Timothy Cebuliak paper

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Dividing Lines: Competing Masculinities Within the World of Arab Music

Mary Douglas gives particular attention to the idea of social categorization in her book Purity and Danger. “It is [her] belief that people really do think of their own social environment as consisting of other people joined or separated by lines which must be respected” (1966: 138). What happens when these lines are crossed? Douglas asserts that the social barriers of society protect certain sub-groups from being “polluted” by other sub-groups (139). These sub-groups are essentially a product of society. The pollution she speaks of is not biologically threatening as might be a toxic chemical, however, it is indeed socially threatening. Douglas’s idea is applicable to many other systems, but in particular, it is interesting to apply her idea of social marginalization to the appearance of subdivisions of masculinities within the context of Arabic music. Over time, certain sub-groups of the Arabic male have developed, each with unique functions from the next, yet also similar in certain respects. These socially categorized men, including (but not limited to) the mukhannath, eunuch, mutrib, and shaykh, have carried distinct musical functions, and over time they have been received with varying levels of social acceptance. Could their degree of social acceptance and corresponding musical influence be associated with their adherence to certain masculine ideals? How do the two concepts – music and masculinity – interact?

Farid al-Atrash and Masculinity

In “Building a Man on Stage,” writer Sherifa Zuhur asserts that one of the reasons for Arabic singing star Farid al-Atrash's success was his close connection with masculinity. Zuhur states that “the various facets of Farid al-Atrash elevate him as a model for masculinity in the region – poetic bard, brother, son, lover, gambler, immigrant, and success story…” (2003: 290). She explains that this popular musician and composer harnessed much success throughout his career, establishing himself as the “model of the male romantic star” (276). But what made him stand apart from other musicians? Along with his remarkable musical abilities, could his strong association with certain masculine ideals have been a contributing factor to musical stardom?


Zuhur notes that the “interest in masculinity and men’s studies in the Middle Eastern or Islamic context is fairly recent, if growing.” However, she explores how some may define masculinity in one particular Arabic context, and perhaps this definition might generalize, at least to a certain extent, to other parts of the Arab World:


"[She reviews the] Druze ideas of masculinity, which are similar to the ideals of tribal Arab groups: possessing a code of chivalry (muruwwa) requiring familial loyalty, protection and maintenance of the honor of female members of the family, enmity to ill-intended outsiders, and prior to state interference, the expression of strong class divisions within their own society (280)"


The notion of division emerges within Zurhur’s description of masculinity, and Douglas would likely argue that a type of social “pollution” occurs when lines dividing class or gender are crossed. Over time, lines of separation have been created within the context of male Arabic musicians, and not all musically gifted men have received the same degree of success and acceptance as that received by musicians like al-Atrash. Could this varying level of success somehow correlate with these musicians’ representation (or by the same token, mis-representation) of masculinity? Although his contributions to the world of Arabic music are more recent than those of Pre-Islamic times, perhaps it was al-Atrash’s successful representation of certain masculine ideals that – in part – sustained his career.

The Mukhannath and Effeminacy

Male musicians of such great talent have not always been as well received as al-Atrash. Although information describing the Early Islamic mukhannathun is scarce, evidence suggests that these men were particular gifted. They drew in appreciative audiences, and were valued for their “charm” (Rowson, 1991: 679, 681-83). In addition to Rowson’s well-varied descriptions and anecdotes that speak to their particular talent as musicians, they were also “witty” and “delightful” men (679). However, as a consequence of their categorization as a certain type of effeminate man, they were rejected by many. Rowson’s article title, “The Effeminates of Early Medina,” aptly describes how these men were categorized within Early Islamic times. Although biologically male, their personas were characterized by certain feminine qualities, yet the specifics of their effeminacy are not clear due to “our meager sources on pre-Islamic music” which “refer almost exclusively to women” (671). As the mukhannathun blurred the line between masculinity and femininity, Douglas would argue that they may have somehow represented an intermediary state of gender, and as such were perceived as dangerous because they could not be clearly categorized by others.


The mukhannathun also represented a state of transition on another level, which likely served to further alienate them from others. Owen Wright, as cited by Rowson, suggests that the mukhannathun represented “‘an intermediate, transitional stage in the transfer from a female-dominated to a male-dominated profession’” (671). Thus, these men were likely rejected not only as a result of their gender ambiguity, but because they represented a middle ground in the transition of a female-dominated musical space to a male-dominated musical space. Wright also associates the mukhannathun with the concept of gender mixing, and it is this form of integration that was perhaps the most threatening to the Medinese society under which the musicians lived. In contrast to other males, who could not be in close proximity to females’ quarters, the mukhannathun had a “unique social position” (677). They were permitted to be in close proximity to females, a relationship that others found to be threatening. This unusual access to spaces of femininity was not consistent with the access a typical man would have possessed, and many men viewed the unique relationship – that shared by females and the mukhannathun – with jealousy.


