al-Bātin, al-Walī, al-Zāhir

Regimes of Silence and Voicing

in Muslim Toronto

by

Alia O’Brien

University of Toronto
 This paper is a part of my dissertation project in which I follow the trajectories of

several contiguous and heterodox Muslim groups in the city of Toronto, and unravel the

ways in which they use sound and listening to at once cultivate personal, inward-looking

spiritual practices, and a more outward-feeling sense of belonging to a variegated local

network of Muslim spaces and institutions. In the vast majority of these spaces,

conversations about faith, service, justice, advocacy, local politics, global current events,

and everyday life are woven into the discursive fabric at hand. Across this network of

spaces, fricative, disjunctive encounters are common, but do not rule out the possibility of

profound moments of camaraderie and understanding across difference; such is the nature

of the ummah—that is, a theoretical or imagined global community that encompasses all

Muslims.

The chapter that I discuss in this paper addresses the important roles that silence

and voicing play in the lives of Muslim-identifying people who live in Toronto, focusing

on the ways in which individuals’ divergent ideas about these two categories of sound

inform their decisions to dwell in different sorts of sacred spaces.

I begin with a description of the (relatively) orthodox Jerrahi Sufi dergah

(meeting place) where women practice communal zikr (a ritual for the remembrance of

God) behind a curtain, shrouded in silence, embodying the divine quality of al-bātin

(interiority, hiddenness) in the manner of the many women that walked their spiritual

path before them.

I then home in on the experiences of Imran, a queer-identifying person who has

spent a great deal of time and thought searching for a space in which they feel

comfortable practicing their faith. I suggest that many such individuals' efforts to seek out

non-segregated, polyvocal, LGBTIQ Muslim spaces are informed by their desires to

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voice their faith. In such spaces, discourses surrounding silence and the voice are

connected to contemporary queer rights activism, and are perhaps best exemplified by the

motto of the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power: Silence = Death. Here, voicing is thought

to be essential for realizing the divine attribute of al-Walī (the protecting friend), whereas

silence often denotes both an erasure of self and a failure to advocate for others.

Alternatively, in the more orthodox Sufi space, the poïetic embodiment of the practices of

one’s silsila (spiritual lineage or ancestry) often takes precedence over the consideration

of agency in a liberal-humanistic sense, and this, too, can be heard in the sonorous order-

of-things.

Sufi orders began to emerge between the tenth and twelfth centuries, and the

network of Sufi orders is often illustrated and spoken about as branching out non-

uniformly in a shajarah (tree) of tarikatlar/turuq (paths). Here, the trunk of the tree might

be thought of as the Grand Shaykh, or founder, of a particular path, and the unfurling

branches represent subsequent shaykhs and their teachings, who then guide aspiring

dervishes (followers of the sufi path).

However, this branching out is not a wholly neat process, and participating in

multiple paths is possible, and, moreover, quite common, although it typically happens

relatively quietly. As one of the shaykhs that I encountered in my research discussed

during a sermon: “I encourage my dervishes to visit other Sufi spaces and get a taste of

other paths before they take hand, in order for them to be sure that this path is the right

one for them.” Sound is often used by people to navigate the multicursal labyrinth that is

Muslim Toronto, and to determine which spaces feel to be comfortable and safe arenas in

which to do the often difficult—and uncomfortable—work of spiritual self-making.

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 Such guiding sounds include “silence” and “the voice,” two “acoustemological”

(Feld 1996) categories that take on distinct meanings and uses depending on a seemingly

endless confluence of factors; including the listening agents perceived to be present—

including both human and suprahuman agents such as angels or spirits, the social rules—

both spoken and unspoken—of the space in question, the emotional state of those present,

current events on both local and global scales, and the list goes on (see Tweed 2008: 72).

