Susan Shariati: Armed Struggle, Between Totem and Taboo

One thing is clear: in how we analyze or remember history—our recent history—we remain captive. Captive to memories, captive to the latticed railings of ideology, captive to the dominant discourse of power. Whether we were actors, parties to the dispute, or witnesses, in all three positions we are condemned to three states: prosecutor, judge, or defendant. In this trinity, historical data, like hot potatoes, are passed from hand to hand and hurled at one another, never finding their final resting place. Whether we expect to learn lessons from history, or expect it to be of practical use. In this situation, either we must, as some scholars of historical science believed, deem historiography possible only for the distant past, with the conviction that historical research can only address what is concluded and dissolved; or, if we believe that engaging with contemporary history has the virtue of enabling the understanding of an era by relying on a living archive, we must be assured of a free, democratic, and equal summons, and unconditional access to this living archive. The free summoning of the actors: victims and victors alike. Otherwise, any engagement with recent history, especially recent political history, is exposed to the blade of censorship, the threat of accusation, and the propagation of doubt.

Mr. Babak Ahmadi's questions about the armed struggle of the 1340s–1350s [1960s–1970s], with later actualizations as well, are precise, necessary, unavoidable, generalizable, and posed in good faith. However, what provoked many angry reactions is not the critique of armed struggle in our contemporary history, but rather a form of revisiting the recent past, undertaken and popularized by a type of journalism in the absence of a historical and scientific approach. A critical rereading of history is not provocative; it is the "comic-journalistic-pseudo-historical" rereading that agitates not only yesterday's actor but also the fair-minded critic. If dialogue is a virtue, and dialogue about yesterday a civic necessity, then first and foremost, stating its conditions is essential, and observing its etiquette is unavoidable. When speaking of a yesterday that has not fully become yesterday, that is half-recorded, alive in memories, and still leaves its mark on the skin, flesh, and bones of the actors, one must either let the waters subside, or exercise caution, speak conditionally, and refrain from issuing verdicts. Otherwise, dialogue becomes brawl, and in a brawl, one can no longer offer moral reminders like, "Where is tolerance?" or lament, "Ouch! My neck," or give scholarly advice like, "Research and investigation." Especially from someone who initiated the conflict. As the saying goes: it's a response to a hullabaloo. One in the newspaper, another in the virtual world. He who starts an illicit debate in a licensed newspaper must expect a reaction—at the very least—in the virtual world. Presence in the public sphere gives journalism a political dimension, and in the absence of the possibility of democratic dialogue, calls its fairness into question. It turns "interpretation" into a "position," a position placed on the grand chessboard of politics. The intermingling of the three domains of politics, history, and journalism is an obvious, and perhaps accepted, matter. Journalism and historiography, both, before being two professions or two disciplines, are a kind of social practice, linked to the public sphere, and thus, in a firm relationship with politics.

Journalism and historiography, though not identical, share a commonality in their relationship to events. They follow a single path in marking, classifying, montage, and the rationalization of data. Both operate by focusing on the relationships among data, situating them, evaluating them, and giving them form. Both seek the truth of data in order to understand it. The difference in their approaches, however, lies in journalism's scarcity of sources, its insufficiently exercised data, observations, and cases, and particularly, the lack of diversity in the cross-sections it can apply to reality by relying on the varied information obtained from multiple sources (Jacques Le Goff). Hence, as Hannah Arendt puts it, the truth a journalist deals with is a "modest" truth, or as the editor-in-chief of Le Monde, Edwy Plenel, says, journalists are artisans of factual but small-scale data, and finally, Albert Camus, who considers the journalist the "historian of the moment." Whether the journalist is an artisan of small-scale data, of modest truths, or the historian of the moment, their task is to report on the "noteworthy," and to prove their integrity, it must be determined to what extent they have remained faithful to objectivity, impartiality, and the avoidance of narcissism in the "observation," "interpretation," and "narration" of what they deemed noteworthy. Otherwise, they turn into either a judge or the accused.

The central issue of the ethics of reporting is objectivity, and objectivity, in the first step (observation), although not merely the recording of raw data, the elimination of the journalist's subjectivity, or the mere critique of documents, is the foundation of a kind of conduct for reconstructing an incident, a situation, or an institution based on documents; evaluating the authenticity of information and sources, and of course, situating the data. Undoubtedly, the search for the truth of data is not an individual practice but is based on a consensus born of dialogue. In the second step (interpretation) as well, the main condition is impartiality. Impartiality does not mean neutrality—presenting opposing views without a decisive cut. Impartiality manifests itself in methods: the necessity of hearing both sides, especially in tense situations, and refraining from one-sided judgment, evaluating similar cases similarly, avoiding the imposition of a set of political-ideological prejudices on a multifaceted reality. The danger that threatens interpretation is dogmatism. In the third step (narration) too, the journalist is prone to slippage. Narration is giving voice to data and explaining interpretations, and despite the legitimacy of individual character in the form of narration, the journalist must avoid falling into the trap of narcissism. The narrator is not omniscient.

