In some cultures history is not “living” in the everyday lives of people:
they are “dead-history cultures.” I do not mean this in the simplistic sense of a culture not having a long or an illustrious history. Certainly, the United States, Australia, and Canada are examples of countries that are
“new,” in the sense that their recorded histories begin with the expansion of Western colonial powers after the fifteenth century. They can’t boast of five thousand years of recorded, civilized life as one fairly recognizable, continuous, cultural group, as can the Chinese, for example. Length of recorded past is important, but by “dead history cultures” I am referring to something more profound, a tendency for the past not to be important for the present, for present and future plans to be independent from the past, for people to see it as normal for their collective memories of history not to influence present thoughts and actions.
Dead-history cultures socialize people to ignore the past, and some-times even to disavow and disown the past. Immigrants to the United States are encouraged to put aside their ethnic differences, to “melt” into
Ground Floor 53 the mainstream and become part of the future-oriented society, the land of the “American Dream,” which is always about what could be and what one could become, and not about what one has been.
Humongous disruptions and tragedies in American society, such as slavery and the Civil War, are treated as “dead history.” The historical past is something to be celebrated in America, but kept in museums, restricted to parades, fenced off for special holiday festivals. The cultural message seems to be, “don’t show me what happened yesterday, show me what is happening today,” and at the individual level, the message is just as clear, “Don’t show me what you did yesterday, show me what you can do now and tomorrow.”
True, the United States Constitution stretches out like a dead hand from the past, attempting to maintain certain continuities in behavior.
But the technological, economic, political, and cultural forces that domi-nate American culture are all forward looking. The entire collective gaze of American society is fixed on tomorrow.
At the level of the individual, also, the United States and other dead-history societies lead people to look forward, without linking what is happening with what has happened. The cultural message to individuals is, “what have you done lately?” implying that what you did “histor-ically” or “yesterday” is not of importance. Dead-history societies are fast moving and have no time for individuals who want to sit on their laurels.
In contrast, “living-history cultures” live and breath the past, at both the individual and the collective levels; they keep history active in indi-vidual lives and in lived cultures, not museum cultures. The long, long past is often even more alive than the present. This is not in an abstract sense of the past being remembered by them, but in the practical sense of the long, long past being integral to their everyday thinking, activities, and living identity (as opposed to their “museum identity”).
Another subtle but important point is that in living-history cultures, people are conscious of the hand of the past, and they explicitly and routinely invoke the past, such as particular historical traditions and events, to guide the present and future (this is not the same as saying that
“the past influences the present” without individuals being conscious of the process; for example, as in the claim that the American experience with slavery influence twenty-first century American life without people in America realizing this influence).
If secular Western societies, and secular American society in particular, are the classic example of dead-history cultures, then Islamic societies, and particularly those of the Near-East, Middle-East, and North Africa, are clear examples of living-history cultures. In these Islamic societies, what happened 1,400 years ago is a powerful and active force in the everyday lives of individuals—sometimes even more powerful and active
than what is happening today. This is not because of the formal, modern, educational system. Indeed, the formal, modern, educational system in these countries is designed to teach little history, because history is often a controversial discipline that has to be vetted or avoided so as not to offend the sensibilities of the contemporary ruling elites.
Rather than relying on formal accounts of history to transmit the past, in living-history cultures it is informal narratives, everyday stories told about the collective past, that help perpetuate and amplify the influence of history. Such narratives are part of the fabric of everyday practices. For example, in Shi’a Islam, the martyrdom of Imam Ali and the “tragedy of Karbela” is not just a tale narrated to Shi’a children so they learn how Shi’a Muslims split from the Sunni Muslims about 1,300 years ago, but it is also a story that is lived out by way of everyday practices and important ceremonies throughout the year, and also personalized in the lives of individual Shi’a Muslims. One way in which this personalization takes places is through the ceremony of rowzeh-khani, which serves both as a religious ceremony and a group therapy session.
The ceremony of rowzeh-khani is directed by a rowzeh-khan, a male who knows by heart a number of stories central to the history of Shi’a Islam. To succeed, the rowzeh-khan must have a good voice, capable of narrating and singing in emotionally moving styles. He must switch easily from being an entertainer, to being a therapist guiding a group to weep openly and to publicly express strong emotions. The success of the rowzeh-khan is judged in large part by how effective he is in moving the group members from one emotional state to another.
The rowzeh-khani is a wonderful example of a ceremony that inte-grates Shi’a Muslim traditions into the everyday practices of ordinary people. This ceremony usually takes place in the evening in a private home and is financed by the host, as a form of “service” that increases the piety of the host and boosts her or his chances of reaching heaven in the afterlife. Guests typically include family, friends, and neighbors, their numbers varying from half a dozen to several hundred, depending on the budget of the host. The guests sit in sex-segregated groups, usually out of sight of one another: females in one area and males in another. Food is served to guests, and throughout the meal the rowzeh-khan narrates tales.
The first part of the ceremony is slow moving, as guests arrive, take off their shoes as they enter the house, and take their places (usually on the floor), with the most important guests sitting at the “top” of the room, furthest away from the entrance door. The food often includes several types of rice dishes, stews with a variety of vegetables and herbs, as well as roasted chicken, and sometimes kebabs. At this stage the rowzeh-khan will talk in an everyday tone, not trying very hard to attract attention.
Ground Floor 55 He will make a few introductory remarks about the special occasion for the rowzeh-khani, perhaps add a few words about the host and the people gathered, then slowly move into the narrative of a major historical tragedy (the story told is almost always a tragedy), such as the martyrdom of Imam Ali.
As the tragedy unfolds, the voice of the rowzeh-khan gradually be-comes louder and more animated. He now demands the attention of the guests, who have come to the end of the meal and are more ready to become engaged in the narrative. The narrative is not received as a historical tale of distant events, but as a tale that is integral to the every-day lives of those present—so much so that individuals identify intensely with Imam Ali and his followers, and weep as they hear about their tragic end. The success of the rowzeh-khan is gauged in large part by how moved the guests are to weep.
The ceremony of rowzeh-khani is in some respects similar to group therapy as popularized by humanistic psychologists, particularly in the way emotions are shared and expressed. At various times during the process, the participants laugh, cry, wail, sink into the world of their own troubles, and climb out of the depths of despair, refreshed and feeling that the weights on their backs have become lighter. The climax of the ceremony is reached when the rowzeh-khan brings the participants to the end of the journey, the last agonies of the martyred Imam and his followers. Everyone sobs helplessly, for their own sorrows as much as for the martyrs, and the next moment the rowzeh-khani releases them from sadness, brings them face to face with a happy ending, with the martyrs safely placed in paradise. The participants switch in emotional experience, from deep sorrow and weeping to refreshing happiness and laughter.
The rowzeh-khani is one of many examples of ceremonies in Shi’a Islam, and other living-history societies, through which the historical past is integrated into the everyday present. In such societies, the past is tightly woven into personal identity through socialization processes.
Rather than being a remote reference point, the past is an active signpost for present and future personal actions and values. Not surprisingly, in the search for an appropriate identity, in living-history societies the past has a strong influence on directions taken by individuals.
The reassuring aspect of the past for people in Islamic societies is that it can help them feel unique and positive about themselves. For example, the rowzeh-khani leaves the faithful refreshed and invigorated. They feel stronger, healthier, and better able to take up the challenges of the world.
The message they receive from the past enriches them, just as leaders such as Khomeini lauded the Islamic faithful and told them that they are the best, they are spiritually superior.
This is in contrast to the message “become a good copy the West!”
being received in Islamic societies from the West, and from their own Westernized elite.