The mukhannathun thus endured a high degree of maltreatment. Coupled with their effeminate mannerisms, their accessibility to spaces of femininity – according to Douglas – could have also been perceived as a threat because it was a bridge between two clearly defined gender categories: male and female. These men thus crossed lines that other men could not cross. Douglas would have described the mukhannathun as in a transitional state on both a gender level and a social level, and because “danger lies in transitional states,” these men – regrettably – endured a large amount of persecution as a consequence of their perceived threat (Douglas, 1966: 96). Certain singers were castrated, a form of punishment that is incomprehensible to many today (690). In addition, the mukhannathun were “grouped separately from the other Medinese male musicians,” and Rowson notes that certain men received twenty lashes for falsely accusing someone as a mukhannath (673, 681). Even derogatory terms were associated with the mukhannathun, such as “baghgh’un,” which categorized them as lower social class citizens (685-86).


Although there are accounts of appreciative audiences, demonstrating a certain degree of societal acceptance, it would be difficult to argue that the mukhannathun were in any way appreciated or nurtured by society as a whole. Rowson’s evidence of physical punishment (castration), banishment, and derogatory language directed at these men pieces together an underlying theme of social rejection. The mukhannathun were male musicians of great talent, who may have not “suffered” such “a major blow” if they had been properly encouraged and nurtured by those with whom they came into contact (692). Little information is available about the fate of this group of men after Caliph Sulayman orders certain mukhannathun to be castrated (690). The mukhannathun went against the grain of what the Early Islamic time period likely defined as masculine conduct, and their musical talents were thus overlooked by many. Their adoption of more effeminate characteristics marked them as a group of lower status men, and although their talents may have equaled those of a singer like al-Atrash, they did not receive an equal level of societal embracement.

The Empowered Eunuch

Similar to the mukhannathun, certain eunuchs during the Early Islamic time period functioned as musicians, but they also performed duties beyond that of music-making. Because they frequently acted as guardians of women, they also shared a similar closeness to feminine spaces as that shared by the mukhannathun. Yet in contrast to the suspicion that caliph Sulayman viewed toward certain mukhannathun, in her discussion of eunuchs at the court of Abbasid caliph al-Muqtadir, Nadia El-Cheikh asserts that eunuchs were seen as “safe to have around females,” and does not provide evidence that their unique social positioning evoked contention from other men (2005: 249). Eunuchs were stripped of their masculinity – at least at the physical level. By definition, a eunuch is a castrated man. Therefore, is it possible that because of their physical nature they were perceived as less sexually threatening than the mukhannathun? Although some mukhannathun were eventually castrated, this procedure was used as punishment. In contrast, the reverse sequence seems to have occurred with the eunuch, suggesting that through the process of castration a eunuch might then be assigned to fulfill a particular social function, a function that was not limited to music-making.


Could it then be argued that eunuchs had a more firmly established and stable role, than that of the mukhannath, because they were specifically chosen to fulfill certain functions beyond that of music-making? In El-Cheikh’s discussion of black eunuch Muflih, there is a sense of empowerment that emerges as the eunuch fulfills certain non-musical roles and responsibilities. Muflih was a messenger for the court of the Abbasid caliph al-Muqtadir (295-320/908-932), and as such had direct access to a place of power within the palace. He was in close contact with the caliph, and according to El-Cheikh, was regarded as “high in favor,” one who had “important public functions” (250). Muflih was able to influence the caliph politically because of his unique position in society. El-Cheikh also notes that the caliph had “confidence” in him, suggesting that the ties between Muflih and the caliph were strong (248). Although physically emasculated, Muflih was politically and socially empowered. He and other eunuchs had “precious access…to the caliph in his private quarters, the harem, when everyone else – all the other men, that is – did not” (247).


It is not clear to what extent the mukhannath functioned beyond the scope of entertainment and music, but El-Cheikh asserts that the eunuch had a broad range of non-musical social responsibilities. “Eunuchs were involved in mediating, brokering, and transmitting messages,” and were responsible for “mediations and transactions across boundaries” (249). Similar to the mukhannathun, who moved between spaces of masculinity and femininity, El-Cheikh describes eunuchs as “go-betweens” (249). However, although both groups of men were in some way a variation from the typical male – at the very least, the eunuch physically and the mukhannath as perceived by others to be effeminate – it was the eunuch who received a much higher level of social embracement. Kathryn Ringrose, as cited by El-Cheikh, argues that “eunuchs stood ‘as the antithesis to elite masculinity, and as a reminder that gender organizes relationships of power among men as much as between men and women’” (250). Yet this stripping of masculinity awarded the eunuch – the “ultimate outsider” – a position of political power. Eunuchs like Muflih were able to develop a strong relationship with the caliph, a relationship that society viewed with great desire (250).

