheviks and captured several
important cities on the Volga River. By the end of August, the Bolsheviks
had already lost the control of the north, the Volga, and Siberia. The
ensuing political vacuum gave the Whites a much needed opportunity to
organize their resistance armies with the help of the Allies. Even though the
Whites grew in size, expanded their territories, and scored critical victories
against the Bolsheviks, they could not deal the final blow to Bolshevik rule.
There are three main reasons for this failure. First, equally exhausted in the
First World War, the Allied countries could not commit as many resources to
the Russian civil war as the Whites wished. Second, the Bolsheviks controlled
the central Russian territories where the major Russian industries, including
arms factories, were situated and where the railroad network was denser.
Thus, the Bolsheviks could supply their troops and move them swiftly
across the frontiers. Finally, the Whites could not come up with a political
program that appealed to the masses. The White Army generals saw their
responsibility primarily as defeating the Reds, not solving the perennial prob-
lems of the Russian masses. For example, they were not willing to recognize
the peasants’ seizure of the land, nor were they inclined to cooperate with
the various nationalist movements that emerged in Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania,
Belarus, Poland, the Ukraine, Finland, and Caucasia. Furthermore, the Whites
failed miserably to get the Russian masses on their side and, hence, could
not achieve numerical superiority over the Reds on any frontier.9 Equally
important, the Whites failed to coordinate their military operations against
the Bolsheviks. Hence, the Bolsheviks could engage them one by one, their
numerical superiority giving them a decisive advantage.
The Bolsheviks eventually routed the White Army, with the last formidable
force being defeated in November 1920. In the meantime, the Bolshevik
government settled their relations with the nationalist governments in Poland
and in the Baltics, signing a treaty with Estonia in February 1920, Lithuania
in July 1920, Latvia in August 1920, Finland in October 1920, and Poland
in March 1921. However, in the east and in the Caucasus, the Bolsheviks
pursued a different course, invading Azerbaijan in April 1920, Armenia in
December 1920, and Georgia in February 1921. By October 1922 they had
extended their control to the Far East after Japan evacuated Vladivostok and
to Central Asia after suppressing the Basmachi rebellion.
The Bolsheviks then turned their attention to workers and peasants. Their
relations with the workers and peasants had been tense since the Bolshevik
government introduced food requisitioning and took away the management
of the factories from the workers’ committees in 1918. In February 1921
the workers went on strike in massive numbers, first in Moscow and then in
Petrograd. Some soldiers mutinied in support of the workers. The Bolsheviks
declared martial law in Moscow and Petrograd, arresting hundreds of work-
ers and locking thousands of them in factories to calm the workers’ unrest.10
The sailors in the naval base of Kronstadt joined the workers on February 28,
1921. The Bolsheviks brought in 60,000 troops to crush the rebellion in the
naval base. Thousands of rebel sailors were either executed or sent to the first
Soviet concentration camp of Solovki on an island in the White Sea.11
Tension had also been building in the countryside. Former small-scale
revolts by the peasants, which had fl ared up sporadically in the previous two
years, turned into major peasant rebellions by 1921. The rebellions were
massive and widespread, especially in the Black Earth region, in the Volga
region, in the Northern Caucasus, and in Western Siberia. In the province of
Tambov, for example, up to 50,000 peasants were armed and turned into a
disciplined army under the leadership of a former Socialist Revolutionary,
Alexander Antonov. In contrast to the White Army forces, which had no
strong ties to the local populations, the peasant armies were organically tied
to local populations, supported, fed, and equipped by them.12 In addition to
their strong ties to local populations, the peasant armies had also superior
knowledge of the local terrain, which gave them a decisive advantage in
fighting the Bolsheviks.
In the summer of 1921, the Bolsheviks adopted a new strategy to combat
the peasant armies by swamping the rebellious areas with a large number of
troops and initiating a campaign of terror against the peasants. For example, to
crush the Antonov rebellion, the Red Army put 100,000 troops into the field
and unleashed a systematic regime of terror against the villagers designed
to crush their morale and determination. In the ensuing terror, the Bolsheviks
jailed or deported 100,000 people and killed 15,000. Implementing the same
policy across Russia, the Bolsheviks crushed almost all peasant rebellions
by the end of 1921. In the meantime, they eliminated their last rivals, the
Mensheviks and the Socialist Revolutionaries, from the political scenes.
Accusing them of instigating the peasant rebellions, the Bolsheviks arrested
thousands of them in 1921. Thus, by the end of 1921, the Bolsheviks had
consolidated their hold on power. It is in this context of a brutal, bloody,
and violent social revolution, which held Russia hostage for four years, that
we should situate the changing state-church relations in Russia. This is what
we turn to next.
THE REVOLUTIONARY UPHEAVALS

AND THE RUSSIAN ORTHODOX CHURCH
By 1917, the Romanov dynasty was so discredited even among the church
hierarchy that the latter did not, or chose not to, come to its rescue.13 It soon
turned out that the church had lost its safety net with the fall of the monarchy
and had become wide open to all sorts of assaults. In the aftermath of
the revolution, the socialists began to agitate for changes in state-church
relations that were inimical to the church. They demanded that the church
be separated from the state, that no state funds be given to the church, and
that no religious education be taught in state schools or clergy be employed
as instructors. In proposing these and similar changes, the socialists used
derogatory words, expressing their disdain for the church. For example,
the separation of the church and the state would “cleanse the organ of the
people.”14 The priests were even banned from participating in the funeral
organized by the Petrograd Soviet for the victims of the February Revolution.15
Far worse, the greatest challenge for the church appeared in the countryside.
In some cases church lands were seized by the peasants; in others the priests
were prevented from performing religious services in their churches or were
driven out of their parishes. In some cases even nuns were subject to attacks
from the peasants, with their lands also being seized.16
Yet in the most bizarre cases the priests themselves turned against their
own bishops, deposing them in diocesan assemblies in places like Tula, Orel,
and Tver. Bishop Efrem of Selengina complained about the status of the
clergy in those revolutionary days in the following terms: “Storming in their
gatherings and congresses, they greeted with telegrams the lay wreckers of
the Church [Kerenskij and L’vov], and at the same time with furious rage
threw themselves upon the bearers of Church authority—the bishops. . . .
And how many religious persons left their service to the Holy Church and
went off to the service of the Revolution?”17
In those revolutionary days, the church threw in its lot with the Provisional
Government, especially supporting it in the continuation of the now unpopular
war.18 In return for this support, the church expected that the Provisional
Government would protect its privileges. But the Provisional Government
proved utterly powerless and incapable of defending the church’s inter-
ests. On the contrary, despite protests from the Church, the government
went against the church’s interests by putting the church’s 37,000 paro-
chial schools under the Ministry of Education on June 20, 1917, and intro-
ducing exceptions to compulsory religious education in state schools.19 A
resolution adopted on July 13, 1917, by the pre-Sobor Council illustrated
the concerns of the Church regarding the developments in the country: the
Council demanded, for example, that the state recognized the independence
of the Church, accepted the enactments of the Church as obligatory for all
individuals and institutions belonging to the Church, recognized the internal
autonomy of the Church, exempted clergymen, monks, and sacristans from
all military service, allowed the Church to organize its own school system
for theological and general education, made religious education compulsory
in state and private schools for children of Orthodox parents, and continue
to grant financial aid to the church.20
Despite the hardships it suffered, the revolution did give the church the
opportunity to convene a church council, which was the first to be independent
of the state since the 17th century. The church council opened on August 15,
1917, with the participation of 564 members, including both clerical and lay
members, elected from all dioceses in Russia. The central issue before the
council was the reestablishment of the patriarchate. The imminence of the
Bolshevik seizure of power simply hastened the progress of the council. The
patriarchate was reestablished on October 28, 1917, and Tikhon, by then
the metropolitan of Moscow, was elected the new patriarch of the Russian
Orthodox Church on November 5, 1917.
Before the Bolsheviks came to power, the church had already declared its
opposition to the Bolsheviks. In the aftermath of the Bolshevik uprising in
July 1917, the synod warned of an imminent danger: “A new and evil foe
has come amongst us, and has sowed tares in Rus’, which have not failed to
send forth leaves, which have stifl ed the shoots of the desired freedom . . .
The country has set forth upon the path of ruin, and in future there awaits
it that frightful gulf, which is for all of us full of horrifying despair.”21 One
church periodical presented the Bolsheviks as German agents: “The work
of traitors and betrayers who have received German money and who call
themselves Bolsheviks, has borne its fruit . . . Those who promised the
people all sorts of blessings and called for peace with the Germans have
sold Russia.”22
As expected, the Bolsheviks immediately set out to weaken the church.
From November 1917 to January 1918, the Bolsheviks issued three decrees
taking away from the church the privileges it had enjoyed for centuries.
In response, on January 19, 1918, Patriarch Tikhon excommunicated the
Bolsheviks with bitter words and called the faithful to the defense of the church.
In his encyclical, Tikhon condemned the Bolsheviks’ policy of civil war
and anathematized the Bolsheviks:
By the authority given us by God, we forbid you to present yourselves

for the sacraments of Christ, and anathematize you, if you still bear
the name of Christians, even if merely on account of your baptism you
still belong to the Orthodox church. I adjure all of you who are faithful
children of the Orthodox church not to commune with such outcasts of
the human race in any matter whatsoever”23
Finally, Tikhon called for believers to defend the church:
The blessed sacraments, sanctifying the birth of man into the world, or
blessing the marital union of the Christian family, have been pronounced
unnecessary and superfl uous; the holy churches are subjected either to
destruction . . . or to plunder and sacrilegious injury. . . . The saintly
monasteries . . . are seized by the atheistic masters of the darkness of
this world and are declared to be in some manner national property;
schools, supported from the resources of the Orthodox church to train
the ministers of churches and teachers of the faithful, are declared
superfl uous, and are turned either into training institutes of infidelity or
event directly into nurseries of immorality. . . . We appeal to all of you,
believing and faithful children of the church: rise up in defense of our
injured and oppressed holy Mother!24
Lenin could have cared less. Four days later, on January 23, 1918, the
Bolshevik government issued the famous decree that separated the state and
school from the Church, which in essence summed up all the previous decrees
issued with regard to the Orthodox Church. Among other things, the decree
separated the church from the state, recognized freedom of conscience and
freedom of religion, mandated that no state ceremony be accompanied by
religious rituals or ceremonies, abolished religious oaths, transferred the
registration of births and marriages to state institutions, separated schools
from the church, forbade the teaching of religion in public and private
schools, abolished the legal privileges of the church, ended the state subsidies
to the church, forbade the levying of obligatory collections by the church,
forbade the church to own property, abolished its rights as a legal entity, and
transferred the ownership of all property of the church to the people.25
Tikhon condemned Lenin even more vehemently in a letter written on
the occasion of the first anniversary of the Bolshevik seizure of power,
calling on him to end “the bloodletting, violence, plundering, oppression
of the faith; . . . give rest to the nation . . . from the fratricidal war. Otherwise
you will be made to pay for the blood of the righteous . . . and you ‘who
take the sword will perish by the sword.’ ”26
Tikhon’s warnings fell on deaf ears. Lenin simply did not act to stop the
bloodshed, nor did he ever intend to do anything. As discussed before, for
him civil war was indispensable to the revolution. He simply followed the
same policy with regard to the church. In liquidating the church property,
for example, the Bolshevik decrees essentially gave official sanction to an
already ongoing process. The decrees simply left the church defenseless
against the whims of the local Soviet authorities.27 That is also true about
the nature of the Red Terror for the clergy: “There is no solid evidence that
the clergy were singled out for execution” by the Red Terror.28 The clergy
simply shared the same fate as many others: that is, they were the random
victims of the terror.
There was no compelling reason for the Bolsheviks to alienate the church,
for they were in the midst of an ongoing civil war. It would have been better if
they could have simply neutralized the church, rather than pushing it to the
other side. In this vein, for example, the separation decree was not strictly
enforced, and its implementation was left to the local Soviets. In any case,
however, most of the bishops and clergy supported the White Army. In the
most explicit case, émigré Russian clergy met in Yugoslavia in 1921 and
appealed to Western countries for assistance in restoring the tsarist regime.
More importantly, perhaps, the church proved to be capable of mobilizing
the faithful to its defense. In February 1918, Tikhon sent out an instruction
to all priests, monks, and nuns, asking them to organize local societies and
call them “in cases of attack by despoilers or robbers of church property . . .
to defense of the Church.”29 And this active resistance paid off. Even the
workers fl ooded the government in 1918 and 1919 with requests asking
“to lift prohibitions on services, reverse church closures, and release clergy
from incarceration.”30 In particular, the strength of the church in organizing
anti-Bolshevik activity in areas occupied by the White Army forced the
Bolsheviks to change their policy toward the church. First, the Bolsheviks
decided to rely more on antireligious propaganda and education. The new
party program, which was passed by the Eighth Party Congress held in
March 1919, aimed to eradicate “religious prejudice” without “offending
the religious susceptibilities of believers”31 and rejected more radical pro-
posals such as the closure of the churches and the extermination of the clergy.
Second, the Bolsheviks began to look for allies within the church.
An historic opportunity arose with a rather unfortunate event, the famine
crisis of 1921–1922. Millions of people died in the famine. In some regions
worst hit by the famine, some people even turned to cannibalism. For Lenin
this was a golden opportunity to hit the church. Even though the church
campaigned both in Russia and abroad to raise funds to help the famine
victims, the Bolsheviks started a vigorous campaign asking the church to sell
all its valuables. Tikhon agreed to the sale of non-consecrated items, but not
consecrated ones.32 Tikhon also promised to raise money equivalent to the
value of all consecrated items. But Lenin went ahead and sent out a decree in
February 1922 to the local Soviets demanding that they confiscate all church
valuables, consecrated and non-consecrated.
In a top-secret letter written on March 19, 1922, to members of the
Politburo, Lenin explained the logic behind confiscation:
Precisely at the present moment we are presented with an exceptionally

favorable, even unique, opportunity . . . Now and only now, when people
are being eaten in famine-stricken areas, and hundreds, if not thousands,
of corpses lie on the roads, we can (and therefore must) pursue the
removal of church property with the most frenzied and ruthless energy
and not hesitate to put down the least opposition. Now and only now,
the vast majority of peasants will . . . be on our side. . . . We must pursue
the removal of church property by any means necessary in order to
secure for ourselves a fund of several hundred million gold rubles
(do not forget the immense wealth of some monasteries and lauras).33
Contrary to Lenin’s prediction, some peasants, mainly old men and