Given the variables at play, is apparent that an interpretive model makes little

sense for the purposes of my project—instead, I look toward more practice- and

phenomenologically-oriented methodologies for thinking about the ways in which my

interlocutors use sound to navigate their lives—in particular, I was inspired by

geographer and religious studies scholar Thomas Tweed’s work on Cuban shrines in

Miami, where he discusses is interlocutors’ religiosity using the concepts of crossing—

that is, itinerancy—and dwelling—that is, home-making.

He articulates that “religious [people] make meaning and negotiate power as they

appeal to contested historical traditions of storytelling, object making, and ritual

performance in order to make homes (dwelling) and cross boundaries (crossing).

Religions, in other words, involve finding one’s place and moving through space. One of

the imperfections the religious confront is that they are always in danger of being

disoriented. Religions, in turn, orient in time and space. […] We can understand religions

as always-contested and ever- changing maps that orient devotees as they move spatially

and temporally. Religions are partial, tentative, and continually redrawn sketches of

where we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re going” (Tweed 2006: 74).

Although Tweed notes that cartographic models can be limiting, they can be

useful so long as we don’t imagine them as fixed—in this way, I wish to imagine in

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conjunction with Tweed’s model a tree—a sounded shajarah—with branches and roots

constantly growing and overlapping, in order to more -emically think about the ways in

which sounds are used by my interlocutors in order to orient (and re-orient) themselves.

Al-Batin: “Silence,” Qalbi Zikr, and Suprahuman Agents

In many iterations of Muslim practice, there exists a reverence for qalbi (silent, or

from the heart—qalbi) acts of zikr/dhikr (remembrance of God), and this mode of piety is

often placed above lisani (voiced, of the tongue) zikr. For instance, Shah Naqshband (of

the Naqshbandi order, noted in particular for their silent zikr) said: “there are two

methods of dhikr; one is silent and one is loud. I chose the silent one because it is

stronger and therefore more preferable” (Kabbani 2004: 31). Similarly, a hadith of A’isha

(wife of the Prophet Muhammad) states that “the dhikr not heard by the recording angels

equals seventy times the one they hear” (Ibid: 52). Here, it should be mentioned that, in

any given group zikr, there is a moment, toward the end, when angels observe and

document the zikr. Silent zikr, here, is not audible to the angels, and therefore not

recorded. Thus, silent zikr is thought to be an un-performative and deeply personal mode

of reflection upon the divine, and this hinges upon the acute awareness the presence of

suprahuman agents.

On a practical level, silent zikr can actually be broken down into two distinct

forms: the first being a wholly silent remembrance of God enacted by “thinking” the

names of God, or the phrase la illaha Il-allah (there is no God but [the one] God) in one’s

head, and the second being an extremely quiet mode of voicing “Allah” and “la ilaha

illallah” using one’s breath, akin to, but not identical to, a whisper. It is often only

through the practice of all of voiced zikr, and with permission or an invitation from one’s

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Shaykh, that one might begin to practice silent zikr in communal settings, the goal of

which is to become a so-called “living heart”—that is, to develop a heart that is

constantly in a state of zikr.

Interestingly, in Sufi spaces in which men and women are separated—the Jerrahi

centre being one such space—women are often expected to enact their zikr silently, even

during group zikr events. This does not always happen in practice, however (see field

notes from 2008-2010, 2013, and 2015). Regardless, women’s silences in Muslim spaces

are often heard through the lens (filter?) of more conservative interpreters and thinkers of

the Quran and Hadith, who have often equated women’s stillness and silences with the

value of religious calmness […] while, conversely, perceiving dance and singing as

“religion-destroying” acts of sensuality (Van Nieuwkerk 2011: 20). It is an interesting

exercise, then, to also approach womens’ silences in more orthodox gender-segregated

Sufi contexts using the reverence of silence as a touchstone—indeed, this is how nearly

all of the women that I spoke with who are affiliated with Jerrahi communities in both

Toronto and New York described their embrace of silence, quietude, and separateness

both in personal and collective acts of zikr. In several conversations, my interlocutors

referenced Sufi scholar Ibn al-‘Arabi’s Book on Majesty and Beauty, which likens God’s

jamal (beauty) and jalal (majesty) elements to femininity and masculinity, and,

respectively, hiddenness (al-batin) and manifestation (al-zahir).