Comparing Masculinities

Literature focusing on the function of early male Arabic musicians is scarce, and a historical comparison of masculinities in the Arab world is a subject worthy of further research. The male mutrib has, over time, established himself as “one who creates tarab;” it is a categorization that is clearly connected with certain musicians. For example, Zuhur notes that singer Farid al-Atrash – a twentieth century musician – is one who “deserve[s]” this status (2003: 278). To be “deserving” of such a title implies that it is desirable, yet it is important to note that under certain circumstances the term may not imply such a high level of attraction. In “Words and Music in Beirut: A Study of Attitudes,” A. J. Racy notes that although the “word may allude favorably to competence and recognition….it can [also] be less complimentary and even negative” (1986: 419). With this less positive association in mind, Zuhur notes that historically, the male musician was viewed as an outsider:


"…The male entertainer in Arab and Muslim society tended to be either a slave or…possibly a member of an outgroup such as the mizayyin of the Bani Khums in Yemen…[but] by the twentieth century, entertainers derived from the lower, lower-middle, and middle classes (280)."


The mukhannath were part of an “outgroup” because their more effeminate personas challenged historical definitions of masculinity. But more recently (in the twentieth century), Zahur even notes that musically gifted men have “confronted social attitudes disparaging entertainers,” resulting in many adopting “stage names” (280) and facing “parental disapproval” (281). This social disapproval resembles that of the rejection encountered by the mukhannathun, and although it does not appear to be as severe, it may indeed be symptomatic of a more deeply rooted social perception: one that associates music with something threatening. Might this association, in some cases, be femininity? This does not in any way suggest that masculine attributes are in anyway superior to feminine attributes, but instead suggests that anything that compromises the categorical lines that divide the two genders – masculine and feminine – might be perceived as, in Douglas’s words, “dangerous” (96). Could a mutrib then be compelled to overexpose his more masculine characteristics to somehow offset his musical side – a creative outlet that some may link with femininity?


“The male artist or musician,” Zuhur notes, “holds a unique position in this regard: as compared to the king or warrior archetype, creativity is necessary to his primary function” (280). She then draws a parallel between creativity and femininity, and explains that Swiss psychiatrist Karl Jung who argued that his ideas could be applied universally, believed that the “ideal man” would adapt something he referred to as “Parsifal’s quest,” a personal journey that “would enable [him] to recover his anima, his feminine artistic/creative side (or in Goethe’s terms, to serve his inner woman, or muse)” (280). Zuhur notes that historically creativity was not necessarily associated with femininity, but what about more recently? Is it possible that this relationship has shifted directions over the course of the twentieth century? Perhaps in a society where lines between masculine and feminine roles are so deeply rooted, anything that blurs these lines is perceived as a threat. Just as the mukhannathun were viewed with suspicion because of their unique access to spaces of femininity, perhaps – with Jung’s association of music and femininity in mind – some may view music-making as a threat to masculinity because it represents a crossing over of two gender ideologies. A twentieth century mutrib such as al-Atrash may have encountered much success, yet it is possible that his connection with music – something that Jung would associate with femininity – was viewed by others, even himself, as a threat to masculinity. As Zuhur shows, Al-Atrash adopted a very masculine lifestyle. She argues that his success was accompanied with “his assertion of other masculine virtues,” she writes, including “gambling, carousing, and socializing in the world of men (289). This talented singer, a mutrib of tremendous skill, was also a “model for masculinity” (290). He “injected his musical work with a particular image of masculinity” (290). Considering Zahur’s arguments, is it possible that this man adopted a lifestyle defined by masculinity to ensure that his musical talents in no way compromised his male gender role?