women, rushed to the defense of the church. In 1922–1923, around 1,400
clashes occurred between the Bolsheviks and the parishioners; as a result,
7,100 clergy were killed. But he proved to be right in timing. The local
church defense societies were no match for Bolshevik troops with machine
guns. The Bolsheviks rounded up thousands of priests to be tried in public,
some of whom were sent into exile while others were imprisoned. Even
Patriarch Tikhon could not escape punishment and in May 1922 was put
under house arrest.34
Adding insult to injury, the Bolsheviks found an ally within the church.
A group of priests, who rapidly organized themselves as the Living Church,
criticized Patriarch Tikhon’s policy on the famine crisis. Immediately after
Tikhon’s arrest, a group calling themselves the Progressive Clergy of
Petrograd issued a proclamation accusing him and the church hierarchy in the
bitterest terms of siding with “the enemies of the people.” The Progressive
Clergy called for a church council “for a trial of those who are guilty of
the ruin of the church, as well as to order the ecclesiastical government, and
to establish normal relations with the Soviet authorities.”35
Thus, the church administration was paralyzed not only by the arrest
of the patriarch, but also by the emergence of a great schism. As indicated
in previous chapters, this schism was not new.36 Historically, the Russian
Orthodox Church had not managed to close the long-standing gap or
ameliorate the hostility between the white clergy, with married parish priests,
and the black clergy, with monastic unmarried priests.37 In May 1922 the
renovationist clergy went further than simply criticizing Tikhon. In a meeting
with Tikhon, they persuaded him to appoint Metropolitan Agathangel as
the patriarch’s deputy. As Agathangel could not take up the position, the
renovationists formed the Provisional Superior Church Administration and
declared themselves “the high canonical authority in the Church.”38 More
importantly, perhaps, the renovationists secured widespread support from the
parishes, partly because of the vigorous support provided by the government.
They had governmental permission to maintain a central administration,
publish, and have a theological academy. In disputed parishes, the government
always sided with the Living Church, sometimes arresting the resistant
clergy.39 By the end of 1922, almost all parishes in Moscow and Petrograd
belonged to the renovationists. Throughout the country 66 percent of the
parishes declared their support for the renovationists.40
The Living Church schism finally brought Tikhon to his knees. Facing
two united enemies, Tikhon repented of his former activities against the
Bolshevik government in June 1923. In his confession addressed to the
Supreme Court, Tikhon wrote: “I declare hereby to the Soviet authorities
that henceforth I am no more an enemy to the Soviet government, and that
I have completely and resolutely severed all connections with the foreign
and domestic monarchists and the counter-revolutionary activity of the
White Guards.”41 Tikhon was immediately released, partly to appease the
European countries with whom Soviet Russia had developed trade relations,
and launched a counter-attack against the renovationists. The fall of the
reformist clergy was as swift as their rise. Within a year, for example, they
lost control of all but a handful of the parishes in Moscow. By 1927, out of
28,743 parishes in Russia, only 6,245 were under their control, with even
fewer numbers of parishioners.42
Tikhon’s death in April 1925 once again left the Orthodox Church in
administrative confusion. Metropolitan Peter assumed the role of patriarch
locum tenens, but he was soon arrested, choosing Metropolitan Sergii as
his successor. Before Sergii assumed the position of patriarch locum tenens,
another schism divided the church. Now Archbishop Grigorii led a group of
bishops to form the Temporary Higher Church Council in late 1925. Seeing
in this an opportunity to further weaken the church, the Soviet govern-
ment immediately granted the council legal recognition. However, Sergii
was not deterred and assumed the position. By 1932 some twenty-seven
bishops, twelve of whom were consecrated during Tikhon’s reign, sided with
Grigorii, bringing with them a considerable number of parishes. By 1938 the
Grigorian movement is estimated to have controlled around 5 percent of
the churches in Russia.43
Sergii met the same fate as his predecessor and was arrested in early 1926.
He was initially against Soviet rule. However, he could not continue this
policy and issued a proclamation in June 1927 reversing the church’s policy
toward the Soviet state: “We wish to be Orthodox and at the same time to
claim the Soviet Union as our civil motherland, the joys and successes of which
are our joys and successes, the misfortunes of which are our misfortunes.”44
In order to understand the shift in Sergii’s position, we should note
that after his first arrest he was arrested twice more before he made this
proclamation and, more importantly, that “the organizational structure of
the Church was on the brink of dissolution” as “ten of the eleven designated
successors of Patriarch Tikhon were in prison or in exile.”45 As such,
Sergii could not resolve the schisms. Even though they had lost their initial
impetus, the renovationist clergy still functioned without any hindrance from
the Soviet state as they functioned legally under Soviet law. In return for his
support, Sergii obtained from the Soviet state the right to convene a Holy
Synod and publish a journal.46
Sergii’s decision did not go unchallenged, leading to strong opposition
against him within the church. Unable to fend off his opponents, Sergii
eventually resorted to his ultimate weapon, banning and excommunication.
In his letter to Metropolitan Krill defending the employment of bans and
excommunication against his opponents, Sergii hints at the charges raised
against him for collaborating with the Soviet regime: “You are deeply grieved
that we call them departed ones and schismatics. But they call our Church,
led by me, ‘the kingdom of anti-Christ,’ our temples ‘the den of satan,’ us
his servants, the Holy Eucharist ‘demon food,’ they spit on our Holy things,
and the like.”47
As admitted by Sergii, a number of schismatic movements emerged as a
result of Sergii’s proclamation of support for the Soviet state and destroyed
the already fragile unity of the church. By 1928 approximately 8–9 percent of
the parishes had declared their independence from the patriarchal church.48
What made these schisms particularly troublesome for the church was
not their size, but their leadership: unlike the former schisms, such as the
Living Church, which remained mostly a movement of white parish clergy,
these schisms found strong support among the church hierarchies, too, with
a number of infl uential bishops breaking away from the Sergii-led church
and going into schism. The most important case of schism was led by
Metropolitan Iosif, who was deputy as locum tenens after Sergii was arrested
in 1926. In December 1927 his diocese, Leningrad (formerly Petrograd),
declared its independence from the patriarchate. Originating in Leningrad, the
movement then spread to other dioceses, such as Voronezh, Novgorod, Tver,
Vologda, and Pskov.49
The first decade of the 1917 Revolution was thus quite detrimental to
the Russian Orthodox Church: the church became financially impoverished,
losing its extensive lands, some 2 million acres; rich bank accounts and
treasury, some 7.2 billion rubles; and shares in 1,112 industries and business.50
It became institutionally weakened, with the number of churches decreasing
from 54,000 in 1914 to 39,000 in 1928;51 and it lost its unity, with some
30 percent of the parishes being under the control of schismatic movements.
The church also lost a significant number of its human capital, with some
joining the schismatic movements, between 5,000 and 10,000 clergy being
killed, another tens of thousands being put in prison or sent to exile, and
some joining the ranks of the enemy, becoming members of the League of
the Militant Godless, whose task was to launch a broad antireligious
propaganda campaign.52
IN THE POST-REFORM PERIOD
As a result of the reforms in Soviet Union, the Orthodox Church became

financially crippled, institutionally weakened, and fully subordinated to the
state. As its loyalty had always been questioned by the regime, the church
was subjected to periodic attacks by the regime. The attacks in the 1930s
were so detrimental to the church that it almost came to total liquidation.
In 1930 Metropolitan Sergii claimed that there were 30,000 open churches
in Russia and 163 bishops. By the end of the decade, there were just 4,225
churches in Russia and only 4 bishops.
But it should be noted that it was the decade of the Stalinist terror that
really took its toll on the church. Neither the brutal campaign for rapid
industrialization and collectivization of agriculture, which started in 1928,
nor the great Stalinist purges, which peaked in 1936–1938, targeted the church
per se. In the former, millions of peasants joined the church as the victims
of Stalinist terror, and in the latter even the Communist party members
suffered the same fate. In the Second World War and afterward, Stalin
made peace with the church in return for help in the Soviet war efforts. As a
result, the number of churches increased to 13,413, and the number of
bishops rose to 80 in 1958. However, under Khrushchev, the church once
again became the subject of suppression, as a result of which the number of
churches had decreased to 7,500 by 1966.53
Two more features should be mentioned briefl y to complete the picture.
First, the church’s sphere of action was severely restricted to purely reli-
gious services. The church was forbidden from undertaking any other sort
of nonreligious activity. By a law issued in April 1929, religious associations
were restricted in these ways:
Forbidden (a) to found funds for mutual help, cooperative societies,

productive associations and generally to employ the property which is in
their hands for any other kind of use than the satisfaction of religious
services; (b) to give any material support to their members, to organize
special meetings for children, youths, women, prayer or anything
else; also any common meetings, groups, circles, sections for literature,
handiwork, labour, the teaching of religion, etc.; and also to arrange
excursions and children’s playgrounds, to open libraries and reading-
rooms, to organize sanatoria and medical aid.54
Second, the Soviet state took upon itself the task of waging an ideological
war on religion. In this vein, in February 1925 the Soviet state gave a free
hand to the League of the Godless, later renamed the League of the Militant
Godless, to undertake vigorous propaganda against all religions. With active
state and party support, the league continuously increased its membership
base from 87,000 in 1926 to millions in the 1930s.55 The league published
a magazine, titled the Godless, and printed millions of copies; distributed
antireligious pamphlets and leafl ets; formed cells of the Godless in factories,
villages, and the Red Army; organized antireligious seminars in the universities;
and produced antireligious theatrical representations and films. The league also
collaborated with the Soviet state in incorporating materialism and atheism
into school programs.56 Despite the vigorous support of the Soviet regime,
however, atheism never took deep root among the masses. According to the
estimates, less than one quarter of Russians declared themselves to be atheist
during the Soviet period. And with the collapse of Soviet rule, that number
decreased to around 5 percent.57
The eradicationist model of state secularity had survived in the Soviet
Union until its collapse. In the concluding chapter, I discuss the fate of eradi-
cationism as a model of state secularity.
NOTES
1. The following account depends heavily on Suny (2006).

2. For a more detailed discussion, see chapter 9 in Figes (1998).
3. See Lenin’s April Theses, first published in Pravda newspaper on April 7,
1917. The English translation is available at www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/
works/1917/apr/04.htm.
4. See Getzler (1996:465).
5. The Bolsheviks’ legalization of workers’ take over can be found in “Draft
Regulations on Workers’ Control available at www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/
works/1917/oct/26.htm.
6. See, for example, Lenin’s Declaration of Rights of the Working and Exploited
People, published in Pravda on January 4, 1918. The text can be found at
www.marx2mao.com/Lenin/DRWP18.html.
7. For a detailed account of the Russian civil war, see Mawdsley (2007) and
Bullock (2006).
8. Quoted in Mawdsley (2007:22).
9. See Figes (1990).
10. Figes (1998:760).
11. Bullock (2006:130).
12. Figes (1998:758).
13. See Freeze (1996, 1999).
14. Basil (1979:192).
15. Figes and Kolonitskii (1999:46).
16. Figes (1998:350), Curtiss (1948).
17. Quoted in Curtiss (1948:241–242).
18. For the church’s support for the continuation of the war see Curtiss
(1948:242–243).
19. Curtiss (1948:244).
20. The resolution can be found in Browder and Kerensky (1961:818–819).
21. Curtiss (1948:247–248).
22. Curtiss (1948:247–248).
23. The full text can be found in MacLear (1995:329–331).
24. MacLear (1995:329–331).
25. The full text can be found in MacLear (1995:332–333).
26. Quoted in Pospielovsky (1998:210).
27. See, for example, the Instructions of the Justice Commissariat on the separation
decree issued on August 24, 1918. Parts of the text can be found in MacLear
(1995:337–339).
28. Roslof (2002:27).
29. Parts of the text can be found in MacLear (1995:333–335).
30. Roslof (2002:29).
31. Quoted in Roslof (2002:29).
32. Quoted in Regelson (1991). The book is available at www.apocalyptism.ru/
Tragedy-of-Russian-Church.htm
33. The text is available in English at World War I Document Archive, http://wwi.
lib.byu.edu/index.php/The_‘Black_Hundreds’_Anti-Clerical_Campaign_/_
Lenin_to_Molotov
34. Figes (1998:748–749), Regelson (1991, chapters 1–3).
35. The text can be found in MacLear (1995:346–347).
36. See Roslof (2002), also Roslof (1996).
37. Freeze (1995:309).
38. MacLear (1995:348).
39. See the discussion on the rise of the reformist clergy in Fletcher (1971:32–35).
41. The text of Tikhon’s confession can be found in MacLear (1995:351–352).
42. For an excellent analysis of why the Living Church movement declined, see
Freeze (1995).
43. Pospielovsky (1998:248–249), Fletcher (1971:46–49).
44. Quoted in Fletcher (1971:51).
45. Fletcher (1971:52).
46. Fletcher (1971:52).
47. Quoted in Fletcher (1971:62).
48. Shkarovskii (1995:374).
49. For more on the Josephite movement, see Shkarovskii (1995).
50. Shubin (2005:528).
51. Froese (2004:42).
52. Peris (1995).
53. Davis (1991:614).
54. Klepinin (1930).
55. Froese (2004:38).
56. See the discussion in Klepinin (1930).
57. Froese (2004:48).
8 Conclusion
The Fates of Three Models
of Secular States
The recent Arab revolutions/rebellions/protests have once again raised an

old question: What features should the Arab political systems ideally have?
Inescapably, Turkey frequently comes up as a model country for the Arab
world. One critical achievement attributed to Turkey, and hence its attractive-
ness as a model, is that it has reconciled—or better put, has come very close
to reconciling—Islam with liberal secularism and liberal democracy.1
Turkey, this author also believes, has indeed made great progress in that
direction. The critical question is, then, how has Turkey achieved this?
Unfortunately, this is too big of a question to tackle within a concluding
chapter. Still, I believe this book provides one critical insight into the ongoing
debate. This insight might be counterintuitive especially for those individuals
who claim that state secularism, as implemented in Turkey, has been a great
impediment to further liberalization of democracy in Turkey.2 I agree that
state secularity was indeed realized in the first place and then was sustained
in Turkey in an authoritarian fashion. Furthermore, the non-neutrality of
the Turkish state toward the Alawites and other religions is indeed a major
problem. However, this should not lead us to conclude rather too easily on
the topic. Accommodationist state secularity in Turkey has made a criti-
cal contribution to the progress the country has made toward a possible
reconciliation between Islam and liberal secularism and liberal democracy.
To see this contribution, one has to acknowledge Turkey’s two other
noteworthy achievements. First, the Turkish secular state has long proved to
be exceptionally resilient.3 Second, Turkish religious activism has also been
far less threatening to the secular state in Turkey4 than activism elsewhere
in the Islamic world.5
These two achievements are obviously related: more specifically, they are
constitutive of each other. As this book argues, Turkish state secularity has
been accommodative of religion. This concluding chapter suggests that such
a model of state secularity has deeply affected religious activism in Turkey
by making the Turkish religious community more accepting of “secularism”
as a condition of modernity. As a result of this acceptance, the secular state
in Turkey has not faced the same sort of challenges other countries in the
Middle East have faced.
Conclusion 147
Both the resiliency of the secular state and the more accepting attitude
of religious community toward state secularity are such critical achievements
of Turkey that they not only precede, but also precondition, any other
achievement attributed to Turkey in reconciling Islam, liberal secularism,
and liberal democracy. I suggest that these two achievements are the direct
outcome of the accommodative state secularism Turkey adopted in the
1920s and has since then stubbornly protected. This can be better seen if the
fates of separationism and eradicationism in Iran and Russia respectively
are taken into account.
THE STATE AND RELIGION
As the respective chapters illustrated, Republican Turkey, Pahlavi Iran, and

