December 15,
2006
It is impossible to restore respect to the word “Mulla” for millions of Muslims living in South Asia. The word has been debased forever in the South Asian context through the combined impact of colonization and the degeneration of religious education. In Iran and Afghanistan, however, the word remains an honorific title bestowed upon learned men like Mulla Sadra and Mulla Haji Sabzawari, two of the greatest philosophers of Islam. Perhaps it was this degeneration of the word in South Asia that produced a permutation in the form of Mawlana, though that word has also lost respectability through the deeds of those who have dominated the political scene for over half a century now. Thus, Urdu, Sindhi, Punjabi, Bangali, and other South Asian languages are in dire need of a new word for an Islamic religious scholar. In the absence of a genuine title indicative of knowledge and upright character of a scholar of Islam, many contemporary scholars use a Western term “Doctor” which does not conjure pejorative images associated with the word Mulla, but then it does not specifically indicate Islamic learning of the person either. It simply indicates that the person has a particular degree, Ph.D, which is, in fact, a product of the Western academy.
This is not merely a linguistic dilemma about the non-existence of a word in contemporary South Asian languages which can be used to denote a scholar of Islam who is respected for his learning and character. It is an indication of a much deeper and alarming situation: an entire tradition of learning has been debased to such an extent that its representatives cannot be named anymore. Can this be symptomatic of a yet deeper phenomenon—that of the disappearance of such men?
Islamic religious scholars of the past were recognized by two characteristics: learning and piety. Their learning was rooted in the Qur’an and Sunnah as was their character. When we think of a scholar like Abu Hamid al-Ghazali or al-Hajr al-Asqalani, what comes to mind is exactly these two characteristics. These men were endowed with intelligence, critical minds, and upright character. They could match the vigorous logical discourse of a secularized or Hellenized philosopher just as they could go into the intricacies of a verse of the Qur’an and bring into discourse centuries of Islamic reflection encompassing such fields as philology, history, genealogy, and hadith. They could advise the rulers about the most appropriate way of handling a contemporary problem just as they could direct the course of study of a new student joining the formidable tradition of learning which had shaped their own scholarship.
These men lived their lives in full view of history and they have left behind a body of literature that testifies to their scholarship. Is it possible to think of such men now? If they exist, what honorific title can be used for them?
Fortunately, this species has not disappeared, although their numbers have considerably dwindled over the last three few centuries. In the context of South Asia, this tradition of learning has produced scholars like Shah Wali Allah, Shah Ismail Shaheed, and numerous other Ulama of the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries. It continued to produce men like Hameed al-Din Farahi, Mawlana Asharaf Ali Thanwi, and Amin Ahsan Islahi in the twentieth century. Rare as they are, these scholars have left important works and they were upright men whose piety was an example for others. The problem, however, arose through the lack of integration of their scholarship with the madrassah tradition which became the haunt of the dispossessed.
The standard syllabus used in a contemporary madrassah in Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh has seventy books comprising Dars-e Nizami. Even if this syllabus is taught in full, which is rare, it cannot produce a scholar of the caliber of Shah Walli Allah or his successors. At best, it can produce a Mulla who can lead prayers and tend to the most basic needs of Muslims: rites of birth, marriage, and death, and the like. It also prepares them for further study. In a sense, Dars-e Nizami is a means and not an end, but unfortunately most madrassah-trained students consider this to be the end of their educational career.
The result of this trend is the appearance of half-trained Mullas derided or pitied by men and women among whom they live. No one expects a madrassah-trained Mulla to take charge of any of the contemporary state institutions, elected offices, or professional jobs. They can only occupy the run-down building attached to a Mosque and call it their home. These are obvious realities of our times. But are these also realities which have been engraved on some unchangeable tablets or is it possible to revisit the predicament of Mullas and rethink their past, present, and future in order to produce a new breed of Mullas? If religious leadership of Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh were to initiate a process of regeneration of institutions, learning, and character building, they coud produce a new breed of Mulla—the twenty-first century Mulla. This person can alter the entire social, political, and economic landscape of South Asia in one generation. At present, not even a respectable name exists for such a person, but if he comes into existence, a new word will automatically be coined in various South Asian languages representative of his stature.
It is obvious that such a Mulla has to acquire the same two characteristics which were the honor of his predecessors: learning and piety. But is the path through which a twenty-first century Mulla can gain these two characteristics clear to those who are in the business of producing Mullas? The answer is clearly in the negative.
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