Shaykh: The Voice of Experience

Although this comparison of Arabic masculinities has not focused on a particular time period, it nevertheless might offer insight into the relationship between men and music. If the mukhannathun, eunuch, and mutrib were placed on a continuum of perceived levels of masculinity, most would argue that none of these three categorizations could overshadow that of the shaykh. The title of shaykh essentially identifies a man as a revered elder, yet many shaykhs also functioned and continue to function as readers of the Qur’an; thus, by extension, a shaykh may well be musically gifted. Although “attempts have been made to regulate…the sound of Qur’anic recitation itself in an effort to keep the recitation separate from music,” the two categories – music and text – ultimately overlap (Nelson, 1982: 41). Therefore, many shaykhs who recite the Qur’an, in effect, draw from the “power of music,” Nelson argues, “to heighten the listener’s emotional participation in the recitation…thus involving the listener more completely in the experience” (41). Shaykhs are highly regarded and respected within Islamic societies because of their understood religious wisdom. In his discussion of the male life cycle, Richard Antoun also notes that for one particular Arab village, the title of shaykh marks the end of the male life cycle. It is a period of time when a man receives a “mark of advanced public standing” (1967: 296). Antoun explains that if a man “turns to religious devotions, adopts a dignified and sober demeanor, and assumes the dress befitting it, a beard and a Bedawin toga, he will probably be addressed as shaykh by all who meet him” (1967: 296). Apparently rooted in wisdom and experience, shaykhs then represent a resilient form of masculinity – one that has undergone the test of time.


The man who is ultimately addressed as a shaykh closely reflects many other masculine qualities. The beard that he has grown – like that of some Jews and Greek orthodox priests – serves to underscore his masculinity. In many traditions, the cutting of hair might be regarded as a form of effeminacy, and as such, the growing of facial hair represents masculinity at its full potential. It would be interesting to further compare the physical characteristics – clothing, facial hair, etc. – of the two groups of men that most noticeably conflict with one another at the level of perceived masculinity: the mukhannath and the shaykh. Rowson mentions that when one mukhannath, Ibn Nughash, makes a joke about Qur’an recitation, he is subsequently executed (680). This interaction represents a conflict between two worlds – the religious and the secular – yet might it also represent a conflict between masculinities: the more effeminate mukhannath versus the shaykh? Perhaps this conflict becomes more pronounced if we compare the level of social embracement that is associated with various categorizations of the male Arab. In one Arab village, Antoun explains that shaykhs are “well known and will always be assured of appropriate hospitality in any village of the area” (297). However, this welcoming attitude must be contrasted with the mukhannathun – a group of men whose encounters with society as a whole did not parallel the high degree of warmth that Antoun associates with shaykhs.

From Lines to Spaces

Across time, the mukhannath, mutrib, and certain eunuchs and shaykhs functioned as music-makers. Taken collectively, many were arguably musically gifted, yet despite their core artistic talents, why were some embraced more than others? During the Early Islamic time period, a mukhannath and a shaykh might have had equally captivating voices, yet to some one was perceived as a threat, while the other was highly regarded by society as a whole. Despite religious distinctions between the two groups, could this varying level of embracement be explained by varying levels of perceived masculinity? Douglas asserts that people create dividing lines amongst themselves – lines that must be “respected” (138). When these lines are crossed, when spaces defined by either masculinity or femininity begin to overlap, there is – according to Douglas – danger. Because it is people who have created such lines, will people be able to dissolve them? String players are often encouraged to be aware of the spaces between their fingers as opposed to the fingers themselves. This undertaking involves a shift in focus from the fingers (the lines) to the spaces between them, and with it, intonation almost always improves. Perhaps we should also shift our focus to the spaces, a shift that might initiate a pattern of thinking that is directed toward inclusions and accommodations, rather than exclusions and divisions.


Audiovisual

Singer Farid al-Atrash

Male Belly Dancers

Jamil

Mousbah

Tito

Bibliography

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Antoun, Richard T. 1967. “Social Organization and the Life Cycle in an Arab Village.” Ethnology, 6(3), 294-308.

Ayalon, D. 1985. “On the Term ‘Khadim’ in the Sense of ‘Eunuch’ in the Early Muslim Sources.” Arabica, 32(3), 289-308.

Danielson, V. 1990. “ ‘Min al-Mashayikh:’ A View of Egyptian Musical Tradition.” Asian Music, 22(1), 113-127.

Douglas, M. 1966. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd.

El-Cheikh, N. M. 2005. “Servants at the Gate: Eunuchs at the Court of al-Muqtadir.” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient. 48(2), 234-252.

El-Shawan, Saiwa. 1982. “The Role of Mediators in the Transmission of Al-Musika al-Arabiyyah in Twentieth Century Cairo.” Yearbook for Traditional Music, 14, 55-74.

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Rowson, E. 1991. “The Effeminates of Early Medina.” Journal of the American Oriental Society, 111(4), 671-693.

Racy, A. J. 1981. “Music in Contemporary Cairo: A Comparative Overview.” Asian Music, 13(1), 4-26.

Racy, A. J. 1986. “Words and Music in Beirut: A Study of Attitudes.” Ethnomusicology, 30(3), 413-427.

Zuhur, Sherifa. 2003. “Building a Man on Stage: Masculinity, Romance, and Performance according to Farid al-Atrash.” Men and Masculinities, 5(3), 275-294.