Soviet Russia undertook extensive state secularizing reforms in the 1920s
and 1930s and redefined the relationship of their states to their dominant
religions and religious community/institutions. Common to all three cases
was that the state unconditionally declared, ambitiously implemented, and
jealously guarded its absolute sovereignty, as a result of which religious
community/institutions lost almost all their public functions and autonomy
of action. This, then, was what constituted “state secularization.”
Yet all three cases also differed in one critical way. While the Soviet Russian
secular state sought to eradicate religion and religious community/institutions,
the Pahlavi Iran secular state let them go their own way. Only the Republican
Turkish secular state sought to transform religion and religious community/
institutions in its own image.
State secularization in Turkey went beyond just merging religious institu-
tions with the state apparatus and included an ambitious project of shaping
religion. As chapter 3 illustrated, the Turkish state incorporated an extensive
network of mosques and offices of religious counsels into its apparatus.
In order to run these institutions, the state employed former Ottoman religious
scholars. Thus, religious services including research, teaching, and publica-
tion on religion continued in Turkey, but under state patronage. For example,
between 1924 and 1950, the Directorate of Religious Affairs distributed
(free of charge) 5,000 Qur’an translations and commentaries (each in nine
volumes), 5,000 Buhari Hadith translations and commentaries (each twelve
volumes), and 247,000 different religious books all over Turkey.6
As a corollary to this intervention in religious services, the Turkish
state was actively involved in crafting a new understanding of religion, an
understanding compatible with the secular nature of the state.7 The Turkish
state then propagated this new understanding throughout the network of
mosques spanning the whole country. In this vein the state even prepared a
set of sermons to be preached during Friday prayers.8
The Turkish state also sought to become the sole voice in shaping religion.
In large part, the closure of the Sufi orders in 1925 served this purpose.
Following the same practice, the Turkish state employed most of the Sunni
Sufi sheikhs in the state. Those who left Turkey generally belonged to the
non-orthodox Bektashi Sufi order.9 The Turkish state has also jealously
guarded its monopoly over the interpretation of religion. Numerous individ-
ual biographies from the 1920s to 1950s consistently show that the Turkish
state infl icted severe hardships on those members of the religious commu-
nity who did not collaborate with the regime and tried to break the state
monopoly over religious teaching and research. Religious figures, such as
Said Nursi, Mehmed Esad Erdebili, I˙ skilipli Atı f, Ali Galip Keskin, Abdül-
hakim Arvasi, Mehmet Vehbi, and Süleyman Hilmi Tunahan, faced severe
punishments, ranging from exile to death, due to their continuation of
activities that were distasteful to the regime.10
While religious activism outside the state was demanding, time-consuming,
and often attracted suspicion and suppression, religious activism within the
state proved to be relatively safe and even to an extent rewarding. This
became even more true with the transition to multiparty democracy in 1950.
We see most of the leading figures of religious revivalism in Turkey, who also
happened to come to lead major grassroots religious groups, employed in
the Turkish state. Examples are many. The most infl uential religious group
in Turkey, the Fethullah Gülen movement, was established and, since its
origin, led by Fethullah Gülen, who had been a preacher and a prayer leader
for the Directorate of Religious Affairs for more than twenty years. Another
infl uential group, a Naqshibandi Sufi order, I˙ skenderpaşa, is in fact named
after a Diyanet mosque where the order’s late sheikh, Mehmed Zahid Kotku,
had served as preacher and prayer leader. This order’s sheikh after Mehmed
Zahid, Mahmud Esad Coşan, was a professor at Ankara University Faculty
of Theology. Another Naqshibandi order was also named after a Diyanet
mosque, I˙ smail Ag˘ a, for the same reason: its long-time sheikh, Mahmut
Osmanog˘ lu, had served as a preacher and prayer leader in that mosque.
Tahir Büyükkörükçü, the leader of another religious group, Erenköy, also
worked for the Diyanet as a religious counsel and preacher.
State secularization in Iran was separationist: it neither incorporated
religious institutions into the state nor sought to transform religion. In
the face of a state claiming absolute sovereignty, the religious community
embarked upon a program of developing their religious school system. The
leadership, of first Abdol Karim Haeri-Yazdi and then Husayn Borujerdi,
proved to be critical in this development. Haeri-Yazdi moved to Qum in
1922 and brought his many followers, including Ruhollah Khomeini, Reza
Golpayegani, and Kazem Shariatmadari, who assumed the highest positions
in the Shi’a religious community during the second half of the 20th century.
Haeri-Yazdi introduced an order to the religious curriculum, instituted annual
examinations, and regulated the stipend system. He renovated some old
seminaries in Qum and expanded the libraries available to the seminarians.
After Haeri’s death, Qum seminaries improved further under the leadership
of Husayn Borujerdi, who came to Qum in 1944 and assumed leadership
Conclusion 149
of the Qum seminaries.11 Borujerdi succeeded in halting Iranian students’
migrations to Iraq for religious learning. This is evident in that by the time
he came to Qum, the number of students numbered 2,500 at all seminaries
in Qum and rose 6,000 by the time of his death in 1962.12 As a result, the
city of Qum became the bastion of Islamic learning in Iran13 to the point of
competing with two historical Shi’a holy cities, Najaf and Karbala.14
What made this possible was the religious community’s loosely structured
internal hierarchy and close ties to the merchant class in Iran. The religious
community’s ties with the merchant class continued to develop under the
new secular state in Iran: intermarriages between these two urban groups
and joint ventures in trade simply solidified this alliance.15 To tap into this
resource more effectively, Borujerdi instituted an orderly system of collecting
religious taxes and charities. Before him, agents having authorization letters
from high-ranking religious scholars had voluntarily collected the religious
taxes and charities and forwarded them to Qum. Borujerdi registered all
agents, assigned each of them to a clearly delineated district of responsibility,
and specified precisely their terms of appointment. He also built a register of
correspondence. The religious scholars in Qum thus extended their networks
all across the country.
This reinstitutionalization and development of financial resources outside
the state also helped the religious community in Iran undertake welfare-
improving activities. Running through many biographies of prominent Shi’a
religious scholars is a constant theme of how they channeled the religious
taxes and charities, coming from believers, into activities that improved the
lot of the poor, the old, the widows, the orphans, and the needy in society.
The narrations give us an image of a grand ayatollah as a “grandfatherly
man with a white beard and twinkling eyes”16 to whom visitors come for
answers. Some ask for financial help; some ask for religious, legal, or even
psychological advice. These activities, in addition to those already existing
religious institutions, served as yet another critical channel deeper into
Iranian society.
State secularization in Russia was eradicationist. It did not pursue a
limited objective such as, for example, restricting religion to a private sphere.
Rather it sought not only to decapitate religious community/institutions
socially, politically, and economically and but also to eradicate religion even
from the minds and the hearts of the citizens. Starting in the midst of a civil
war, the Soviet state appropriated church lands and buildings, closed down
thousands of churches and all monasteries, and jailed or put under house
arrest thousands of church elders, priests, and monks. In the late 1920s, the
Soviet state banned the church from engaging in any charity activity, thus
closing another channel into the masses, and began to actively propagate
an antireligious worldview in order to have atheism in place of religion.
By 1934, for example, the Soviet state had already introduced atheism in
the state school system: the statute on secondary schools set the objective of
primary and secondary schools as “anti-religious upbringing of the students”
and building “instruction and education work upon the basis of an active fight
against religion and its infl uence upon the student and adult population.”17
The Soviet state also introduced courses on atheism at higher levels of
education, one of which was a compulsory course on scientific atheism.
The invasion of the Soviet Union by Germany in 1941 brought to the
severely crippled church the respite it much needed. The Soviet state not
only ended its heavy suppression of the church, but also even allowed
the church a certain amount of breathing space. Between 1941 and 1947,
the propagation of atheism stopped. Stalin even met with the church elders
in 1943 in the Kremlin, listened to their requests, and implemented several
of them. For example, the Soviet state released thousands of priests from
jail and allowed them to return to their churches. The state also allowed
the election of a new patriarch, a position left vacant since the death of the
last patriarch, Tikhon, in 1925. The church was allowed to collect dona-
tions for the war efforts, publish a journal, organize seminaries, and run
theological academies.18
In 1947, Stalin reversed some of his policies regarding the church. The
Soviet state retightened its grip over the church, reclosed some churches
and some seminaries, and renewed antireligious propaganda. Yet it did not
restart an active suppression of the church. Suppression restarted under
Stalin’s successor, Nikitai Khrushchev. In a determined effort to root out all
of Stalin’s legacy, Khrushchev targeted the church. In 1958, the Soviet state
began to wage a second round of suppression on the church; in the next
six years, the state closed down at least half of the churches that had been
operating in Soviet Russia. The Soviet state not only drastically reduced
the number of priests, but also made priesthood a demanding profession.
The clergy was overtaxed, and hundreds of them were fired, jailed, sent to
camps, or exiled. The Soviet state also began to close down monasteries
and appropriated their lands.19 The antireligious propaganda gained a new
momentum in the new period, so much so that the 1961 party program
even declared a renewed commitment to “free consciousness from religious
prejudices and superstitions.” The mission was to construct a full communist
society by 1980 in which the church would cease to exist and all Soviet
citizens would be atheist.20
The Soviet state did not continue its active suppression of the church
under Leonid Brezhnev (1964–1982), but rather restricted itself to the
propagation of atheism through a variety of means. As the Soviet state had
kept the church under heavy state control and did not extend a helping hand,
the Orthodox Church had remained by and large a moribund organiza-
tion in the rest of the Soviet period. On the positive side, though, the
victimization of the church at the hands of the Soviet state would prove to
be beneficial in the long run. For sure, decades of antireligious propaganda
had taken their toll on the believers. According to a major survey conducted
in 1996–1997, only 7 percent of Russian society identified themselves as
“traditional believers” who regularly attended church services. However,
Conclusion 151
the same survey also found that only 5.5 percent of the population identified
themselves as “atheists.”21 Even so, according to a national survey, the church
was the most trusted organization in Soviet society by the end of 1980s.22
MEETING THE CRISIS
Republican Turkey and Pahlavi Iran in the 1970s and Soviet Russia in the
1980s plunged into a crisis. It is beyond the scope of this concluding chapter
to detail how the crisis originated, unfolded, and ended in each case. To say
the least, however, the crisis was in large part driven by a multitude of
problems either aggravated or created by the state-led economic development
model each country pursued. The crisis eventually brought down political
regimes in Iran and Russia, in 1979 and 1991 respectively, and led to a
military coup d’état in Turkey in 1980. Even though the crisis did not have
much to do with state-religion relations per se, it affected state-religion
relations in each country. To be more specific, while separatist state secularity
in Iran and eradicationist state secularity in Soviet Russia did not survive
the crisis, Turkey’s accommodative state secularity survived and continues
to do so to this day.
To start with Iran, the crisis brought down the Pahlavi monarchy through
a social revolution.23 Iran was, and still is, blessed (or cursed) by oil. Iran’s oil
revenues constituted 45 percent of the government’s total revenues in 1963.
From 1963 on, oil revenues increased considerably. By 1977, oil’s share in
government revenues increased to 77 percent. Despite the splendid eco-
nomic growth oil generated in Iran, the Iranian economy simply did not
have the infrastructure to absorb that amount of windfall oil income.
Neither the agricultural sector nor the construction sector could keep pace
with the increasing demands of food and housing in urban areas. Due to
the massive migration from rural areas and the lack of government investment,
rents and prices of land and property in urban areas skyrocketed. In some
parts of Tehran, for example, rents increased tenfold. Shantytowns, lacking
basic municipality services such as water, electricity, public transportation,
and even garbage collection, mushroomed around big cities. The Iranian
state could not respond to the mounting problems of diverse social groups
in an effective manner. With increasing oil revenues, the Iranian state was
able to establish a brutal and repressive state mechanism. With the confi-
dence of having such a state, the Iranian governments of the period dared
to wage a full-scale war against almost all discontented social groups.24 The
regime, with its brutal intelligence service and powerful armed forces,
could probably have suppressed all these dissident segments of the society
if they had surfaced at different times. In Iran, however, thanks to the
Iranian state’s efforts, they united in the fall of 1977. Over the next fourteen
months, the masses and the regime began to confront each other routinely
on the streets.
State secularization in Iran left a religious community in control of a
societal-wide network of religious institutions. As Iran plunged into a crisis
in the mid-1970s, the activist members of the religious community utilized
that network of religious institutions and unified otherwise disunited societal
groups against the state. Thus, the revolution came to Iran in large part
thanks to the efforts of the religious community.
The face of the revolution was not surprisingly that of a religious scholar,
Grand Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Born in 1902 in the city of Khomeyn
in Iran, this fiery man of religion was politically inactive until 1962. In
this year, Grand Ayatollah Husayn Borujerdi, who prohibited members of
the religious community to become involved in politics in 1949, died, and
Ruhollah Khomeini rose to the top of the Shi’a religious hierarchy as a
grand ayatollah in 1962. Because of his bitter criticisms of the shah, he was
exiled to Turkey in 1964 and then moved to Iraq in 1965.
Even outside Iran, Khomeini continued to conspire against the Pahlavi
state. As a grand ayatollah, he had religious students who had been active in
Iran, controlling some religious institutions as Khomeini’s representatives.
Khomeini’s students, for example, established the Society of Militant Clergy
in 1976, which had bases in local mosques “to organize debates, distribute
leafl ets, recruit local youth, organize strikes, distribute Khomeini’s tapes and
statements, supervise demonstrations and provide their localities with food
and fuel during the hard winter days of the revolution.”25
Under a political regime where legitimate ways of expressing discontent
were highly restricted, Khomeini’s network in the religious institutions proved
to be critical assets for revolutionaries, which helped Khomeini return to
Iran on February 1, 1979, as the undisputed leader of the revolution. In his
first press conference held on February 5, 1979, he hinted at the character
of the upcoming regime in Iran:
As a man who, through the guardianship [velayet] that I have from the
holy lawgiver, I hereby pronounce Bazargan as the Ruler, and since I have
appointed him, he must be obeyed. . . . This is not an ordinary government.
It is a government based on the shari’a. Opposing this government means
opposing the shari’a of Islam and revolting against the shari’a, and
revolt against the government of the shari’a. . . . Revolt against God’s
government is a revolt against God. Revolt against God is blasphemy.26
In the succeeding years, Khomeini and his students successfully elimi-