Pseudo-historical journalism unfortunately suffers from all three problems: a confused and muddled presentation of data (either due to incomplete access to data or disregard for their diversity), a dogmatic view dominated by the ideological discourses of its own time, and therefore, lacking the necessary impartiality (contrary to the criticism it levels at yesterday's figures: having an ideological view), and slipping into a kind of journalistic narcissism, and the illusion that it is the shaper, or conversely, the representative of public opinion. The call for dialogue about yesterday, from Mr. Babak Ahmadi, is based on a manifesto. A manifesto that, in the guise of a journalistic note and with the claim of historical analysis, not only ridicules the political actors of an era—in their methods and motives—but has remained faithful neither to journalism nor shown any commitment to history. Analyses trapped in the grip of the dominant discourse of the time, which, before being analysis, are position-taking. The main problem with this type of entry into the discussion is that, in a historical guise, it is entirely partisan. Extracting universal answers from limited historical data, without maintaining a critical distance from one's own time. Neither the subject of the discussion is clear, nor its objective.

What is the subject of the discussion or dialogue? The inefficacy of armed struggle as a method of struggle under conditions of political deadlock? The history of violence in contemporary Iran? An assessment of the relationship between ignorance and action? The difference between libertarianism and revolutionism?

What is the objective of the discussion or dialogue? Reporting? Raising awareness? Learning a lesson? Teaching a lesson?

These questions, in and of themselves, are neither new nor problematic, but when one intends to issue a pedigree for each and appoint a custodian from a historical perspective, it must be made clear whether all those involved can be summoned under equal conditions and with a similar method. Violence always takes shape within a dialectic. It is a couplet of two hemistiches, and today, unfortunately, one cannot address both hemistiches of this couplet. The question of violence in our contemporary political history has had many actors and many victims, and for this very reason, it is among the subjects that are either caught in a totem or subjected to a taboo. It is either sacred, because many lives have been laid down for it, or taboo, because it is forbidden; in both states it is inaccessible, and under the conditions of totem and taboo, one cannot address the totality of the subject, as both a historical matter and a present one. On this basis, it is said: "Perhaps another time." One can engage in theoretical discussion; historical discussion is uncertain; journalistic discussion, absolutely not.

But when the journal—which is connected to the day, to today, and not a wide-open today—pokes into yesterday, and with a cursory, wholesale approach and in inflammatory language, inscribes the answer to all these questions, like a decree, upon the journal's masthead, the result is incitement and the closing off of any possibility of dialogue.

The cursory approach to a period manifests itself at the stage of observing and presenting the data, in the interpretation of the data, and in the type of narrative. Let us begin with the observations, or as the author of "Fadaiyan-e Jahl" puts it: with the "account of the affair." In journalistic historiography, the armed struggle in Iran of the 1960s is kicked off with a twenty-something youth's "here you go" to a comrade, to read a book by Che Guevara. The most significant information we are given about the socio-political and cultural conditions of that period is this "here you go." There is no word of the historical context, no account of the policies of power, no reference to the state of political and intellectual currents, nor, for instance, any mention of the fact that, before this "here you go," weapons had been taken up by other groups (the Islamic Nations Party and the Islamic Coalition Party). Everything revolves around the charisma of Che Guevara in Islamic lands, and the infatuation of a few semi-literate, action-stricken, adventurous leftist youths!

At the interpretation stage, journalistic historiography operates more gravely: based on decrees that carry the force of a stance—right or wrong—it proceeds to interpret the data:

A: "He who clears his path with a weapon is not an intellectual, not a researcher, not a politician, and not even a political activist, but merely a soldier of violence."

B: All those who took up arms sanctified ignorance. (Shariati, who himself was criticized by the Fadaiyan for his emphasis on cultural work, is also counted among the sanctifiers of ignorance).

C: The armed revolutionaries were not freedom-seekers.

D: The struggle against technocracy and specialization, at its extreme, is the sanctification of ignorance.

At the narrative stage, too, the journalist is seized by a pretentious narcissism: "the comedy-tragedy of Siahkal," "young gangsters," "praise of brigandry," "a cudgel against democracy," and so on. Then, this brilliant conclusion, for one who, from the stance of a lover of non-violence, has become a critic of yesterday: "The lifespan of the Fadai guerrillas came to an end right at the dawn of the '79 revolution, and... their removal from power was for the best." How did it come to an end? How were they removed from power? To what extent did it help put an end to violence? It is unclear. Who knows? Perhaps if they had remained, they too would have become reformists!

Why did the armed struggle begin? Political deadlock following the repression at the start of the 1340s. Whether the onset of these struggles expressed a kind of vanguard voluntarism and an active minority, or, conversely, indicated the absolute impasse of the political space and was thus imposed on the entire movement by the repressive regime, all political forces—the radical left and the liberal right—considered its formation inevitable, not only because of Che Guevara's charisma, and perhaps even legitimate. If there was a dispute, it was over its usefulness. No one opposed it on the grounds that armed action promotes violence, not even Engineer Bazargan, who never took up arms. Before the Fadaiyan guerrillas, the Party of Islamic Nations and the Islamic Coalition had already begun the armed struggle. One influenced by Fidel Castro, the other by Navvab Safavi and the Fadaiyan-e Islam.

