Long appreciated for its combination of lyric charm and mordant wit, Ibn Shuhayd al-Andalusi's (992–1035) Risalat al-tawabiʿ wa-l-zawabiʿ (Epistle of Attendant Jinn and Whirling Demons), as I have argued recently, also offers a sophisticated treatise on poetic influence and inspiration. Composed around 1013–17, the epistle consists of the young poet's highly ironic and parodic defense against accusations of plagiarism leveled by one Abu Bakr ibn Hazm. The epistle, as edited by Butrus al-Bustani, is divided into an introduction and four chapters on the attendant jinn of poets, the attendant jinn of writers (kuttāb), the jinn of critics, and animal jinn. These are held together by the conceit of a visit by Ibn Shuhayd, conducted by his own attendant jinni (“poetic muse”), Zuhayr, to the Valley of the Jinn. During what I have termed his “initiatory journey,” Ibn Shuhayd encounters and tests himself against his major poetic and literary influences, attends a literary majlis, and finally is asked to serve as judge for the poetry of a group of asses and mules (presumably the jinn of his contemporaries/competitors). The journey, however parodic and humorous, provides a revealing allegory of the poet–littérateur's struggles with his poetic and literary forebears, critics, and competitors on the one hand and his individual poetic “genius” on the other hand.

This luster bowl, made by the Persian potter Abu Zayd in February–March 1204 (Jumada II 600), exemplifies the broad range of questions that can be raised by Islamic art. The first question is that of provenance. The bowl appeared on the art market in 2001, unknown and undocumented but in virtually perfect condition. A battery of tests supports its authenticity. Jonathan Bloom and I included it in the exhibition Cosmophilia: Islamic Art from the David Collection, Copenhagen, which we organized for the McMullen Museum, Boston College, and which was on view until 20 May 2007 at the Smart Museum, University of Chicago. However, we are in the dark about where the bowl has been in the eight centuries since it was made.

Under Ottoman rule, the relations between native Arabs and Jews in Palestine were based on understanding and respect, as was the case between Muslims and Christians. Shared enrolment of Jewish, Muslim, and Christian students in the same schools—either the Jewish Alliance Israelite schools (established in 1882) or in the nizamiyya, the Ottoman public schools first established by the Turkish law of 1869—promoted mutual understanding for a small elite. In contrast, the British Mandate policy in education played a major role in reshaping national, regional, and class and gender identities. It was through education that two separate national entities were developed, the urban/rural division was deepened, class boundaries were rendered unbridgable, and gender identities were molded to suit the British model.

The short answer to the question as posed is, Yes, of course, 9/11 changed the field of Middle East studies. However, the next question we need to ask is, In what ways have the events of 9/11 (and all that they set in motion, in the United States and internationally, including the U.S. invasion of Iraq) actually affected our work as scholars, students, teachers, resource specialists, and so forth, whose primary focus is the Middle East and/or the Muslim world, as well as the institutions, networks, and field(s) with which we are engaged? Space limitations allow me to offer only a few brief thoughts.

Although it may be too early to determine whether the events of 9/11 will significantly transform key questions and analytic approaches driving research and teaching in the field of Middle East studies (MES), we can say with certainty that 9/11 has dramatically affected the political and institutional environments within which this research and teaching takes place in the United States. Thus, “impact” or “change” must be evaluated across three distinct yet interrelated arenas: (1) the quotidian environment in which scholars, teachers, and students conduct their activities; (2) the varied institutional architectures through which research and teaching on the Middle East are undertaken inside and outside the university; and (3) the long-term intellectual history of the field.