nated all potential contenders for power and consolidated their rule in Iran.
Remaining truthful to his own understanding of Shi’a Islam, which specified
an extensive role in politics for the Shi’a religious scholars,27 Khomeini and
his students changed state-religion relations in Iran and instituted a new
political system in which Shi’a religious scholars occupy critical positions.28
A religious scholar, for example, occupies the highest political position,
Conclusion 153
called the supreme leader, in the country. First occupied by Ruhollah
Khomeini himself, and then his student Ali Khamanei, the supreme leader
appoints the head of the judiciary, the commanders of the armed forces, and
many other critical positions in the political system. The Guardian Council,
which checks the compatibility of bills passed by the parliament with Islamic
law and screens candidates for parliamentary and presidential elections, is
also formed by the religious scholars. The new regime in Iran also reintro-
duced Islamic law into the legal system and began to employ the graduates
of religious schools in the judiciary.
The post-revolution Iranian state is therefore a semi-theocratic state.29
Yet it still acts like a secular state. The Iranian state still claims sovereignty,
extensively controlling the provision of such critical public functions as
legal and educational services. In the legal system, for example, the religious
judges do not interpret religious law and make their judgments, but rather
are given precise rules and laws with which they are to make their judgments.
In other words, they are no different from modern secular judges in their
relations with the laws and therefore do not enjoy the autonomy of the
religious judges of premodern states. Even into the purely religious sphere,
the Iranian state extended its claim of sovereignty, propagating Khomeini’s
particular understanding of Shi’a Islam as the true Shi’a Islam and subjecting
those who do not adhere to various difficulties. In other words, in the
post-revolution period, Iran has come to adopt certain features of accom-
modationist state secularity.
Let me now turn to Soviet Russia. The crisis had almost unnoticeably
evolved in the Soviet Union over several decades preceding the disintegration
in 1991. According to a study, the average annual growth rate in Soviet
Russia during this time was spectacularly 9.3 percent in the 1950s. The
rate decreased to 4.2 percent in the 1960s, 2.1 percent in the 1970s, and
0.6 percent in the 1980s.30 According to another study, the Soviet growth
rate for the period of 1960–1989 was in fact the worst in the world if
such standard growth determinants as human capital and investment are
controlled. The same study also found that “Soviet economic growth was
significantly above the world average in the 1950s, and significantly below
even the poor world growth of the 1980s.”31
In order to reverse this downturn and rejuvenate the economy, even
under Leonid Brezhnev (1964–1982), the Soviet state began to introduce
some economic reforms. But the most ambitious and serious reforms came
later under Michael Gorbachev (1985–1991). Famously known as Glas-
nost (openness) and Perestroika (restructuring), Gorbachev’s reforms could
not halt the decline. They might even have sped up the meltdown. The
growth rates of gross national product were recorded as 4.1 percent in
1986, 1.3 percent in 1987, 2.1 percent in 1988, and 1.5 in 1989. In the last
two years of this period, the Soviet economy even recorded negative growth
rates: −4.0 percent in 1990 and −13.0 percent in 1991.32
While the religious community in Iran was organizationally and financially
powerful enough to turn the crisis into a revolution, the Russian Orthodox
Church was too decapitated to benefit from the unfolding crisis in Soviet
Russia. Primarily a victim of the Soviet system, the church had nothing to
lose and enthusiastically supported Gorbachev’s reforms. In his first two
years in office, Gorbachev did not change the official state policy toward
religion and the church. Yet, for reasons we can only speculate on, he
would. It might be that Gorbachev saw in the church an ally “to reawaken
Russian society, improve its work ethic, and combat demoralizing social
issues such as alcoholism.”33 Or Gorbachev might have “co-opted a poten-
tial opposition group and made it one of the strongest supporters of his
reform initiative.”34
The first signs of the change came in late 1987 when Gorbachev announced
the return of two famous monasteries that were closed down in the 1920s.
Gorbachev took an even more daring step in April 1988: he met Patriarch
Pimen and five other church elders in Kremlin. In the meeting Gorbachev
admitted the mistakes the Soviet state had committed in the past to the
church and promised to rectify them. The patriarch returned Gorbachev’s
gestures with an equally powerful gesture: “I pledge full support to you, the
architect of perestroika and the herald of new political thinking. We, the
Church people, ardently pray for the success of that process and are seeking
to do everything within our power to promote it.”35
Soon after the meeting, the Soviet state returned another famous monastery
and made further concessions to the church. It “gave permission to begin
new training programs for priests and to open new seminaries . . . revised
the laws on regulating churches; authorized a large increase in the publi-
cation of Bibles and religious literature.”36 More importantly, the Soviet
state permitted the church to engage in charitable work, an activity that
had been forbidden since the 1920s, and began to return church buildings
and lands that had been confiscated during the Soviet era.37 In June 1988
the Russian Orthodox Church was permitted to celebrate the millennium of
Kievan Rus’ adoption of Orthodox Christianity. The celebration turned into
a major event for the church as cultural activities, exhibitions, and religious
ceremonies lasted for more than a week and reminded the Russian public of
the many contributions the church had made to Russia. With the new state
toleration, the church grew in size: the number of Orthodox parishes in
Soviet Russia increased from 6,742 in 1986 to 10,110 in 1990 and the number
of priests from about 6,000 priests to 7,200. There were just six monasteries
in the Soviet Union in 1985; that number increased to 25 in 1990.38
With the new Law on Freedom of Conscience and Religious Associations
passed on October 1, 1990, the Soviet state formally ended eradicationism
as a model of state secularity. The law granted to citizens a broad spectrum
of religious rights and freedoms, including the right of parents to rear their
children in accordance with their personal religious preferences. In Articles 5
and 6 of the law, the state promised not to “assign to religious organizations
Conclusion 155
the discharge of any state function” and not to “intervene in the activity of
religious organizations if that activity does not contravene legislation.”39
In other words, the Soviet state seemed to have adopted separationism
as a model of state secularity. However, this proved to be unsustainable.
In a context where almost all Soviet institutions, except maybe the armed
forces, lost credit in the eyes of the public, the Russian Orthodox Church
came to enjoy ever broadening public support. A survey in 1989, for exam-
ple, found that the church was the most trusted organization in Soviet Rus-
sia, with only the armed forces posing serious competition.40 This public
trust, in large part thanks to its troubled relations with the Soviet state,
turned the church into a vocal and critical political player.41 The patriarch
was present in the inauguration ceremony of Boris Yeltsin in July 1991 as the
president of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, one of the sixteen
autonomous republics comprising the Soviet Union. In the ceremony the
patriarch even addressed Yeltsin and blessed him with a sign of the cross.42
In August 1991, the armed forces staged a coup d’état. The Orthodox
Church did not remain a bystander and was involved in the crisis as an
autonomous actor. The patriarch himself addressed via radio the troops
who surrounded the parliament, warning them not to use violence against
the unarmed people who gathered to defend the parliament. If anyone did,
the patriarch threatened, he would cut himself “off from the Church and
God.”43 The coup failed, and thus ended the last chance to keep the
Union together.
Four months later the Soviet Union dissolved peacefully. The Russian
Soviet Federative Socialist Republic was renamed as the Russian Federation,
and its president, Boris Yeltsin, was inaugurated as the president of this
newly independent state. In the new period, the Orthodox Church has con-
tinued to improve its status and has continued its recovery. The presidents
of the Russian Federation have made numerous gestures to the church.44
The strong man of Russia, Vladimir Putin, has definitely raised the banner
to new heights in this regard. In the fourth anniversary of Patriarch Krill’s
accession to the church leadership, celebrated in the Kremlin in February
2013, Vladimir Putin said: “The Russian Orthodox Church and other
traditional religions should get every opportunity to fully serve in such
important fields as the support of family and motherhood, the upbringing
and education of children, youth, social development and to strengthen the
patriotic spirit of the armed forces.”45
More importantly, after years of intense lobbying, the Orthodox Church
finally managed to introduce some substantial changes in the Law on
Freedom of Conscience and Religious Associations in 1997. The new law
specified Orthodox Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and Buddhism as traditional
religions of Russia and afforded special privileges to their representatives.
Among the four traditional religions, Orthodox Christianity was afforded a
special place. The law recognized the Orthodox Church as the only religious
organization eligible to receive state aid for “the restoration, maintenance,
and protection of buildings and objects which are monuments of history
and culture.”46 The news restricted the activities of representatives of all
other religions and deprived them of financial and material benefits from
the state.47
In the post-Soviet period, the church has also expanded its educational
activities. The church focused on its own network of religious education,
opening Orthodox gymnasia, theological institutions, and Sunday schools.
In the mid-1990s, the church began to lobby for using state school systems for
its educational activities. In 1999, the church and the Ministry of Education
agreed on a partnership, which three years later materialized into the intro-
duction of a course in Foundations of Orthodox Culture and later into the
curriculum of state schools. In 2006, a new law on education introduced a
new set of courses in spiritual-moral culture.48 Finally, in January 2013, the
Russian state made religious education mandatory in all schools, a law that
became effective on September 1, 2013.49
With that, Russia’s separationist state secularity, adopted at the end of
the Soviet period, has thus remained largely on paper. Like Iran, Russia has
also come to adopt critical features of accommodationist state secularity.
Finally, Turkey plunged into its own crisis in the 1970s. Faltering state-led
industrialization, unplanned urbanization and the emergence of shantytowns,
deteriorating living conditions in them, increasing unemployment rates,
soaring infl ation, and widespread bankruptcies in the informal economy all
paved the way for this crisis. The oil shocks of 1973 and 1979 and the United
States’ arms embargo only further aggravated the problems. As problems
mounted, successive coalition governments could not help and even contrib-
uted to the deepening of the crisis. Especially in the second half of the 1970s,
Turkey began to witness increasingly deadly street violence between the
leftist and the rightist groups. “By 1980, twenty to thirty Turks were being
killed every day and the total number of political deaths had reached five
thousand.”50 As the elected governments proved incapable of bringing a halt
to street violence and the deterioration of the economy, the Turkish army
staged a coup d’état in September 1980 and assumed total control over the
administration. The parliament and political parties were closed and politi-
cians were arrested; martial law was imposed all over Turkey.
The religious community in Turkey did not play a prominent role in
the crisis decade of the 1970s. First of all, all religious institutions were
owned by the state, and almost all members of the religious community
were employed by the state. In other words, state secularization in Turkey
had dealt a deadly blow to the religious community’s autonomous and insti-
tutional existence in the country. In addition, in the succeeding decades,
the religious community could not develop an alternative institutional base
outside of the state. Most of the religious figures seemed content with their
positions in the state. There were still a few others who wanted to go beyond
the confines the Turkish state set regarding religious activism; however,
these few religious figures did not have any distinctively religious institution
Conclusion 157
under their control. Therefore, those enterprising religious figures had to
build their societal networks almost from scratch. This reinstitutionalization
of religious activities outside the state proved to be extremely difficult and
time-consuming.
Two factors contributed to the slow pace of reinstitutionalization of
religious activism outside the state. First, as repeatedly mentioned, the
Turkish state incorporated an extensive network of mosques and offices of
religious counsels into its body. In order to run these institutions, the state
employed most of the well-educated former Ottoman religious scholars and
sheikhs. Thus, religious services, including research, teaching, and publica-
tion on religion, continued in Turkey under the state patronage. However,
the entry of the state into the religious market left little space for enterprising
religious scholars.
Second, in the beginning of the republican period, there was no strong
merchant/bourgeoisie class in Turkey.51 The Turkish state set, as its primary
economic objective, the creation of a Muslim bourgeoisie. The 1929 global
depression further strengthened the state’s pivotal position in the economy.
From then on, the Turkish state embarked upon a state-led industrializa-
tion program, which continued well until the 1970s. Thus, the state held
the key to wealth in Turkey.52 Eventually, a bourgeoisie class emerged in
republican Turkey, but this class was totally dependent on the state. The
implication is that those enterprising religious scholars who wanted to build
up an autonomous network could hardly find an alternative sound financial
base within the society. The religious community had to wait until the
1980s for the development of an independent merchant/bourgeoisie class to
develop partial autonomy from the state.53
With limited autonomy and institutional capacity, the religious commu-
nity in Turkey could not channel mounting social problems into a political
movement. Furthermore, the religious community in Turkey could not unify
different dissident groups in Turkey against the political system. First, even
those enterprising religious figures were the employees of the Turkish state.
Second, the religious community did not possess the legitimacy to act as a
broker among different dissident groups in Turkey. This was because the
religious community in Turkey had been a staunch opponent of all groups
espousing communist/socialist/leftist ideology.54 In this vein, many leading
religious figures spearheaded the formation of hundreds of local organizations
to combat communism.
The crisis decade ended with the 1980 military coup. The military regime
forcefully stopped the street fighting and, more importantly, went after the
social networks that sustained it. As the left and right groups lost their
social networks, religious groups filled in and built their alternative social
networks. The whole episode, therefore, strengthened religious groups in
Turkey. The military also initiated economic liberalization in Turkey as a
result of which an independent bourgeoisie class in Turkey began to come
into being. Religious groups expanded their base among this new class,
too.55 Because mosques remained closed to any organized religious activity,
religious groups, backed now by an independent moneyed class, diverted
their activities into education, business, finance, and the media. By the
mid-1990s, religious groups had their own newspapers, TV channels, radio
stations, private schools, and university and high school dormitories. These
new channels into society further helped religious groups expand their
societal base.
Alarmed by their growing infl uence, from roughly 1997 to 2002, the Turk-
ish military waged a campaign against religious groups. However, this proved
to be ineffective. Religious groups have continued to fl ourish, expanding their
presence in business, media, and education both at home and abroad. With
the coming to power of the Justice and Development Party in 2002—the lead-
ers of which had been affiliated with political Islamic movement in Turkey—
religious groups have also expanded their infl uence into domestic politics. In
the last decade, Turkey has been transformed, beyond recognition, in large
part due to this growing political infl uence of religious groups in the country.
But, and this is critical, accommodative state secularity has remained almost
intact in Turkey. The Turkish state still runs mosques, offices of religious
counsels, Qur’an schools, and schools of theology; it still employs preachers,
prayer leaders, and theology professors and funds religious research and pub-
lication. The Directorate of Religious Affairs, which controls these religious
institutions (except religious schools that are either under Ministry of Educa-
tion or under the Council of Higher Education), is, not surprisingly, enor-
mous. By 2012, the Directorate employed 128,846 personnel, out of which
117,778 worked in religious services.56 In this regard, the Turkish state is by
far the largest provider of religious services in the country.
Three models of state secularity have thus met different endings. While
separationism and eradicationism failed, accommodationism survived. More
interestingly, non-separationist and non-eradicationist cases also moved
closer to accommodationism in their state-religion relations. Is accommoda-
tionism intrinsically more resilient? I believe it is. As I discussed in chapter 1,
building a modern sovereign state inescapably involves the question of reli-
gion. Religion and religious community/institutions had served such critical
public functions and controlled so much wealth that builders of modern
sovereign states could not simply ignore them. As this book illustrates, the
builders of modern sovereign states tackled the question of religion in differ-
ent ways. Hence, we have multiple models of state secularization.
On the other hand, however, the modern state assumes so much power, of
all kinds, that it cannot be simply ignored by any societal group. To advance
their interests and objectives, different societal groups struggle to appropriate
all or part of that power. Furthermore, building a modern sovereign
state is also a process of redistributing power, of all kinds. Hence, the
process inescapably creates losers and winners. For the sake of the process,
therefore, it might be prudent for builders of a modern sovereign state to
Conclusion 159
create as many winners as possible. Competition over the state, and the
losses one might incur, are two sources of instability that can put the project
of modern state building into jeopardy.
When it comes to tackling the question of religion in the process of
modern state building, accommodationism is an intrinsically superior strategy
for it addresses the two sources of instability: first, it makes the religious
community a partner in the project of modern state building, and second,
it compensates their losses in the actual course of modern state building.
In doing so, accommodationism can strengthen religious communities’
loyalty to the modern state.
Turkey is an excellent case to illustrate these claims. But it must be kept
in mind that accommodationism in Turkey has comprised two seemingly
contradictory features: the state has guarded itself jealously against any
religious infl uence yet, at the same time, has invested heavily in religious
services and has been involved actively in the making of religious discourse.
Particular institutional arrangements might change. But, if Turkey is to serve
as a model to be emulated in the Arab world, it must be emphasized that
the Turkish case exemplifies how a delicate balance between religion and
the state can be established. To see how delicate this balance has been, we
can just mention that the state has not employed any religious justification
for its policies. But, at the same time, the state has not remained aloof to the
evolving religious discourse in the country, but instead, has participated in
actively shaping it. By doing so, the secular state in Turkey has developed
the means to shape religious understandings of both the masses and the
religious community in the country.
This success of accommodationist state secularity in Republican Turkey
should not blind our eyes to a critical defect in its nature. As experienced in
Turkey, the state picks a religion, most likely to be the majority religion, to
heavily invest in this model. The model therefore works to the disadvantage
of other religions and sects. The critical question is, then, how do religious
minorities do in different models of state secularity? It is a limitation of this
book that it does not seek an answer to this question. This limitation is to
a certain extent inescapable because the topic is too big and critical to be
addressed in a limited space I have here. I hope this book generates a scholarly
interest in this topic.
NOTES
1. This reconciliation is presumed by some as almost impossible. See, for exam-

