I must admit that I have not read any of Tariq Ramadan’s works other than perhaps a brief essay or two. I have heard a couple of his interviews on Democracy Now, and liked his perspective, but did not find it necessarily compelling enough that I would want to take the time to read a book of his in its entirety. This book was on sale at Borders—I picked it up feeling that I had neglected to read the work of an important contemporary Muslim intellectual and that I needed to gain some knowledge to amend that neglect. He had, after all, lectured with my teacher and someone I have trusted intellectually and spiritually for nearly two decades, Shaikh Hamza Yusuf, and Shaikh Hamza’s cardiologist, Muhammad Ashraf, had recently mentioned Tariq Ramadan’s opinions to me a few weeks ago in relation to the issue of Islamic schools versus public schools, etc. So, as often happens in life, there were signs on the path, and I was led to a learning experience.
After an initial introduction which was fairly conventional, the first chapter “The Early Years” pulled me in and touched my heart. I knew that Tariq Ramadan was the grandson of Hasan Al-Banal, founder of the Muslim Brotherhood, and that he was a Western educated intellectual and believing Muslim with what I considered to be a balanced and needed public voice, but I did not know he, like me had been a high school teacher. And what impressed me was the empathetic relationship with the human beings who comprised “Western” society he taught in—how interacting with the students of the high school helped him to understand so much about the societies he was a part of and himself. Ramadan was highly involved in the movement for solidarity awareness for oppressed and exploited peoples in ghettos and in the Third World throughout his educational career—much before he became “a public Muslim”—and I find this admirable. I have always endeavored to make this an essential element of my role as a teacher as well.
I had been a teacher, then a very young dean in a Geneva high school, and I had launched solidarity awareness operations in primary and secondary schools. A practicing believer in my private life, I respected professional discretion in my public position: I never put forward my religious affiliation. This was as it should be. Both the school system and the media praised the “Exemplary work” performed in mobilizing the young for solidarity in Third World countries as well as in the West, for we had also launched awareness operations targeting extreme poverty among the underprivileged in industrial societies and the aged….The point was to place the learning process at the heart of the city and use the teaching of French literature as a means to communicate with women and men facing social problems or simply differences. Those years taught me a lot about listening, patience, nonjudgment, and empathy. Early on, one of my former students had died of a drug overdose. I have never really forgotten him. I was his teacher, he taught me. He died when I was sure he had stopped using drugs. I understood that nothing is ever finally achieved and that our frailties remain…behind masks of strength. Strength indeed lies in accepting one’s frailties and not in persuading oneself that one has “overcome” them. But “overcoming” them may simply consist in accepting them. Thierry, my student with “difficult affection,” taught me those aspects of the educational relationship. It was not easy. One day, in the conflict, he also taught me empathy and critical distance. His sister had called me because he had hit his mother. Her upper lip had got stuck between her teeth. When I reached the hospital I was angry, I could not imagine such behavior: hitting one’s mother! When I walked into the waiting room, his sister rushed to me and explained that violence had been the language at their home and that I had to understand: both of them had seen their father beat their mother and experienced violence in their daily lives. “Violence was our means of communication!” she whispered to me. Suddenly I “understood” the probable causes of his attitude. I understood without accepting or justifying. To understand is not to justify: empathy makes this distinction possible and, through understanding, intelligence can help us to adopt a critical stance that allows us to look for solutions. I was young and my student had thrown those truths to my face. He made me grow up. I have never forgotten those teachings, his lessons.