By what logic did they take up arms? To overthrow the regime? To tear the web of suffocation? To raise the people's morale? To make revolution on behalf of the people? To prepare the ground for the people's entry? Multiple answers have been given. The answers are by no means uniform, and the assessment of whether taking up arms was beneficial or harmful must be made according to the objectives set by the actors themselves, not hypotheses external to them. One can critique that taking up arms with the intent of overthrow is voluntarist, aiming for an impossible revolution, and acting on behalf of the people. With the intent of tearing the web of suffocation and raising the people's morale, it is useful; with the intent of exposing the repressive regime, it is effective. But one cannot tell someone who wants to be present in the political arena: in conditions of political deadlock, abandon the arena and go to the university. One can say: avoid the radicalization of the struggle, because you will be repressed, eliminated, and isolated, and that is what the power wants. One can say: seek other alternative ways to confront the repressive political regime. But to say that abandoning the educational and university process is the sanctification of ignorance, or that taking up arms is opposition to democracy, has no self-evidence. One cannot tell Mandela: instead of taking up arms, go teach at a university, or continue your law practice! Calling for an exit from the political arena and wanting everyone to be technocrats is precisely the same error that political and armed activists were afflicted with: everyone take up arms and prioritize political struggle. With this difference, that this time it is the journalist who is giving the directive, and this becomes the very narcissism that the journalist is afflicted with.

With the start of the armed struggle in the 1340s, the critique of these struggles also began. Long before the critical gaze of the next generation fell upon it. Even if there was a consensus on the "legitimacy" of taking up arms (and Engineer Bazargan's warning in this regard is very symbolic), there was none on its "usefulness." Shariati's critique of the armed struggle is one of the most important critiques. Particularly because, by adopting what he himself termed an "awareness-raising" approach, he both demarcated a boundary with the armed approach and did not resign himself to emptying the social arena and disregarding the necessity of struggle. In place of the revolutionary vanguard element as the engine of revolution, he installed the committed intellectual, and instead of group work and cadre-building in isolation, he addressed the broad audience of young students. He invited the pragmatic and radical youth of his time to the Hosseiniyeh classes, spoke of the priority of cultural struggle, and, of course, in order not to remain confined to university discourse, he left the university and chose the public sphere. The usefulness or harmfulness of this approach must also, of course, be assessed according to the defined objectives. What was Shariati's goal: to inject awareness into the people, so that they themselves become the source of change. Shariati's belief was that the intellectual, unlike the revolutionary vanguard, cannot act in place of the people; he can only show the way. Just as many guerrillas also did not claim that they could make revolution on behalf of the people. (Miftahi's defense statement demonstrates this very point).

Shariati, in his critique of the armed struggle, in 1354, in a piece called "Regrets and Wishes," writes:

"... instead of a movement walking only on its head, with its hands in its pockets, and its feet in the air, suspended and adrift, he worked to make this man walk on his two feet, and work with his hands, and think with his head. Our enlighteners turned to action, and our workers—deprived, narcotized and oblivious, deceived and far from the scene, and deprived of these great prophets of their age, prophets who are superior to the prophets of the Children of Israel. But alas! But alas, the people who needed light more than anything were deprived of light, and instead, they found martyrs. Martyrs who, in our history, culture, and faith, are not few, but rather many, more than any other community or nation. But it was this ignorance that abandoned these masses around the tomb of every martyr who fell in every corner, every region, every mountain, valley, desert, and village of this land, in the manner of pagan idolaters circumambulating unknown idols, and what they seek from them are vows, supplications, and womanly, childish, and ignorant demands. In any case, at a time when this thought, more than ever, needed the light of the intellectuals and the love of the masses, and this light and this love were at the highest moments of their manifestation, our gaze was deprived of both, or at least received little of either..." Collected Works 27 / Return to Iranian-Islamic Identity / p. 258

The purpose of citing this statement is to mention the fact that a conversation about the armed struggle of the 1340s–1350s, with its subsequent actualization, was and remains necessary. A society that, in Shariati's words, does not need martyrs, but needs light.

It is that very absence of light and awareness that has actualized and perpetuated the two-hemistich verse of violence in our contemporary history. And of course, this same contemporary history showed that many of those who opened their path with weapons not only did not become soldiers of violence, but rather became its victims, and perhaps soldiers of freedom. (Mandela, for armed sabotage, remained in prison for years and was considered a top-tier terrorist. But far from becoming a soldier of violence, he became the Gandhi of the Blacks.) And most importantly, it showed that, on the contrary, many of those who initially opposed armed struggle, as it happens, not only did not join the ranks of lovers of non-violence, but became its innovators.

History is a useful mediator, and if it has any application, it is this: breaking taboos, understanding and explaining the reasons for totems. Recognizing memories, and spreading the umbrella of history over them. One cannot wage war in Gandhi's name. One cannot issue manifestos under the guise of research. Respect for memories is a precondition for historical understanding.

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Article Title: Armed Struggle, Between Totem and Taboo

Author: Susan Shariati

Subject: On Armed Struggle

Publication Date: 1 Ordibehesht 1393

Source: Andisheh Pouya | Issue 15

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