ple, Pipes (1983), Long and Reich (1986), Kedourie (1994), and Huntington
(1997).
2. For the elaboration of this argument, see Kuru and Stepan (2012).
3. Kepel (2002).
4. Hashemi (2009).
5. I argue elsewhere that state secularization in Turkey also affected the relations
between religious groups and secular groups. As a result, religious groups
in Turkey had more cordial relations than their counterparts in Egypt. See
Başkan (2013).
6. Manaz (2005:359).
7. For more on this see Aktay (1999).
8. Usta (2011).
9. Küçük (2007) and Kı lı ç (2009).
10. Yı ldı rı m et al. (2002).
11. Algar (1990), Martin (2000), and Fischer (1980).
12. Algar (2003:377).
13. Algar (1990).
14. Louer (2008).
15. Fischer (1980).
16. Fischer (1980:86).
17. Cited in Marsh (2011:67).
18. Kenworthy (2012:120).
19. By 1930 all monasteries in Russia were already closed. But, during the Second
World War, some were reopened, especially in the occupied territories, and
some others were in territories that had not been part of Soviet Russia before
1939. See the discussion in Kenworthy (2012).
20. Marsh (2011:75).
23. For the following discussion, I benefited from Parsa (1989).
24. See Parsa (1989).
25. Moin (1999:181).
26. Cited in Moin (1999:205).
27. Here I refer to Khomeini’s theory of velayet-e-faqih. See Khomeini (No Date).
28. See Buchta (2000) for a more detailed discussion on the Iranian political system.
29. It is not a full theocracy because there are other infl uential positions in the
system, especially the office of the president, that lay persons can occupy.
30. Even official statistics, which used to infl ate the growth rates, did not hide
the systematic decline in economic growth rates: the average annual growth
rate was 10.3 in the 1950s, 7 percent in the 1960s, 4.9 percent in the 1970s,
and 3.6 percent in the 1980s. I got these numbers from Gros and Steinherr
(1991:1).
31. Easterly and Fischer (1994:7).
32. Fischer (1994: 234).
33. Daniel (2006:36).
34. Marsh (2011:113).
35. Cited in Marsh (2011:116–117).
36. Daniel (2006:36).
37. Daniel (2006:36).
38. Daniel (2006:40–41).
39. The text of the law is available in Codevilla (1991).
40. According to the survey, 64 percent of the respondents said they most trusted
the church; 59 percent said the armed forces. See Daniel (2006:40).
41. Daniel (2006).
42. Schmemann (1991).
43. Daniel (2006:54). See also the discussion in Daniel (2006) of the church involve-
ment in the crisis between Yeltsin and the Russian Parliament in 1993.
44. See Knox (2005), especially chapter 4.
45. Grove (2013).
Conclusion 161
46. Cited in Marsh (2011:127).
47. See the discussion in Thomas (2003).
48. Lisovskaya and Karpov (2010:290–291).
49. Zaimov (2013).
50. Richards and Waterbury (1996:270).
51. Keyder (1987).
52. Buğra (1994).
53. Yavuz (2003).
54. Bora (1998).
55. Yavuz (2003) and Gümüşcü (2010).
56. Diyanet I˙ şleri Başkanlı ğı (2012:16).
Appendix
Table A-1 Ottoman Period: The Ulama Served in Secular Schools and Secular Courts
Ulama Worked in Secular Schools Ulama Worked in Secular Courts
Name Origin Name Origin
Abdullah Edip Ankaralı Abdullah Hilmi Halepli

Abdullah Edip Erbilli Abdullah Vahidi Sultaniyeli
Abdullah Esat Balı kesirli Abdurrahman Trablusgarplı
Abdullah Munib Ermenekli Abdurrahman Nesib Ergiri-Lihveli
Abdullah Vahidi Konyalı Abdülcelil Bağdat
Kazı miyeli
Abdullah Vehbi Liceli Hacı Hafı z Eğridereli
Abdülgafur
Abdurrahman Seferihisarlı Abdülkadir Karahisarişarkili
Abdurrahman Hilmi Sivaslı Abdülmuti Kudüslü
Abdurrahman Hilmi Zileli Hafı z Abidin Debrei Balalı
Abdülcelil Bağdat Kazı miyeli Abidin Kı rşehirli
Abdülgani Mardinli Ahmet İstanbullu
Abdülhamit Hamid Liceli Ahmet Hilmi Bandı rmalı
Abdülkadir Malatyalı Ahmet İzzeddin Süleymaniyeli
Abdülkerim Üsküplü Ahmet Mazhar Halepli
Elhac Abdülmecid Şirvanlı Ahmet Müfit Kı rşehirli
Ahmet Feyzi Aksekili Hafı z Ahmet Refik Erzincanlı
Ahmet Hamdi Arhavili Ahmet Remzi Kayserili
Ahmet Hamdi Kulalı Ahmet Şevki Dehüklü
Elhac Ahmet İslam Hemşinli Ahmet Hamdi Erbaalı
Ahmet İzzet Silistreli Ahmed Zahid Niğdelli
Ahmet Necati İspirli Ali Ağa Şerifoğlu Bayı ndı rlı
Ahmet Necip Bergamalı Hafı z Ali Cemal Vakı fkebirli
Ahmet Nesari Niğdeli Ali Durmuş Aksekili
Ahmet Refi İstanbullu Ali Enver Ünyeli
(Continued)
164 Appendix
Table A-1 (Continued)
Esseyyid Ahmet Bağdatlı Ali Haydar Batumlu

Şakir
Ahmet Şükrü Diyarbakı rlı Ali Rı za Aksekili
Ahmet Tevfik Uzunköprülü Hacı Ali Tavaslı
Ahmet Hamdi Kı rşehirli Ali Rı za İstanbullu
Ahmet Hulusi Sarayköylü Bekir Bektaş Kı rşehirli
Alaaddin Silivrili Bekir Sı tkı Erbaalı
Hafı z Ali Bartı nlı Çerkez Emin Sı ndı rgı lı
Ali Haydar Rizeli Halil Fevzi Antepli
Hafı z Ali Niyazi Edirneli Hasan Basri Eskişehirli
Ali Nureddin İstanbullu Hasan Atı f Rizeli
Ali Rı za Bilecikli Hasan Hakkı Mecitözülü
Ali Riı za İbradalı İbrahim Siirtli
Ali Rı za Köstenceli Şeyh İbrahim Trablusgarplı
Ali Rı za Kuşadalı İbrahim Hakkı İstanbullu
Ali Rı za Serezli İbrahim Senih İstanbullu
Şeyh Ali Vasfı İstanbullu İdris Galip Ergirili
Bekir Taşköprülü İsmail Bağdatlı
Enver Kemal İstanbullu İsmail Hakkı Çermikli
Halil Kı rkkiliseli İsmail Hakkı Erzurumlu
Halil Hulusi Hekimhanlı Ali Haydar İstanbullu
Hasan Erzincanlı İbrahim Evliya Maraşlı
Hasan Fehmi Boyabatlı İbrahim Hakkı Metroviçeli
Hasan Fehmi İzmitli Kirameddin İstanbullu
İbrahim Hayfalı Lütfi Leskovikli
Hafı z İrahim İstanbullu Mahmut Diyarbakı rlı
İbrahim Fevzi Manastı rlı Mahmut Celalettin Rizeli
İbrahim Hakkı Ünyeli Mahmut Ferid Malatyalı
İbrahim Hilmi Ankaralı Mahmut Hamdi Kayserili
İbrahim Sı tkı İşkodralı Malik Yenişehirli
İlyas Vehbi Ohrili Mazhar Urfalı
İshak Nuri Rizeli Mehmet Edlibli
İsmail Harputlu Mehmet Şamlı
İsmail Uşaklı Mehmet Tosyalı
İsmail Hakkı Kastamonulu Mehmet Ulukı şlalı
İsmail Hakkı Varnalı Mehmet Abid İstanbullu
İsmail Sabri Sivaslı Mehmet Ali Yenişehir-Fenerli
Hafı z İsmail Zihni İstanbullu Mehmet Arif İstanbullu
Appendix 165
Şeyh İzzeddin Cebeleli Mehmet Aziz İstanbullu

Mahmut Hekimhanlı Mehmet Bahaeddin İstanbullu
Mahmut el Atassi Humuslu Mehmet Bahaeddin Kı rkkiliseli
Mahmut Hamdi Beyazı tlı Mehmet Cemalettin İstanbullu
Mahmut Eş Şihabi Kudüslü Mehmet Elif İstanbullu
Mansur Mı sratalı Mehmet Emced Bağdatlı
Mehmet Darendeli Mehmet Emin Bağdatlı
Mehmet Gümüşhacı köylü Mehmet Emin Erbilli
Mehmet Kastamonulu Mehmet Emin İbradı lı
Mehmet Liceli Mehmet Emin İbradı lı
Mehmet Şarkihisarlı Mehmet Emin Kastamonulu
Mehmet Uşaklı Mehmet Emin Kastamonulu
Mehmet Akif Ardanuçlu Mehmet Emin Kaşlı
Mehmet Ali Bolulu Mehmet Emin Prizrenli
Mehmet Arif İstanbullu Mehmet Emin Sandı klı lı
Mehmet Ası m Balı kesirli Mehmet Emin Silifkeli
Mehmet Atı f İskilipli Mehmet Emin Sivaslı
Mehmet Avni Ergirili Mehmet Emin Yalvaçlı
Mehmet Celalettin Debreli Mehmet Emin Yanyalı
Mehmet Emin Ankaralı Mehmet Emin Ali İstanbullu
Mehmet Emin Bolulu Mehmet Feyzullah Cebeleli
Mehmet Emin Divriğili Mehmet Fevzi Arhavili
Mehmet Emin İzmitli Mehmet Fuat İstanbullu
Mehmet Emin Karadağlı Mehmet Hafı z Şamlı
Mehmet Emin Revanduzlu Mehmet Halit İnebolulu
Mehmet Emin Silifkeli Mehmet Halit Liceli
Mehmet Emin Üsküplü Mehmet Hamdi Arapgirli
Mehmet Esat İştipli Mehmet Hilmi Borlu
Mehmet Esat Selanikli Mehmet Hilmi Gümülçineli
Mehmet Esat Sürmeneli Mehmet Hilmi Sasonlu
Mehmet Fehmi Safranbolulu Mehmet Kamil Safranbolulu
Mehmet Fevzi Kemahlı Mehmet Kudüslü
Kemaleddin
Mehmet Hazmi Arapgirli Mehmet Memiş Beyşehirli
Mehmet Hilmi Borlu Mehmet Muvahib Lazkiyeli
Mehmet Hilmi İçelli Mehmet Mükerrem Kayserili
Mehmet Hilmi Niğdeli Mehmet Münib Nabluslu
Mehmet Hulusi Çorumlu Mehmet Nuri İstanbullu
(Continued)
166 Appendix
Mehmet Hulusi Karahisarı Şarkili Mehmet Nuri Kayserili

