What is a crusade? Part 2: A Response to Matt Gabriele

At the end of Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight, Batman and Commissioner Gordon make a devil’s bargain: they decide to suppress the truth, that (spoilers) DA Harvey Dent had turned into a sadistic killer, and instead, in order to prevent Dent’s ongoing case against organized crime from falling apart, they decide that Batman will take the blame for Dent’s crimes, and for killing Dent himself. Of course, in The Dark Knight Rises this lie is exposed by Bane, to the near-destruction of Gotham City. This is an instructive metaphor for the temptation facing historians when writing for the general public in The Age of Trump.

The tragic relevance of medieval historians to public discourse, as Andrew B. R. Elliott has shown, has arguably never been greater, and the medieval crusades are often at the center of this relevance (I omit the current Leeds debate and actual white supremacist ick from this calculus for now, since much of what has been said about Leeds is misled, misleading, and based in a neo-Marxist, Kafka-esque philosophy I do not subscribe to—more on that in the coming week or two). Back in May, on May 27 to be precise, a white supremacist murdered two people in Portland, Oregon, and on the evening of June 3 jihadists murdered eight people and wounded forty-eight at the London Bridge terror attack. In Portland, the attacker reportedly shouted “Hail Vinland!” right before he struck—invoking a false white supremacist claim that the Vikings had conquered North America and that North America therefore belongs to the “white race.” After London, where the attackers reportedly shouted “In the name of Allah!”, a flurry of far-right conservatives on Twitter began shouting for a revival of the medieval Crusades to destroy the religion of Islam.

In the aftermath of these atrocities, Professor Matthew Gabriele took to The Washington Post on June 6 to instruct the public in “proper” Crusades history, with an essay titled “Islamophobes want to recreate the Crusades. But they don’t understand them at all.” Matt, a well-respected professor of history at Virginia Tech and someone I’ve known for a few years now, explains why, contrary to what many conservatives think, the Crusades were not an all-out war to, as commentator James Woods put it, “obliterate these savages from the face of the earth.” This would have been an excellent point to make, had Matt stuck to history and what historians have actually written. Unfortunately, I was disappointed to see that most of the essay misrepresents what many historians actually think about the Crusades and creates a narrative that winds up rewriting the past, more sophisticatedly if somewhat less egregiously than the alt-right medieval narratives we’ve been combatting of late. Ironically, rather than having a positive impact, the essay actually serves as a recruiting tool for the white supremacists we all oppose, and feeds Republicans’ distrust of academia.

Now, I had written this up soon after the publication of the column, but had thought to let it lie, until seeing that Matt’s plans for a historians’ and journalists’ crusades symposium this coming October 13 are maturing. Since the focus seems to be on the crusades and the alt-right, and since it looks like he’s bent on presenting a…particular…picture of where most scholars stand on the crusades, I figure any journalists attending should be aware of the, shall we say, “honest mistakes” involved. Also, after he sneered at me for daring to “chastise” him (he meant “disagree”—we were having one of those emotional Twitter exchanges) for language and rhetorical tactics that sound more like Cartman from South Park than the serious historian he is, I figure I should oblige. So, here we go…

First, there are some good points. There was a fairly common, but far from universal, apocalyptic rationale among those who set out (Jay Rubenstein’s outstanding new article, though not without significant problems of its own, delves into this issue quite well). The Crusades were not wars whose intent was to wipe Islam from the face of the earth, whatever post-crusade apocalyptic hopes some people might entertain; they were mostly quite limited in their objectives. Once that point is (easily) proved, you kind of pull the plug on much Crusades “nostalgia”—except for the Knights Templar, who just refuse to die. All crusades played out against a complex political backdrop (I’ve written on the German crusade experience from this perspective), forcing both Christian and Muslim powers to look to each other for alliances on occasion—not reassuring if you’re a white supremacist searching for a historical example of “total war” against Islam! However, none of this is new, and was actually said, at greater length and with more nuance, by Nicholas Morton in March of 2017.

But second, the bad points, which is most of the essay. Matt’s description of “a simplified, misleading story of the Crusades” is actually how most Crusades historians do describe the Crusades: “primarily a Western, Christian, defensive response to Middle Eastern incursion [sic] on Christian lands.” That is literally what the First Crusade (1095-1099) was, and is how the vast majority of Crusade historians describe it because, well, that’s what the sources tell us quite plainly, especially those sources that speak directly to planning and execution. Contrary to his assertions, “scholars of the Crusades have” not “shown for several generations now” that Arab conquests had been “long forgotten” or that Latin Europe felt “very little (if any) pressure” from the Seljuk Turks, who were busy consolidating their recent conquests from the Byzantine Empire and Fatamid Caliphate. This is not a case of “the conservatives” versus “the historians,” unfortunately, but a case of not looking honestly at the historical record.