That solidarity commitment, in Geneva, Brazil, India, Senegal, or Burkina Faso, led to many rich experiences. Such personalities as the Dalai Lama, Dom Helder Camara, the Abbe Pierre, Pierre Dufresne, or Sankara of course impressed me and I owe them a lot. But even more important were the nameless: the silent brave, resisting in the dark. They taught me so much, away from media and public attention. On one occasion, I had invited a Colombian social worker to our school as part of our solidarity meetings during the lunch hour. He was to speak about the problems of injustice, poverty, and crisis in his country. I sat at the back and listened. During the first half of his talk, he spoke about traditional Colombian dances, complete with music and illustrations. I looked on and told myself that he had misunderstood what I expected of him. Suddenly he stopped and explained to the students: I wanted to tell you about Colombian music and traditional dances so that you should know that as well as having problems, we Colombians have an identity, a dignity, traditions, and a culture, and that we laugh, and smile, and live. In thirty minutes he had taught me an unexpected lesson: never reduce the other to my perception, to his problems, his poverty, or his crises. He had taught me a lesson about the pedagogy of solidarity. I had been mistaken. After that I launched a movement in Geneva schools, calling for a true “pedagogy of solidarity.” One should begin with the being, the smile, the dignity, the culture that fashions the person before reducing him to a sum of needs which “I” support. Those thirty minutes of my life radically changed my outlook on others and on life. The twists and turns of that commitment taught me so much about life, wounds, hopes, and frailties: the power of knowledge, the strength of emotion, the necessity of patience, the need to listen. I have tried daily to forget nothing.
Ramadan pp. 9-11
When I first studied teaching academically in the 1990’s, I encountered the ideas of Paolo Friere—the “pedagogy of the oppressed”; I have always worked to make his ideas a core philosophical element in my classroom. Ramadan’s “pedagogy of solidarity” is needed—much in congruence with the “people’s history” approach to teaching literature and writing that I use in my classroom. But what really resonated with me in this passage was the naked truths Ramadan speaks about the process of learning from the human beings one interacts with—the establishment in truth of what Friere called a “dialogical relationship” between teacher and students. The heart of learning is empathy.
More Muslims need to be teachers.
If you buy the book, read the Appendix on Thierry, the student who taught Ramadan so much.
Ramadan on “Islamic schools” in the West:
I have explained in many books and articles that my position is to encourage Muslim citizens to enroll their children in the public school system where they will learn to live with their fellow citizens of various origins and cultures. Private schools, which anyway only receive 2 or 3 percent of Muslim children, are neither a panacea nor a future-oriented choice. Engaging in the state school system, as parents and as students, is a necessity. It remains that the system should be reformed in depth, for the mixing of social statuses and cultures is but an illusion in what ought to be common, equal schooling for all. Some state schools are actually social and cultural ghettos, and inequalities in treatment within the public system are simply unacceptable. If nothing is done in this field, it can be no surprise that some people think of creating efficient alternative structures exclusively for Muslims…. (Ramadan 137)
An openly Muslim intellectual is after all most unsettling: he reflects to Western society a mirror of not always acknowledged contradictions or, by his mere presence, reveals unconscious Western-centrism with its suppressions, its hang-ups, possibly its traumas. (113)
Compelling a woman to wear a headscarf is against Islam, and compelling her to remove it is against human rights. Tariq Ramadan. What I Believe
Experience has shown me, both with young and older people, that day-to-day mingling and personal involvement is what awakens minds, brings awareness, and spurs the desire to go further, to understand better, and to carry out a dialogue. This is why we must really live and work together on shared projects.
The question is in effect simple. Over and beyond all the theories that could be devised, it is important to ask everyone, as I often do when concluding lectures: how many women and men from outside your “own universe of reference” have you met during the past month? How many women and men have you met in the past month, or two or six months, with whom you have experienced cultural, religious, and social diversity, been positively questioned, and been compelled to reconsider your way of thinking, your certainties, and your habits as well as some of your prejudgments and prejudices? It is easy to think of oneself as “open” in a universe peopled with always the same citizens and friends, and where openness is thought rather than actually experienced. Mental ghettos are not mirages; they actually exist in palpable reality: being “open” inside one’s mental or intellectual ghetto does not open its door but simply allows one to harbor the illusion that there is no ghetto and no door. The most dangerous prisons are those with invisible bars. Tariq Ramadan, What I Believe. Page 113