Mehmet Hurşit Kalkandereli Mehmet Rı fat Ankaralı
Mehmet Hüsnü Yozgatlı Mehmet Rı fat Safranbolulu
Mehmet İzzet Akçabatlı Mehmet Rı za Konyalı
Mehmet Kazim Darendeli Mehmet Sadi Ma’retün
Numanlı
Mehmet Nası h Süleymaniyeli Mehmet Sait Bağdatlı
Mehmet Necib Sivaslı Mehmet Sait İstanbullu
Mehmet Neşet İstanbullu Mehmet Sait Molla İstanbullu
Mehmet Niyazi Mudanyalı Mehmet Sadı k Mudurnulu
Mehmet Nuri Kı rı mlı Mehmet Selim Bağdatlı
Mehmet Rasih Sivaslı Mehmet Şemseddin Manisalı
Mehmet Rauf Süleymaniyeli Mehmet Şükrü İstanbullu
Mehmet Rı za Köstenceli Mehmet Şükrü Trabzonlu
Mehmet Sabit Alaiyeli Mehmet Tacüddin Deyrli
Mehmet Sadı k Çallı Mehmet Tevfik İşkodralı
Mehmet Saib Tortumlu Mehmet Tevfik Maraşlı
Mehmet Sait Maraşlı Mehmet Vahyi İstanbullu
Mehmet Sait Şehrizorlu Mehmet Zeki Edirneli
Mehmet Salih Hanili Mestan Recai Gümülçineli
Mehmet Selim Saftlı Musa Kazı m İbradı lı
Mehmet Şerif Analı Musa Kazı m Tiranlı
Mehmet Şerif Ispartalı Mustafa Hulusi Bergamalı
Mehmet Taha Deyrli Mustafa Hulusi Karacasulu
Mehmet Tayyip Şarki-Karaağaçlı Mustafa İzzet Bolulu
Mehmet Tevfik Kilisli Mustafa Nureddin Bağdatlı
Mehmet Vasfi Trabzonlu Mustafa Nuri Koyulhisar-
Reşadiyeli
Mehmet Zahid Düzceli Mustafa Rasim İstanbullu
Mehmet Ziyaüddin Lefkoşeli Mustafa Raşit İstanbullu
Mehmet Tevfik Filibepazarcı ğı lı Mustafa Safvet Urfalı
Merkez Fevzi Aydı ncı klı - Mustafa Şevket İbradı lı
Edincikli
Musa Kudüslü Mustafa Tevfik Köprülü
Musa Kazı m Kuşadalı Mustafa Vasfi Avanuslu
Musa Kazı m Tortumlu Müslim Urfalı
Mustafa Akçabatlı Nadir Cemil Mutlu
Mustafa Karamanlı Şeyh Nemer ed Dari Nabluslu
Mustafa Lazkiyeli Osman Nuri Balı kesirli
Appendix 167
Mustafa Süleymaniyeli Osman Nuri Kafkasyalı

Mustafa Tarsuslu Osman Nuri Kastamonulu
Mustafa Ürgüplü Osman Zeki Sis-Kozanlı
Mustafa Ası m Anamurlu Ömer Lütfi Burdurlu
Mustafa Ası m İstanbullu Ömer Lütfi Elmalı lı
Mustafa Fehmi Konyalı Ömer Lütfi Kayserili
Mustafa Fehmi Ordulu Ömer Talat İskilipli
Mustafa Hazmi Çemişkezekli Hacı Rı fat Ankaralı
Mustafa Hikmet Buldanlı Müftüzade Said Bitlisli
Mustafa Lütfi Akşehirli Müftüzade Said Ermenekli
Mustafa Mahfi İzmitli Süleyman Lamalı
Mustafa Mestan Cumayı Atikli Süleyman Afşar Niğdeli
Mustafa Nazif İstanbullu Şefik Nerdeli
Mustafa Neşet Serezli Hacı Şerif Rodoslu
Mustafa Rasim Tı rnovalı Şerif Mehmet Kamil Bursalı
Hacı Mümin Darendeli Üveys Maili Ergirili
Nazif Geyveli Yahya Fehmi Maraşlı
Nazif Hoşaplı Yahya Sezai Ergirili
Osman Köriçeli Hacı Yakub Burdurlu
Osman Tokatlı Yakub Hayri Akovalı
Osman Avni Malatyalı Yusuf El Hatib Cebeli Lübnanlı
Osman Hilmi Kı rı mlı Yusuf Naci Erbilli
Osman Lütfü Sapancalı Hüseyin Şevket Yenişehirli
Osman Nuri İstanbullu Hasan Hulki Kayserili
Osman Nuri Rizeli Hasan Tahsin Harputlu
Osman Nuri Rusçuklu Elhac Seyyit İbrahim Diyarbakı rlı
Osman Raşit Tavaslı Hüseyin Şevket Yenişehirli
Ömer Avni Harputlu Mehmet Celal İstanbullu
Ömer Azmi Vanlı
Ömer Faruk Kütahyalı
Ömer Hayri İstanbullu
Ömer Hulusi Dağı stanlı
Ömer Husameddin Bağdatlı
Ömer Kaşifi Mardinli
Ömer Lütfi Şamlı
Ömer Lütfi Tekirdağlı
Hafı z Reşit Hemşinli
Hafı z Reşit Şamlı
Reşit Vehbi Seydalı
(Continued)
168 Appendix
Ulama Worked in Secular Schools
Name Origin
Hafı z Sadullah İstanbullu

Salih İstanbullu
Salih Kamil Niksarlı
Salih Ataullah Midillili
Seyfeddin Debrei Balalı
Hafiz Süleyman Çatalcalı
Süleyman Faik İstanbullu
Süleyman Hilmi Tirebolulu
Süleyman Hulusi Uyvarcalı
Süleyman Hulusi Vidinli
Süleyman Necati Batumlu
Süleyman Sı rrı Ermenekli
Süleyman Sı rrı Sürmeneli
Said Kerami Beni Sa'blı
Şakir Akovalı
Şakir Mardinli
Şakir Niksarlı
Şuayb Yanyalı
Tahir Kesriyeli
Tahir Uşaklı
Yunus Bahri Geredeli
Hafı z Yusuf Akhisarlı
Yusuf Zahir İstanbullu
Yusuf Ziya Batumlu
Yusuf Ziya İstanbullu
Yusuf Ziyaüddin Sivaslı
Yusuf Ziyaüddin Şirvanlı
Hasan Uşaklı
Hasan Hilmi Pazarlı
Hasan Nazı m Ercişli
Hayreddin Trablusşamlı
Hüseyin Avni Yozgatlı
Hüseyin Fevzi Safranbolulu
Elhac Hüseyin Filibepazarcı ğı lı
Hüsnü
Hüseyin Hüsnü Yafalı
İbrahim Edhem Ofl u
Hasan Uşaklı
Appendix 169
Ulama Worked in Secular Schools
Name Origin
Halit İzmitli
Mehmet Emin Dramalı
Mehmet Fahreddin Bayburtlu
Source: Albayrak (1996).
Table A-2 Ottoman Period: The Ulama Served in Professional and Higher Educa-
tion Schools
Name Origin School Name
Abdullah Esat Balı kesirli Darülmuallimin

Abdurrahman Hilmi Zileli Darülmuallimat
Ahmet I˙ zzet Silistreli Darülmuallimin
Ali Haydar Batumlu Mektebi Hukuk
Şeyh Ali Vasfi I˙ stanbullu Darülmuallimin
Halil Kı rkkiliseli Darülmuallimin
Hasan Uşaklı Mektebi Hukuk
Elhac Hüseyin Hüsnü Filibepazarcı ğı lı Darülmuallimin
Hüseyin Hüsnü I˙ stanbullu Mektebi Hukuk, Mektebi Mülkiye
Elhac Seyyit I˙ brahim Diyarbakı rlı Darülmuallimin
I˙ smail Hakkı I˙ stanbullu Darülmuallimin
I˙ smail Hakkı I˙ zmirli Mektebi Mülkiye, Darülmuallimin
I˙ smail Hakkı Kastamonu Darülmuallimin
I˙ smail Hakkı Manastı rlı Mektebi Hukuk, Mektebi
Mülkiye, Darülfünun
I˙ smail Kemal Trablusşamlı Darülfünün
I˙ smail Sabri Sivaslı Darülmuallimin
I˙ smail Şükrü Afyonlu Darülmuallimin
Mahmut Cemal Ünyeli Mektebi Hukuk, Darülfünun
Mehmet Ası m Balı kesirli Darülmuallimat
Mehmet Cemil Somalı Darülmuallimat
Mehmet Emin Karadağlı Darülmuallimin
Mehmet Esat I˙ stanbullu Darülmuallimin, Darülfünun
Mehmet Esat Serezli Darülmuallimin
Mehmet Esat Sürmeneli Darülmuallimin
Mehmet Fehmi Safranbolulu Darülfünun
Mehmet Hulusi Eğinli Darülmuallimin
Mehmet Nesib Humuslu Darülfünun
Mehmet Niyazi Mudanyalı Darülmuallimin
Mehmet Rasih Sivaslı Darülmuallimin
(Continued)
170 Appendix
Name Origin School Name
Mehmet Sait Batumlu Mektebi Mülkiye, Darülmuallimin

Mehmet Tahir Sofyalı Darülmuallimin
Mehmet Tevfik Filibepazarcı ğı lı Darülfünun
Mehmet Tevfik Kilisli Darülmuallimat
Mehmet Zahid Düzceli Darülfünun
Musa Kazı m Tortumlu Mektebi Hukuk, Darülmuallimin
Mustafa Ası m I˙ stanbullu Darülmuallimin, Darülfünun,
Mektebi Mülkiye
Mustafa Ası m Giresunlu Darülmuallimin
Mustafa Fehmi Konyalı Darülmuallimin
Mustafa Fehmi Ödemişli Mektebi Hukuk
Mustafa Hayri Ürgüplü Darülfünun
Osman Raşit Tavaslı Darülmuallimin
Ömer Hayri I˙ stanbullu Darülmuallimin, Darülfünun
Ömer Lütfi Karahisarı Darülmuallimin
Sahipli
Süleyman Hulusi Uyvarcalı Darülmuallimat
Süleyman Sı rrı Ermenekli Mektebi Hukuk, Darülfünun
Şakir Niksarlı Darülmuallimin
Table A-3 Ottoman Period: The Ulama Served in Various Secular State Institutions
Name Institution Position
Bursalı Mehmed Halid Ministry of Education Council Member

Harputi Abdullatif University Instructor
Batumlu Hasan Fehmi Ministry of Justice Judge
Burhaneddin Şükrü Ministry of Justice Clerk
I˙ smail I˙ smet Ministry of Justice NI
Mehmet Arif Ef. Ministry of Education NI
Mustafa Nesib Ministry of Justice Instructor
Kadri Ministry of Justice Clerk
Mehmed Vehbi Ministry of Justice Clerk
Nevşehirli Hasan Fehmi Ministry of Justice Clerk
Eğinli Ali Zühdü Embassy Prayer Leader
Muhyiddin Beyzade Ziyaeddin Ministry of Finance Clerk
Hüseyin el Umri Ministry of Justice Judge
Mustafa Raşid Ministry of Justice Clerk
Mehmed Nuri Ministry of Justice Clerk
Ahmed Sı dkı Ministry of Education Instructor
Appendix 171
Kangı nlı Hüseyin Ministry of Education Instructor

Mehmed Ministry of Justice Clerk
Mustafa Şeref Royal Finance Clerk
El Hac I˙ brahim Ministry of Justice Clerk
Eğinli Osman Vehbi Ministry of Justice Clerk
Faik Ministry of Justice Clerk
Hacı Numan Naşid Ministry of Education Clerk
Mehmed Rüştü Ministry of Justice Clerk
Akşehirli Mehmed Rüştü Ministry of Justice Clerk
Yozgatlı Hafı z Mustafa Embassy Prayer Leader
Ahmed Hulusi Ministry of Education Clerk
Rasul Hakkı Ministry of Justice Clerk
Şeyhli Yusuf Rı za Ministry of Education Clerk
Mehmed Şefik Ministry of Awqaf Clerk
Mehmed Saadeddin Ministry of Interior Local Governor
Hafı z Mehmed Tevfik Royal Finance Clerk
Şeyh Selim Municipality Mayor
Mehmed Hayreddin Ministry of Justice Clerk
Hasan Fehmi Parliament Deputy
Osman Zeki Ministry of Justice Clerk
Erzurumi Mehmed Raif Parliament Deputy
Ahmed Şükrü Ministry of Education Director
Ali Rı za Ministry of Education Director
Haşim Veli Embassy Prayer Leader
Ahmed Mikdad Ministry of Education Instructor
Mehmed Selim Military Religious Counsel
Süleyman Arslan Military Religious Counsel
Kazı m Military Religious Counsel
Çorumlu Ahmed Rüştü Military Religious Counsel
Revanduzlu Hasan Military Prayer Leader
Bekir Military Religious Counsel
Bag˘ dadlı Hmehmed Emin Military Religious Counsel
Boyabatlı Hafı z Halil Şükrü Military Religious Counsel
Tı rnovalı Ali Osman Military Religious Counsel
Erzurumi Halil Military Religious Counsel
Ankaralı Mehmet Military Religious Counsel
Kayserili I˙ brahim Military Religious Counsel
Abdülkadir Military Religious Counsel
Ali Hilmi Military Religious Counsel
Tı rnovalı Mehmed Said Military Religious Counsel
(Continued)
172 Appendix
Kastamonulu Mehmed Feyzullah Military Religious Counsel

Erzincanlı I˙ brahim Hilmi Military Religious Counsel
Giresunlu Mehmed Nazı m Military Religious Counsel
Nevşehirli Mustafa Military Religious Counsel
Yozgatlı Mehmet Nuri Military Religious Counsel
Bag˘ datlı Süleyman Military Religious Counsel
Şamlı Mehmed Salih Military Religious Counsel
Şamlı Yahya Military Religious Counsel
Ahmed Military Religious Counsel
Ali Rı za Military Religious Counsel
Zag˘ feranbolulu Mustafa I˙ smet Military Religious Counsel
Hezargradlı I˙ smail Military Religious Counsel
Şamlı Mehmed Rı za Military Religious Counsel
Zileli I˙ smail Military Religious Counsel
Hüseyin Şükrü Military Prayer Leader
Revanduzlu Mehmed Emin Military Religious Counsel
Yenipazarlı Hasan Military Religious Counsel
Osmanpazarlı Ahmed Military Religious Counsel
Trablusşamlı Mustafa Military Religious Counsel
Erbilli Abdülkadir Military Religious Counsel
Mehmed Said Parliament Deputy
Tatarpazarcı klı Mustafa Military Religious Counsel
Pazarcı klı Halil Hulusi Military Religious Counsel
Nebi Military Religious Counsel
Osman Fahd Statistics and File Dept. Secretary
Cizreli Hasan Lami Parliament Secretary
Source: Kahraman (1998).
Table A-4 The Ottoman Ulama in Republican Turkey
Republican Period
Name Former Position Position
Dürrizade Abdullah Efendi Former Sheikh al Islam Among the 150 Exiles
Abdullah Edip Efendi Religious Judge Compensation Wage
(Ankaralı )
Abdullah Fahri Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Directorate of
(Hadimli) Religious Affairs
Appendix 173
Republican Period
Abdullah Galip Efendi (Erbaalı ) Religious Bureaucracy Compensation Wage