In fact, scholars have shown precisely the opposite of Matt’s claims is true. To cite four examples: Andrew Jotischky showed in 2008 that Western stories of Seljuk Turkish atrocities in Antioch, Jerusalem, and elsewhere were not tropes cynically invoked to create an enemy, but actual reports. Peter Frankopan showed conclusively in 2012 that it was the Byzantine emperor Alexios’s calls for aid against Seljuk Turkish conquests that provided the diplomatic and political basis for the First Crusade. In 2016, the most recent survey of the origins of crusading, by Paul Chevedden, sets out in exhaustive detail Pope Urban II’s vision of a sweeping counter-offensive against Muslim conquests, through missionary activity combined with military campaigns in Spain, Italy, and, eventually, to Jerusalem. Now, Chevedden’s conclusions are not themselves widely accepted by crusades scholars, and Nicholas Morton’s 2016 book Encountering Islam on the First Crusade portrays the crusade armies as pilgrims solely concerned with “clearing a path to Jerusalem,” and whose campaign has offensive and defensive features. But as Morton shows in footnoted detail in chapter 2, the impact of the Turks on the Christian, Muslim, and Hindu worlds was perceived from Kashmir to Cairo to Constantinople to Rome as very serious. Not only the (copious) surviving sources, but also the broader context, refute any supposition that the First Crusade was simply cooked up by cynical oppressive power structures determined to weaponize the religion of the simple masses against an imaginary enemy. Such cynical weaponizing of religion is an underlying theme of Matt’s piece and much of his work in general. It has considerable present merit (especially if you’re a progressive), but it is not how most historians write about the First Crusade because the sources don’t really bear that out (and I disagree with Jay Rubenstein that Jerusalem being the objective can’t be easily squared with a defensive relief effort). If anything, when looked at from the papacy’s perspective the situation bears a certain resemblance to the “Responsibility to Protect.”

Other odd errors creep into Matt’s account. In February, 2015, a very public debate took place among scholars and pundits over how to define the Crusades, especially whether they were defensive campaigns or wars of aggression, after former President Obama’s remarks at the National Prayer Breakfast. Matt misleadingly (and deliberately, there’s no other explanation for it) portrays this as conservatives-vs-historians; it was, rather, historians-versus-historians, and the progressive ones often didn’t have the better of the argument. He seems unaware of the most recent survey on 19th-century European crusades historians and how they impacted the Muslim world. Modern Crusades historians are well aware of the limitations, but also the significance, of someone like Joseph François Michaud (and, pursuant to a discussion we recently had on Twitter, they are aware of the difficulties of charters as well). The Latin word for “crusade” did in fact emerge 100 years after the First Crusade, but Matt’s claim that it is “more an artifact of our own politics than those of the medievals” is misleading. That argument was made in the 1990s and has not been widely accepted by scholars, because, whatever one calls them, there was a “there” there in the twelfth century. German Emperor Frederick II’s “friendliness” to Muslims has been somewhat exaggerated, and his friendship with Sultan al-Kamil of Egypt long predated his crusade, and was not a product of the crusade itself. The “Crying Templar Meme” comes from 2014, not 2016.

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Goethe and Iqbal

For those of you who are looking for ways to mix up your history or literature surveys and expand students’ horizons beyond what remains the “usual fare” in many places, here are two different works that speak to each other across a century and can prompt your students to think about the interchanges between European and Asian culture in 1819 and in 1924–borrowings, appropriations, exoticism, cooperation, re-appropriation, colonialism, nationalism and decolonization, and so on.

The first is the famous German author Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s famous Western-Eastern Diwan (1819), and the second, written as a response to it, is the legendary Punjab author, lawyer, politician, and scholar Sir Muhammad Iqbal’s  Payam-e-Mashriq [A Message from the East], published in 1924. Iqbal’s preface contains fascinating analysis of where the world was in 1924, and how and why his work responds to and comments on European interest in Asian literature (what we would refer to today as “Orientalizing,” and which was referred to at the time as the “Oriental movement”).