In what are perceived by members of the Jerrahi community to be more

“traditional” practices, majesty is connected to the concept of visibility or manifestation,

while beauty is linked to un-manifestation and the hidden realm (Gentile-Koren 2007: 65,

Elias 1988). In zikr formations, manifestation can be heard in the openness and visibility

of the men’s zikr. Contrastingly, women typically take on a hidden role in a mixed-

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gender zikr, both by wearing a veil (hijab) over their hair, by sitting behind a veil or

lattice, and by remaining behind the men, theoretically out of their eyesight, embodying

in the present the to quality of interiority passed on to them the women in their spiritual

lineage that came before them. Indeed, in the Jerrahi space, the weight given to

nonhuman entities—be they angels or their spiritual predecessors—is wholly audible.

Al-Wali: Between Silence = Death and Silence = Protection

Imran grew up attending Masjid Al-Farooq in the western Greater Toronto Area,

where their family still goes. They are queer-identifying, and not out to all of their family

members. It should briefly be noted that Imran is an assemblage of multiple interlocutors

whose names and identifying details have been obscured for sake of anonymity. After

relocating to downtown Toronto, Imran now frequents a casual Sufi-affiliated prayer

circle that is an openly LGBTIQ+ positive space but which, for the protection of those

who attend it, is very careful about broadcasting its location (which, for safety’s sake,

changes from time to time), and its membership. On an infrequent basis, Imran attends

this group; some of their family members are aware of this fact, but, due to the fact that a

handful of their family members have threatened to come to teach the prayer group about

how “real” Islam should be practiced, Imran has kept details about the prayer group—

including its location—private.

In an informal interview, they spoke to me about the role that sound played in

their decision to cross over their family’s mosque, and dwell in this new prayer space:

At the mosque that I used to attend, and that my family still attends, if I had a question
about my faith or practice, I had to write it down on a piece of paper, which would get
forwarded to the Imam. There was no direct conversation; he never heard my voice, but I

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 heard his. It was an alienating experience. I love this space because everyone has a voice,
conversation is casual, people listen and are heard, there is less of a hierarchy (Fieldnotes
May 2016).

For Imran, and other members of this and other similar prayer groups in Toronto, silence

and voicing occur as nodes on a continuum of power where silence, in certain

circumstances, indicates for some an absence or lack of voice, which, in the case of

Imran’s family’s mosque, Imran felt to be an imposition from above, rather than a

personal decision. For many individuals that operate in queer activist networks across the

city, silence is often taken on as a metaphor for erasure and institutional violence. This

sonorous line of thought can by linked a project called Silence = Death, although it is by

no means solely bound to this particular movement.

The Silence = Death project was a political and artistic movement founded during

the first wave of the AIDS crisis in the United States in the 1980s. In its manifesto, it was

declared that “silence about the oppression and annihilation of gay people, then and now,

must be broken as a matter of our survival” (Smith and Gruenfeld 2001: 273-6). So the

breaking of silence is crucial for survival. An organization that closely identified with the

Silence = Death project, ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) NY, founded by

Larry Kramer in March of 1987, became iconic for their vocal demonstrations and non-

violent direct action methods, which drew attention to central issues of the AIDS crisis.

AIDS Action Now was founded in Toronto in the same year that Kramer founded

ACT UP, and it, too, took up the Silence = Death manifesto and iconography (see

McMahon 2013, Carrera 2015). In the case of the prayer group in which Imran takes part,

many of their events are held in conjunction with Black CAP, which is an organization

whose goal is to increase HIV/AIDS education in Toronto's Black, African and

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Caribbean communities. Here, discourse around silence as a sign of social suppression

and exclusion holds strong.