Abdullah Münip Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage
(Ermenekli)
Abdullah Efendi (I˙ stanbullu) Religious Judge Compensation Wage
Abdurrahman Sabit Efendi Religious Judge Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Şeyh Abdülbaki Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Istanbul University
Abdülfettah Efendi Religious Teacher Sentenced in
(Dağı stanlı ) Independence
Courts
Abdülfettah Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Eg˘ ridereli) Religious Affairs
Abdülkadir Efendi (Aziziyeli) Office of Sheikh al Islam Ministry of Finance
Abdülkadir Efendi (Mekkeli) Ministry of Awkaf Compensation Wage
Abdürrahim Efendi (Serezli) Religious Teacher Ministry of Justice
Hafı z Ahmet Efendi (Serezli) Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
Ahmet Cevdet Efendi Religious Teacher Istanbul University
(Bergamalı )
Hafı z Ahmet Cevdet Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
(Filibeli)
Ahmet Esad Efendi (Tikvesli) Office of Sheikh al Islam Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Ahmet Fevzi Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Ahmet Hamdi (Aksekili) Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Hafı z Ahmet Hamdi Efendi Religious Teacher and Ministry of Justice
(Dadaylı ) Judge
Ahmet Hamdi Efendi — Directorate of
(Edirneli) Religious Affairs
Ahmet Hamdi Efendi Religious Counsel Compensation Wage
(Kastamonulu)
Ahmet Hilmi Efendi Religious Counsel Compensation Wage
(Eskicumali)
Ahmet I˙ smet Efendi Religious Counsel Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Ahmet I˙ zzet Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
(Beypazarı lı )
Ahmet Latif Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
(Continued)
174 Appendix
Republican Period
Ahmet Muhtar Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage

(I˙ stanbullu)
Ahmet Rakim Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(I˙ stanbullu) Religious Affairs
Ahmet Refi Efendi (I˙ stanbullu) Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
Ahmet Saadettin Efendi — Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Ahmet Sirani Efendi (Siranlı ) Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
Hafı z Ahmet Tevfik Efendi Religious Judge Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Ahmet Zühtü Efendi Religious Courts Ministry of Justice
(I˙ stanbullu)
Ali Haydar Efendi (Ahı skalı ) Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage
Ali Hüsameddin Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Directorate of
Ali Rı za Efendi (Muglali) Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
Ali Rı za Efendi (Atina-Pazarlı ) Religious Counsel Ministry of Justice
Ali Tevfik Efendi Religious Judge Ministry of Justice
(Hacı og˘ lupazarcı ğı lı )
Ali Vasfi Efendi (I˙ stanbullu) Religious Courts Ministry of Justice
Behcet Efendi (Siirtli) Religious Judge Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Bekir Haki Efendi (Safiog˘ lu) Religious Courts Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Hafı z Bekir Hazı m Efendi Qur’an Reciter Compensation Wage
(Midillili)
Hafı z Cemal Efendi (Debre-i Teacher Compensation Wage1
Balalı )
Hacı Dursun Feyzi Efendi Theology School Compensation Wage
(Güven) Inspector
Ebu’l Ala Ali Zeynelabidin Ef. Deputy Istanbul University
(Mardinli)
Molla Eşref Efendi (Batumlu) Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Fakirullah Mollazade Efendi Religious Counsel Directorate of
(Cizreli) Religious Affairs
Halil Efendi (Kayserili) Office of Sheikh al Islam Istanbul Municipality
Halil Fevzi Efendi (Antepli) Office of Sheikh al Islam Ministry of Treasury
Halil Hilmi Efendi (I˙ zmirli) Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
Appendix 175
Republican Period
Halil Vehbi Efendi (Nevşehirli) Religious Teacher Directorate of

Religious Affairs
Halil Zarif Efendi (Çorumlu) Religious Courts Ministry of Justice
Hasan Efendi (Erzincanli) Religious Teacher Ministry of Justice
Hasan Fehmi Efendi (Besnili) Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Hasan Fehmi Efendi Religious Teacher Compensation Wage2
(Seydişehirli)
Hasan Fehmi Efendi Ministry of Justice Directorate of
(Üsküplü) Religious Affairs
Hasan Zihni Efendi — Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Hüseyin Efendi (Egridirli) Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Hüseyin Avni Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Istanbul University
(Arabkirli)
Hüseyin Avni Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Justice
(Batumlu)
Hafı z Hüseyin Hüsnü Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Hüseyin Kamil Efendi (Tireli) Office of Sheikh al Islam Ministry of Justice
Hüseyin Necmeddin Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage
(Prizrenli)
Hüseyin Saadettin Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Hüseyin Sem’i Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
(Demirhisarli)
I˙ brahim Ethem Efendi Religious Courts Directorate of
(Gumuscineli) Religious Affairs
I˙ brahim Ethem Efendi Religious Counsel Directorate of
(Kozanlı ) Religious Affairs
˙Ibrahim Ethem Efendi (Ofl u) Religious Bureaucracy Ministry of Justice
I˙ brahim Hakkı (Metroviçeli) Office of Sheikh al Islam Directorate of
Religious Affairs
I˙ brahim Hakkı Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Ardamuçlu) Religious Affairs
˙Ibrahim Hakkı Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Finance
(I˙ stanbullu)
I˙ brahim Hakkı Efendi (I˙ zmirli) Religious Teacher Istanbul University
I˙ brahim Hakkı Efendi Religious Teacher-Counsel Compensation Wage
(Kalkandereli)
(Continued)
176 Appendix
Republican Period
I˙ brahim Hakkı Efendi Religious Teacher Bureaucracy

(Trablusşamli)
Keşşaf Efendi (Malatyalı ) Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
Mahmut Kemalettin Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mahmut Nedim Efendi Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
(Kemahli)
Mahmut Ziya Efendi Religious Judge Ministry of Justice
(Ürgüplü)
Mehmet Ali Efendi (Erbilli) Religious Counsel Sentenced to Death in
1933
Mehmet Ali Efendi (Ergirili) Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Mehmet Asaf Efendi Religious Bureaucracy State Bureaucracy
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Atı f Efendi (I˙ skilipli) Religious Teacher Sentenced to Death in
1925
Mehmet Besim Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam State Bureaucracy
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Burhanettin Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Ministry of Justice
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Cemil Safi Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Ministry of Justice
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Emin Efendi State Bureaucracy Directorate of
(Akşehirli) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Emin Efendi Religious Counsel Directorate of
(Bahçeli) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Emin Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Bozdog˘ anlı ) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Emin Efendi (Kaşlı ) Ministry of Justice Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Mehmet Emin Efendi (Kulalı ) Office of Sheikh al Islam Ministry of Justice
Mehmet Emin Efendi Mosque Preacher Directorate of
(Rusçuklu) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Emin Efendi (Silifkeli) Religious Teacher Lawyer
Mehmet Emin Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Carşambalı ) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Esad Efendi (Erbilli) Office of Sheikh al Islam Sentenced to Death in
1933
Mehmet Esad Efendi Religious Counsel Directorate of
(Sürmeneli) Religious Affairs
Appendix 177
Republican Period
Mehmet Fehmi Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of

Religious Affairs
Mehmet Feridi Efendi Mosque Preacher Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Fuat Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Justice
(I˙ stanbullu)
Muhammed Hamdi Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs3
Mehmet Hayreddin Efendi — Directorate of
(Manisalı ) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Hazmi Efendi Religious Teacher State Bureaucracy
(Arapgirli)
Mehmet Hikmet Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Compensation Wage4
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Hikmet Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Ministry of Justice
(Mapavrili)
Mehmet Hulusi Efendi Mosque Preacher Ministry of Justice
(Hopalı )
Mehmet Hulusi Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
Mehmet Hurşit Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Kalkandereli) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Hüsamettin Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Nuri Efendi Religious Counsel Directorate of
(Bag˘ datlı ) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Nuri Efendi Former Sheikh al Islam No Compensation
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Raif Efendi Religious Judge Deputy in the First
(Erzurumlu) Parliament
Mehmet Refik Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Compensation Wage
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mehmet Rifat Efendi Religious Counsel Directorate of
(Ankaralı ) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Safvet Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Directorate of
(I˙ bradali) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Said Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Directorate of
(Elbistanlı ) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Salih Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
(Geredeli)
(Continued)
178 Appendix
Republican Period
Mehmet Zahid Efendi Sheikh Directorate of

(Bursalı ) Religious Affairs
Mehmet Zühdü Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Directorate of
(Kalecikli) Religious Affairs
Muharrem Lütfi Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Rizeli) Religious Affairs
Mustafa Efendi (I˙ stanbullu) Religious Bureaucracy Ministry of Justice
Mustafa Efendi (Karacabeyli) Religious Counsel Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Mustafa Efendi (Tekirdağli) Mosque Preacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Mustafa Hikmet Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Education
(Buldanlı )
Mustafa Hilmi Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Ministry of Justice
(Bayı ndı rlı )
Mustafa Hilmi Efendi Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
(Burdurlu)
Mustafa Hulusi Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Bergamalı ) Religious Affairs
Mustafa Naim Efendi Religious Teacher Ministry of Justice
(Tarsuslu)
Mustafa Rakim Efendi Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
(Aydoslu)
Mustafa Sabri Efendi Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Develili) Religious Affairs
Mustafa Sabri Efendi (Tokatlı ) Former Sheikh al Islam Among the 150 Exiles
Mustafa Safvet Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Compensation Wage
(Ermenekli)
Mustafa Safvet Efendi (Urfalı ) Religious Bureaucracy Deputy
Mustafa Siret Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Directorate of
Mustafa Çevket Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Compensation Wage
(Cum’alı )
Mustafa Şükrü Efendi Religious Bureaucracy State Bureaucracy
(I˙ stanbullu)
Mustafa Tevfik Efendi Office of Sheikh al Islam Directorate of
(Köprülü) Religious Affairs
Nasrullah Fahri Efendi Religious Counsel Directorate of
(Garzanlı ) Religious Affairs
Nazif Efendi (Geyveli) Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
Osman Nuri Efendi (Harputlu) State Bureaucracy Compensation Wage
Osman Nuri Efendi (Rizeli) Religious Bureaucracy Compensation Wage
Appendix 179
Republican Period
Osman Raşit Efendi (Tavaslı ) Religious Teacher Compensation Wage

Ömer Ferit Kam (I˙ stanbullu) Religious Teacher Istanbul University
Ömer Lütfi Efendi (Elmalili) Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Ömer Lütfi Efendi (Kayserili) Religious Counsel Ministry of Justice
Ömer Lütfi Efendi (Niksarli) Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Ömer Nasuhi Bilmen Office of Sheikh al Islam Directorate of
(Erzurumlu) Religious Affairs
Ahmet Rasim Efendi Religious Teacher Sentenced by the
(Karahisarı şarkili) Independence
Courts
Recep Hilmi Efendi (Kayalarlı ) Religious Judge Compensation Wage
Molla Reşit Bey (Süleymaniyeli) Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
Hafı z Reşit Efendi (Şamlı ) Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
Ali Rı za Office of Sheikh al Islam Ministry of Education
Hafı z Sadullah Efendi Teacher Teacher
(I˙ stanbullu)
Salih Efendi (I˙ stanbullu) Religious Teacher Istanbul University
Librarian
Salih Zeki Efendi (Alaşehirli) Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
Seyyit Hulusi Efendi (Silistreli) Religious Teacher Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Süleyman Efendi (Lomalı ) Religious Teacher Ministry of Justice
Süleyman Hilmi Tunahan Religious Teacher Directorate of
(Silistreli) Religious Affairs
Süleyman Sami Efendi Religious Bureaucracy Compensation Wage
(Ardanuçlu)
Süleyman Sı rrı Efendi Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
(Ermenekli)
Şakir Efendi (Akovalı ) Religious Counsel Ministry of Education
Seyit Taha Efendi (Vanlı ) Religious Counsel Directorate of
Religious Affairs
Yunus Bahri Efendi (Geredeli) Religious Teacher Compensation Wage
Yusuf Efendi (Hemşinli) Religious Bureaucracy State Bureaucracy
Yusuf Ziya Efendi Mosque Preacher Ministry of Education
Notes
1. When he became a deputy in Albania, his wage stopped being paid.
2. He was sentenced by the Independence Courts in 1926.
3. He wrote a twelver-volume Qur’an commentary for the Directorate.
4. He refused positions in the state offered to him.
180 Appendix
Republican Period
Abdülaziz Mecdi Efendi (Tolun) Sheikh No Official position

Seyyid Abdülhakim Arvasi Sheikh Directorate of Religious
Affairs
Muhammed Sı ddı k Efendi Sheikh Directorate of Religious
Affairs
Ahmed Remzi Dede Sheikh State Bureuacracy
Tahir’ül Mevlevi (Olgun) Religious Scholar Ministry of Education5
Abdülaziz Bekkine Sheikh Directorate of Religious
Affairs
Ahmed Tahir Memiş Efendi Religious Scholar Directorate of Religious
Affairs
Alvarlı Muhammed Lütfi Efendi Sheikh No Official Position6
Ibnülemin Mahmud Kemal Inal Religious Scholar State Bureaucracy7
Süleyman Hilmi Tunahan Religious Scholar Directorate of Religious
Affairs
Hacı Veyiszade Mustafa Kurucu Religious Scholar Directorate of Religious
Affairs
Said Nursi Religious Scholar No Official Position8
Ali Haydar Efendi Religious Scholar No Offical Position9
Abdülhay Efendi (Öztoprak) Sheikh Directorate of Religious
Affairs
Mahmud Celalettin Ökten Religious Scholar Ministry of Education
Hasan Basri Cantay Religious Scholar Ministry of Education
Alasonyalı Hacı Cemal Öğüt Religious Scholar Ministry of Education
Source: Yı ldı rı m (2002).
Notes
5. He was acquitted in the Independence Courts in 1926.
6. He was offered the position of a religious counsel in the Directorate.
7. He assumed variety of positions in state research institutes.
8. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk personally offered him the position of general preacher in East
Anatolia.
9. He was acquitted in the Independence Courts and was put under house arrest.
Name Former Position Republican Period Position
Mehmed Şemseddin Ulusoy Sheikh Directorate of Religious Affairs

Abdülbaki Baykara Sheikh Istanbul University
Ahmet Remiz Akyürek Sheikh State Bureaucracy
Bozkı rlı Abdullah Efendi Sheikh State Bureaucracy
Abdülaziz Bekkine Sheikh Directorate of Religious
Affairs
Appendix 181
Name Former Position Republican Period Position
Hasan Yavuz Sheikh Directorate of Religious