Iqbal is widely regarded as the “spiritual father of Pakistan,” and his writings in Urdu and Persian have been widely translated. His comments here on the purpose of Payam-e-Mashriq, and what the world looked like in 1924 from what was then British India, are worth quoting in part (it is several pages long):

I need not say much about A Message from  the East, which has been written a hundred-odd years after  the West-Oestlicher Divan. My readers will by themselves appreciate that the  main  purpose  underlying it  is  to  bring  out  moral, religious and social truths bearing on  the  inner  development  of  individuals and  nations.  There is  undoubtedly  some  resemblance  between  Germany  as  it  was  a hundred years ago and today’s East. The truth,  however,  is  that  the  internal  unrest  of  the  world’s  nations,  which  we  cannot  assess  properly because of being ourselves affected  by it, is the fore-runner of a great spiritual and  cultural revolution. Europe’s Great War was a  catastrophe  which  destroyed  the  old  world  order in almost every respect, and now out of  the ashes of civilization and culture Nature is  building up in the depths of life a new Adam  and a new world for him to live in, of which  we get a faint sketch in the writings of Einstein  and Bergson. Europe has seen with its own  eyes  the  horrible  consequences  of  its  intellectual, moral and economic objectives and  has  also  heard  from  Signor  Nitti  (a  former  prime minister of Italy) the heartrending story  of the West’s decline. It is, however, a pity that  Europe’s  perspicacious,  but  conservative,  statesmen  have  failed  to  make  a  proper  assessment of that wonderful revolution which  is now taking place in the human mind.

“I am black, but beautiful”: Bernard of Clairvaux on Canticles 1:5

“Race in the Middle Ages” has been a rather hot topic recently, mostly because of the controversy over the Leeds medieval congress. I have thoughts on that, but that’s for another day. One sub-topic that I have thought much on these past couple years is the kind of overlap between medieval and modern European concepts of race, and the previous decade’s arguments that the foundations of modern racial ideas originate in the 12th century (I’ve blogged about ancient concepts of race, drawing on Sarah Bond’s and Benjamin Isaac’s writings).

Geraldine Heng’s 2011 two-part overview of whether one can identify “racial thinking, racial law, racial formation, and racialized behaviors and phenomena in medieval Europe before the emergence of a recognizable vocabulary of race answers that question with a firm “yes” (part 1 and part 2). This is hardly a “done deal,” however, and skepticism regarding the theoretical approaches (epistemological and ontological in particular) that yield a “yes” answer probably had a lot to do with the Leeds tempest. Certainly, as an expert in Staufen Germany, I have serious reservations about many of these claims (whether this amounts to “German exceptionalism” I’m not sure, but they did tend to do things a bit differently east of the Rhine). Nevertheless, the proposition cannot, and should not, be dismissed out of hand, as many do. And certainly Heng’s rather anthropological observation that “race is a structural relationship for the articulation and management of human differences, rather than a substantive content” has a lot to recommend it (part 2, p. 275).

One source in which this kind of racialized “management of human difference” is on full display is Bernard of Clairvaux’s commentary on the Song of Solomon, particularly sermons 25 through 28, in which he expounds at length on the famous verse “I am black but beautiful.”  Given Bernard’s status in the twelfth century, it strikes me that this text would make a very useful tool for teaching. Below is the full text of Sermon 25, “Why the Bride is Black but Beautiful,” taken from the link earlier in this paragraph. Unpacking the complex interplay between religious and racial use of color could be very useful in the classroom (Heng devotes two paragraphs to Sermon 25 in part 2, p. 285).

I mentioned in the previous sermon that the bride was compelled to give an answer to her envious assailants, who seemed to be physically part of the group of maidens, but alienated from them in spirit. She said: “I am black but beautiful, daughters of Jerusalem.” It would appear that her dark skin is the object of their slanderous taunting. But we cannot help noting her patience and kindness. She not only refrained from hurling back curse for curse, but gave them a friendly answer, calling them daughters of Jerusalem when for their wickedness she might properly have called them daughters of Babylon, or daughters of Baal, or any other disreputable name. She had learned from the Prophet, and from Christ himself, the teacher of gentleness, that the crushed reed must not be broken nor the wavering flame be quenched. Hence she decided not to provoke to further outbursts people who had already so upset themselves, nor to add fuel to the fires of envy that tormented them. Conscious of her obligation even to the foolish, she took pains to be peaceful with those who hated peace. She preferred therefore to soothe them with a kind word, because she felt it her duty to labor for the salvation of the weak rather than gratify personal spite.

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