The sonic structure of Imran’s prayer group, then, is undergirded by a logic that

favours polyvocality—sermons are delivered by a rotating cast of volunteers of all ages,

genders, sexual orientations, etc.—and even guests who are not practicing Muslims, and

all are encouraged to take part in the often lengthy discussions that follow the sermon.

There are minimal limits on expression; it is simply asked that no one speak over another,

and that all listen and do not pass judgment.

Indeed, while such polyvocal and safe spaces for Muslims operate using the

logics of various social-justice oriented practices, it is important to note that the meaning

and significance given to voice and listening in spaces is often also rooted in Muslim

thought and practice. There exists an informal musical group connected Imran’s prayer

circle, and one of their favourite Turkish language illahis—hymns—titled “Derman

Aradum Der-di-meh”1—“Seeking for a Remedy”—mentions the search for al-wali—a

friend. In fact, al-wali and the corresponding state of walayah (to be near something or

someone) is one of the ninety-nine names of Allah, and describes a key facet of Islamic

practice. Like all Arabic nouns, its meaning is at once opaque and variegated, and thus

open to tactical interpretation by those who use it. It may be used to describe an ally,

friend, helper, guardian, protector, patron, saint, shaykh, guide, Imam, or prophet.

In practices that I have encountered where rigid hierarchies are eschewed in

favour of more collective approaches to spiritual mentorship and pedagogy—such as in

Imran’s prayer circle—the role of al-wali—the protector, the friend—is embodied not

only by saints, prophets, one’s spiritual lineage, or one’s primary spiritual guide—be it
1
Written by Niyaz-i Mishri.

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shaykh or Imam—but also the various members of one’s community. Here, bearing

witness to the experiences of one’s friends, and allowing their voices to ring out unstifled,

is crucial.

To add a final layer to my discussion of silence and the voice, and to conclude in

a rather open-ended manner, I want to take my consideration of al-wali as the protecting

friend one step further, and talk briefly about silence as a protective device. My paper has

been deliberately opaque at the representational level—names are obscured, folded into

one another, etc.—and this is largely inspired by the practical use of protective silence in

one of the more explicitly private queer positive spaces that I worked it. Here, binaristic,

homonormative notions that identify “out” and “loud” as ideal states, and of “closeted”

and “silent,” as inherently subordinate are challenged, as, for many of my interlocutors, it

is neither safe nor desirable for them, at this particular juncture in their lives, to be out

about their queerness, or about any sort of experiences or desires which may make certain

arenas of their lives—at home, in the mosque, at the border—more difficult or less safe

(see Sedgwick 1990). Again, however, silence here is not imposed, but tactically and

electively used. Indeed, Silence = Death but it can also, in certain circumstances, equal

survival.

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Works Cited

Elias, Jamal J. 1988. “Female and Feminine in Islamic Mysticism.” In The Muslim World
77, 209-24.

Feld, Steven. 1996. “Waterfalls of Song: An Acoustemology of Place Resounding in

Bosavi, Papua New Guinea”. In Senses of Place, edited by Feld, S. and Basso, K. Santa
Fe: School of American Research Press, 91–135.

Gentile-Koren, Juliet. 2007. “The Sun Rising from the West: Perspectives on the Nur
Ashki Jerrahi Sufi Community.” Unpublished Master’s Thesis, Sarah Lawrence College.

Kabbani, Shaykh Muhammad Hisham. 2004. Classical Islam and the Naqshbandi Sufi
Tradition. Fenton: Islamic Supreme Council of America.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. 1990. Epistemology of the Closet. Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press.

Smith, Raymond A. and Kevin E. Gruenfeld. 2001. “Symbols.” In The Encyclopedia of

AIDS: A Social, Political, Cultural, and Scientific Record of the HIV Epidemic, edited by
Raymond A. Smith. Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn, 473-476.

Tweed, Thomas A. 2009. Crossing and Dwelling: A Theory of Religion. Cambridge:

Harvard University Press.

Van Nieuwkerk, Karin. 2011. Muslim Rap, Halal Soaps, and Revolutionary Theater:
Artistic Developments in the Muslim World. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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