Affairs
Said Özkök Sheikh Ministry of Education
Mehmet Baha Pars Sheikh Ministry of Education
Mehmet Ali Ayni Sheikh Ministry of Education
Nüzhet Ergün Sheikh Istanbul University
Muhammad Razi Sheikh Ministry of Finance
Yahya Galip Sheikh Deputy
Veled I˙ zbudak Sheikh Deputy
Kenan Rifai Sheikh Ministry of Education
Source: Küçük (2007).
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Index
Page numbers in italic format indicate figures and tables.
abolition of the caliphate 63, 65, 68 economic integration 44, 45

accommodationist state: critical educational reforms 37, 100, 117, 118,
defect in 159; ending of 158; 119
introduction to 12, 51; Mustafa Endowments Law 101
Kemal and 51 – 8; reasons eradicationist state: ending of 158;
for adopting 65 – 70; state introduction to 12, 132;
secularization 58 – 65; as a revolutionary upheavals and
superior strategy 159 135 – 42; strategic context 132 – 5;
Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal 1, 13 – 15, see also Orthodox Church
51 – 8, 63
atheism 143, 149, 150 famine crisis 139, 140
ayan families 30 February Revolution 136
Fethullah Gülen movement 148
Babi movement 89, 90 First World War: economic and human
Balkan Wars 41, 52, 54, 66 costs 66; Iran and 97; Mustafa
Barro, Robert 11, 12 Kemal and 54; Ottoman Empire
black clergy 114, 128, 140 and 46
Bolsheviks 133 – 5, 137, 139 foreign loans 32, 90
Brezhnev, Leonid 150, 153 foreign trade 43, 45
Formations of the Secular (Asad) 6
Cadet Corps 118
capitalist economy 66, 67, 91 – 2 Gendarmerie force 86, 96, 97, 98
catechism 7, 38 Gorbachev, Michael 80, 153, 154
Cevdet, Ahmet 39 – 40 Great Reforms 118, 119, 120, 128
civil code 100, 101 guilds 42, 91, 105
civil war 96, 98, 104, 133, 138, 149
clerical education 125, 127 heterodox religious movements 88, 89
commercial class, dominance of 44 – 5 highway robbery 97, 98
Committee of Union and Progress hocas 29, 46
(CUP) 52, 53 Holy Synod 123, 124, 128
constitutional revolution 96, 97, 105
Cossack Brigade 96, 97, 98, 102 imperial rule 27 – 9, 80 – 3, 110 – 12
Crimean War 118, 119 industrialization efforts 119, 120, 157
Czechoslovak Legion 134 Iran: business concessions in 87 – 8,
91, 92; civil war in 96, 98,
devshirme system 75, 78 104; constitutional revolution
Directorate of Religious Affairs 58 – 61, in 96, 97, 105; crisis in 151 – 3;
147, 158 decentralization of power in
200 Index
96 – 7; empire-building journey Ottoman Empire and 42 – 6;
18 – 20; First World War and power redistribution issues
97; internal security issues 102; 158 – 9; Qajar rule and 84 – 92;
introduction to 73 – 4; lack of see also state secularization
political competition in 102; monasteries 110, 113 – 16, 121 – 8, 154
landowners in 91; Russia’s war Muscovites 110, 111, 114
with 85, 97; Safavid Empire
and 74 – 7; state-building efforts Naqshibandi order 78, 148
in 85 – 6, 89 – 91, 100 – 1; state neutrality toward religion 3, 7
secularization in 99 – 106, 148 – 9; 1917 revolution 142
Sufi orders and 77 – 80 Nizamiye courts 34, 37, 40
Islam: assertions about 64; spread of non-Muslims 44 – 5, 67, 69
27; state secularization and Nursi, Said 63, 69, 148
13 – 16
Islam and Politics (Esposito) 13 oil revenues 102, 103, 151
Old Believers movement 116, 127
Janissary corps 26, 31, 32 Orthodox Church: administration of
124, 125, 140 – 1; Gorbachev’s
Karabekir, Kazim 54, 55, 56 reforms and 154; hierarchy
Kemal, Mustafa: achievements of 15; issues 114 – 15, 126 – 7; imperial
coming to power of 51 – 8; early state and 110 – 12; introduction
life of 54 – 5; goal of 13, 14; to 109; in post-reform period
religious community and 62, 63; 142 – 3; religious education by
speech of 1, 14 156; revolutionary upheavals
Khan, Agha Muhammed 86 – 7, 89 and 135 – 42; sovereign state and
Khomeini, Ruhollah 79, 80, 106, 152, 121 – 8; spiritual regulation issues
153 122 – 3; state aid for 155 – 6;
Kievan state 110 suppression of 150; unity issues
112 – 16, 141; see also Russia
landowners: in Iran 91; in Russia 111, Ottoman Empire: 19th-century
112, 120 reforms 31 – 3; Ahmet Cevdet
Law Concerning the Registration of and 39 – 41; centralization of
Documents and Property 101 75; CUP’s rule in 53; decline
Law on Freedom of Conscience and of 30 – 1; hostility toward
Religious Associations 154, 155 45 – 6; imperial institutions and
League of the Militant Godless 142, 27 – 9; introduction to 1 – 2, 24;
143 migration of Muslims and 46;
legal reforms 34, 100 as non-secular 27, 28; origin of
Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, coming to 25 – 7; Russia’s attack on 41 – 2;
power of 132 – 5 Sufi orders and 25 – 7; ulama
Living Church 139, 140, 141 class in 33 – 9, 163 – 72; violent
loot the looters slogan 133 atmosphere and 41 – 2; wars
between Safavids and 77
madrasahs system 27, 59, 68, 81
Mahmud II 31, 33, 38 Pahlavi Iran see Iran
Majlisi, Muhammed Baqir 79, 83 parish clergy 114, 115, 128, 141
marja-i-taqlid institution 88, 89, 103 Pasa, Ahmet Cevdet 39 – 40
McCleary, Rachel M. 11, 12, 13 patriarchate 113, 115, 127, 137
merchant class 45, 92, 106, 149, Patriarch Nikon 115, 116
157 Patriarch Tikhon 137, 138, 139, 140
military reforms 31, 85, 111, 117 – 19 peasant unrest 120, 132, 135
modern sovereign state: 19th-century Peter the Great 116 – 18, 121 – 5
reforms 31 – 3; building 6 – 9, primary education 38, 126, 149
116 – 20; components of 6 – 7; Progressive Clergy 140
Index 201
Progressivist Republican Party (PRP) 56 renovationist clergy 140, 141
Prokopovich, Feofan 122, 123 Republican People’s Party (RPP) 56, 57
Provisional Government 132, 133, 136 Republican Turkey: crisis in 156 – 8;
Provisional Superior Church empire-building journey 18 – 20;
Administration 140 international scrutiny 68;
Public Religions in the Modern World military coup 157 – 8; Mustafa
(Casanova) 5 Kemal and 51 – 8; religious
public school system 100 – 1 composition of 67; state-
Putin, Vladimir 155 building reforms in 42, 43; state
secularization in 58 – 65, 147 – 8;
Qajar rule 84 – 92, 101 ulama class in 172 – 81; wartime
Qum seminaries 148, 149 losses in 66 – 7
Rise of Religious Externalism in Safavid
Red Army 135, 143 Iran, The 79
Red Terror 138 Romanov, Michael 111, 112
religion: defined 5; hostility toward Russia: civil war in 133, 138, 149;
19, 20; neutrality toward 3, 7; crisis in 153 – 6; empire-building
propaganda against 143, 150 journey and 18 – 20; Iran’s war
Religion and the Political Imagination with 85, 97; Orthodox Church
(Jones) 11 and 110 – 16; Ottoman Empire
religious activism 146, 148, 157 and 41 – 2; state secularization
religious community: crisis decade in 149 – 51; Time of Troubles
of 1970s and 156 – 7; defined period in 111; Vladimir Ilyich
5; financial resources of 105, Lenin and 132 – 5; war against
149; in Iran 148 – 9, 152; Poland 111
merchant class and 149; Mustafa Russian Federation 155
Kemal and 62 – 3; non-Sufi 27; Russian nobility 112, 113, 117
Orthodox Church and 109; Russo-Japanese War 120
reforms related to 34 – 5, 100 – 1;
separationist state and 106; Safavid Empire: collapse of 83 – 4;
support of 101 – 2; see also state imperial power and 75 – 7;
secularization politico-religious context and
religious courts 34, 36, 100, 101 74 – 5; Sufi orders and 77 – 80;
religious endowments 33, 38, 82, 91 ulama class and 80 – 3
religious groups 89, 148, 157, 158 Safawiyya order 75, 76
religious institutions: administration sayyids 81, 88
of 28, 29, 103; defined 5; schismatic movements 141, 142
incorporation of 58, 59, 62, Second World War 142
102 – 4; merging of 65, 66; Secular Age (Taylor) 1
reforms related to 35; Safavid Secularism and State Policies Toward
Empire and 82 – 3 Religion (Kuru) 11
religious movements 88, 89, 127 secular state: assertive 12; definitions of
religious scholars: biographies of 3 – 4; introduction to 1 – 2
59 – 62; hierarchically structured separationist state: ending of 158;
group of 103, 104; role of 36 – 7; introduction to 95; religious
state schools and 38 community and 106; Reza Shah
religious schools: control over 100 – 1; and 95 – 9; state secularization
primary education in 38; reforms 99 – 106
related to 35 Serbian revolt of 1804 41
religious services: monopoly over 59, Serbian revolt of 1815 41
62, 63; Orthodox Church and Shah Ismail 77, 81
126, 136, 142 – 3 Shah, Reza, coming to power of 95 – 9
religious symbols, use of 8, 18, 64 Sharia courts 62, 65
religious taxes 81, 88, 89, 103, 149 sheikh al Islam 28, 34 – 7
202 Index
Shi’a religious scholars 19, 93, 95, 163, tax exemptions 26, 29, 46, 90
166 Taylor, Charles 1, 6
Shi’a Sufi orders 78, 79, 81, 82 Temporary Higher Church Council 141
Shi’a ulama 79, 81 – 4, 88 – 90, 92 Time of Troubles period 111
Smith, Donald E. 3, 10 tobacco concession of 1891 87, 92
social groups, problems of 151 Tolstoy, Leo 127, 128
Socialist Revolutionaries 135 Treaty of Lausanne 69
Society of Militant Clergy 152 Treaty of Westphalia 8
Soviet Union see Russia tribal lawlessness 97, 98
Stalinist terror 142 Tsar Alexis 113, 115, 116
State and Business in Turkey 67 tsarist political system 132, 133, 138
state-building reforms: in Iran 85 – 6, Turkey see Republican Turkey
89 – 91, 100 – 1; in Turkey 42, 43; Turkish Grand National Assembly
see also modern sovereign state (TGNA) 55
state-religion relations 11, 18, 135 – 6, Turkish Women’s Federation 58
147 – 51 twelver Shi’ism 77, 81
state schools 36, 37, 38, 156
state secularization: as a by-product ulama class: in higher education schools
5 – 9; case histories 17 – 18; 169 – 70; Ottoman Empire decline
conceptual confusion around and 30 – 1; as part of imperial
2 – 9; defined 5; in Iran 99 – 106, state 27 – 9; reforms’ impact on
148 – 9; Islam and 13 – 16; 33 – 4; in Republican Turkey
methodology 16 – 17; paths of 172 – 81; Safavid Empire and
9 – 16; politics of 13; in Russia 80 – 3; secular schools and courts
149 – 51; strategic context of and 163 – 9; sheikh al Islam and
95 – 9, 132 – 5; in Turkey 58 – 65, 34 – 9; in state institutions 170 – 2
147 – 8; variations of 9 – 12 Uniformity of Dress Law 100
street violence 156, 157 Union and Progress Party 54
Sufi orders: autonomy of 27, 29; ban
on 62, 147; militant 25 – 6; waqfs 28, 81, 101
nonmilitarist 26, 78; Persian War of Independence 55, 57, 62, 66
Sufism and 74; suppression of White Army 133, 134, 135, 138, 139
77 – 80; war’s impact on 67 – 8 white clergy 114, 128, 140
Sufi sheikhs 25, 62, 74, 148 workers unrest 132, 134
Sunni Islam 3, 18, 83, 152
Sunni ulama 46, 82, 88 Yavorsky, Stefan 121, 122, 125
Swiss code 61, 69, 70 Yeltsin, Boris 155

Birol Başkan - From Religious Empires To Secular States - State Secularization in Turkey, Iran and Russia-Routledge (2014)

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“Birol Başkan makes a major and innovative contribution to the study of

Birol Başkan is an assistant professor of government at Georgetown Univer-

Edited by Anthony Spanakos (Montclair State University) and

2 From Religious Empires to Secular States

1 Introduction: The Secular State and Its Three Types 1

2 Mobilizing Sheikhs and Ulama: Religion and the

3 Accommodationist State Secularization in Republican Turkey 51

4 Appeasing the Ulama: Religion and the Imperial State in Iran 73

5 Separationist State Secularization in Pahlavi Iran 95

6 Taming the Church: Religion and the Russian Empire 109

7 Eradicationist State Secularization in the Soviet Union 132

8 Conclusion: The Fates of Three Models of Secular States 146

This book has grown out of a dissertation submitted to the Department of

Francisco Panizza and Anthony Peter Spanakos

Sometime in the early 14th century . . . somewhere in northwest Anatolia . . .

CONCEPTUALIZING STATE SECULARIZATION

An Alternative Perspective: State Secularization as a By-Product

PATHS OF STATE SECULARIZATION

Alternatives: Accommodationism, Separationism,

Accounting for the Variation

Islam and State Secularization

In this book I employ comparative historical analysis,74 a mode of analysis that

THE MAIN ARGUMENT IN BRIEF

Republican Turkey adopted a model of state secularity in the 1920s that

The Ottomans—unlike, as we will see later in the book, the Safavids

BUILDING IMPERIAL INSTITUTIONS

While expanding their empires, the Ottomans also engaged non-Sufi

BUILDING A MODERN SOVEREIGN STATE—THE

THE ULAMA IN THE PROCESS

As mentioned, Mahmud II initiated a process of modern sovereign state

INVOLVING THE ULAMA

Even though the process of building a modern sovereign state undermined

AHMET CEVDET PAŞA: PERSONIFICATION OF OTTOMAN

No figure better exemplifies the nature of Ottoman state building as it

Weakening Ottoman Society

STRATEGIC CONTEXT: THE COMING TO POWER

In Turkey, state secularization took place in the midst of a stiff intra-elite

ACCOMMODATIVE STATE SECULARIZATION IN TURKEY

In Turkey, state secularization accommodated religion. The state took over

Our republican government has an office of Directorate of Religious

Propagating this highly depoliticized understanding of Islam through a

Oh glorious God, the sole wish of my pain-stricken heart is that

The Turkish state emerged as a major proselytizer, funding a ten-volume

WHY DID TURKEY ADOPT ACCOMMODATIONIST

Why was state secularization accommodative of religion? First, as discussed

Pre-Safavid Iran had passed through a historical experience similar to that of

THE RISE TO IMPERIAL POWER

THE SAFAVID SUPPRESSION OF THE SUFI ORDERS

THE ULAMA: INSTITUTIONALIZING THE IMPERIAL RULE

In contrast to their differences in policy toward Sufi orders, the Ottomans

THE COLLAPSE AND THE SHI’A ULAMA

THE 19TH CENTURY AND THE FAILURE TO BUILD

THE FAILURE AND THE ULAMA

This chapter explains why state secularization was separationist in Iran.

STRATEGIC CONTEXT: THE COMING

SEPARATIONIST STATE SECULARIZATION IN IRAN

An incorporation of secularization reforms into this story reveals that the

In the face of an ever-encroaching state apparatus, the religious community

1. Cited in Abrahamian (1969:294).

Soviet Russia adopted a model of state secularity in the 1920s that

SACRIFICING THE CHURCH UNITY

BUILDING A MODERN SOVEREIGN STATE

The fatherland need have no fear of revolts and disturbances from a