Few Islamic concepts have undergone as radical a semantic shift over the past couple of centuries as ijtihād. This Arabic term, confined for centuries to sophisticated works of legal theory (uṣūl al-fiqh), has been liberated and transformed into the handmaiden of modern Muslim reformists throughout the world. Numerous Western scholars have investigated either the classical legal ijtihād of the first definition above or the modern employment of ijtihād among reformists encapsulated in the second, succinct gloss of this word. Valuable studies have been published on topics ranging from the relationship between ijtihād and writing fatwas (iftāء) to the so-called “closure of the gate of ijtihād” to the role of ijtihād in 19th- and 20th-century reform movements. In short, ijtihād is ubiquitous in modern studies and formulations of Islam.

Compiled in 987–88, Ibn al-Nadim's work al-Fihrist (The Catalogue) needs little introduction to scholars of Middle Eastern and Islamic history. Countless specialized studies have used the Fihrist as a source of data. Because it includes the titles of a large number of works that are no longer extant, as well as biographical information on little-known early authors, it throws light on otherwise obscure facets of medieval Islamic intellectual history in many fields. Choice anecdotes, such as the account of al-Maءmun's (r. 813–33) conversation with Aristotle in a dream, considered to have triggered the translation movement, have been quoted in numerous studies. Little attention has been paid, however, to Ibn al-Nadim as a thinker, despite the fact that the Fihrist, like Dewey's decimal system, is as much an exercise in mapping out the organization of human knowledge as a simple inventory of book titles. The following remarks focus first on the methods Ibn al-Nadim adopted in compiling the Fihrist and second on the arguments he makes about the history of Islamic sciences, in many cases not explicitly but through order, presentation, and the calculus of inclusion and exclusion, emphasis and de-emphasis. Particular attention will be paid to the Islamic legal madhhabs and theological schools. Determining Ibn al-Nadim's views on these topics, as an Imami Shiʿi and Muʿtazili theologian, promises to provide a better understanding of his conception of the Islamic sciences, the overall message of his work, and Islamic intellectual history itself.

The growing gap in power and wealth between the West and the Muslim world from the end of the 18th century onward has engendered periodic demands for the rejuvenation of Islamic thought as a prerequisite for rehabilitating the status of the Muslim community. In Egypt and the Fertile Crescent, this quest for reform was led by Muslim modernists and Salafis (advocates of a return to ancestral piety and practice) in the late 19th century. Inter alia, these reformists opposed the gatekeepers of Islamic tradition—the establishment ʿulamaء as well as the popular Sufi orders or fraternities (ṭuruq). The Sufi orders were portrayed by their reformist adversaries as at best irrelevant to social change and at worst as responsible for the backwardness of Muslim society. Criticism of customs and ceremonies in popular Islam, especially the cult of saints—denounced as a deviation from Islam—also had nationalist overtones: these rituals were attacked for fostering national passivity and a detachment from reality, in addition to eliciting ridicule by foreigners. Religious reform was thus interwoven with the quest for national pride and power.

These words, which were written by the unnamed editor of the book Duʿat la Qudat (Preachers Not Judges), summarize the Society of the Muslim Brothers' (Jamʿiyya al-Ikhwan al-Muslimin) prison discourse in the late 1960s. The writer claims that once the organization became aware that radical ideas had surfaced in its midst, it objected to these ideas, even as it lived through the very context of their germination, namely Gamal Abdel Nasser's prisons.

On 4 February 1934, the secretary-general of the Republican People's Party (RPP) received an utterly distressed letter penned by Kerimoğlu Ethem, a young waiter employed at the restaurant of Şakir Usta, located in the small western Anatolian town of Bergama. Ethem's letter contained harsh complaints about the head of the RPP's Bergama branch, who had sworn at the waiter and beaten him because of a minor problem with service. “Except a few loyal supporters, no one likes him in Bergama,” wrote Ethem, “but people are afraid of raising complaints against him as he is the head of the party. I write to inform you about this immoral man, who degrades the esteem of the party in Bergama and openly defies the government's authority.” Upon receiving Ethem's letter, the secretary-general immediately ordered party inspectors to investigate the allegations. Ethem's complaint was just one among many that flooded the secretary-general's mailbox during the early 1930s.