Putting forward the case for innovation
Imagine a world without innovation; a world without discovery, invention and without creativity; a world without growth or renewal; a world without change.
Innovation is part of our daily work lexicon. Corporations cannot grow without innovation. Escape from economic crises needs industries to innovate. Innovation is also expected from those in the bureaucracy and from academics. Across the world, there’s a movement to encourage our young to consider new business start-ups and, as part of this trend, Pakistan’s recently rebranded national IT research fund, Ignite, is busy establishing a network of national innovation hubs. Pakistan Innovation Foundation is doing something similar with the next generation.
Unchecked innovation isn’t all good, of course. The crisis of climate change, the threats from big data and the litany of corruption scandals in large corporations are partly a cause of humanity’s rush to innovate without paying due regard to adequate safeguards. We’ve allowed our scientists and our engineers, financiers and policymakers to create products and processes without first investing in the time to think through the consequences. And many of those consequences we now know are harmful for human and planetary wellbeing.
But if done well, innovation is about making things better.
WELCOME TO the PARALLEL WORLD
Now imagine for a moment, a different world, which I shall call the Parallel World. This is the world we return to after office hours. It is the world of our families and friends, social networks and more. Parallel World is a great place to be, but there’s just one condition: we must all agree to never utter one word, and that word is ‘innovation’. In Urdu we call it ‘bidat’; in Arabic it is ‘bid’a’.
We agree never to speak of innovation because no one else does and also because of instructions from those who set the rules for the Parallel World.
Muslim societies such as Pakistan’s have been fed on the belief that all forms of innovation are prohibited in Islam. But the glory of Islamic civilisation, which contemporary rulers are prone to harken back to, is replete with evidence that the golden age was, in fact, a result of out-of-the-box thinking
It is fact that the rulers of the Parallel World are afraid of innovation, and they’re afraid because it means change. Our rulers don’t like change because change is not something they can control; change means that they can’t predict what we will do, or how we will behave. They want to be able to predict our behaviours because that way we will never surprise them, and they can go on ruling forever.
The rulers of the Parallel World always want to be in control. In the Parallel World it is very, very, very important for things to stay as they are — or as they were.
To help us appreciate why change is bad, the rulers of the Parallel World take great pains to remind us of our founding history. Once upon a time, the Parallel World experienced a golden age of discovery, invention and innovation. But that was a long time ago and now things are destined to only get worse, not better. We’re taught to believe we’re moving, slowly but inexorably, towards the end of civilisation.
Those who rule the Parallel World today tell us that the end of civilisation can be delayed, but that this needs us all to agree that we must preserve and venerate the best of the old. It’s only by keeping to the old ways can we hopefully postpone the end of the world.
And because they care deeply about postponing the end of civilisation, the rulers of the Parallel World have gone to great lengths to stop citizens using the “I” word. These include innocuous things such as books extolling the sins of innovation, and more pernicious things such as networks of informants.
‘EVERY INNOVATION IS AN ERROR’
If this sounds even remotely familiar, it’s because it is familiar. In our mosques, in many of our homes, and when we study religion at school or college, we look at innovation and go: “Astaghfirullah.” Then we head out to work and it’s all: “Innovation Alhamdolillah.” There’s an unresolved tension at the heart of who we are, and, as the recent debacle over the Prime Minister’s Economic Advisory Council showed, it has had a corrosive effect on state and society.
So, how did we get to this point?
The categorisation of what constitutes good and bad innovation is somewhat arbitrary to An-Nawawi, but what is not in doubt is that he does not in any way subscribe to the view that has been ascribed to him: An-Nawawi does not think that “every innovation is an error.”
There are a host of overlapping reasons for why innovation is discouraged in the Parallel World that we inhabit, and many of these reasons have their origins in small-c conservatism, in the nostalgia that takes hold among some citizens of what were once great empires. But it is also possible to find traces in literature, too.
In my own case — and as a much younger person — my introduction to the ‘sins’ of innovation came through the writings of a quite remarkable 13th-century Syrian legal scholar and jurist from the Shafi’i tradition, known popularly as An-Nawawi. In a relatively short life (he died in 1277 at the age of 44) An-Nawawi wrote The Gardens of the Righteous [Riyadh as-Saliheen], which has become one of the Shafi’i school’s main works of reference, and an 18-volume commentary on the Hadith collection Sahih Muslim.
But An-Nawawi also wrote a book that has been printed and distributed in the tens of millions, often financed by philanthropists from Saudi Arabia. The book is called Forty Hadith in which the author scans the landscape of Hadith literature and extracts what he believes to be the minimum essential traditions for a life of piety.
If you look at the English edition of the book, there are two Hadith in which “innovation” is mentioned, and, in both instances, the reference is not particularly flattering. The text of Hadith No 5 declares: “Whosoever introduces something into the religion that doesn’t belong, then reject it.” And Hadith No 28 adds: “Beware of newly-introduced matters, for every innovation is an error.”
I grew up, as millions more before and millions will do so subsequently, thinking that “every innovation is an error.” Let me just repeat that for emphasis: “Every innovation is an error.”
Just to be clear, An-Nawawi was a working jurist. In his other books, he devotes much space to pointing out that innovation can be both good and bad. In al-Maqasid for example (translated into English as Manual of Islam), he lists five categories of innovation in which the top-most category is called “obligatory innovation” and includes the need to record the Quran on paper and to create a system of Hadith classification to weed out spurious stories.
Other categories include “offensive” innovation, such as embellishing mosques, and “unlawful” innovation, which consists of time spent learning the works of heretical sects. The categorisation of what constitutes good and bad innovation is somewhat arbitrary to An-Nawawi, but what is not in doubt is that he does not in any way subscribe to the view that has been ascribed to him: An-Nawawi does not think that “every innovation is an error.”
Forty Hadith is an extremely clever little book because it does what today is a staple of commercial publishing. It takes something complex and it simplifies it for a mass audience. That is both its great strength and also its biggest risk in that it has been interpreted as banning all innovation, and it has served the interests of those who benefit from things staying the same.
THE LEGACY OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ISLAMIC RECONSTRUCTION
Resolving the nation’s innovation tension has been a 70-year quest, but it takes on added urgency today because without it, the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf-led (PTI) government will struggle to accomplish its ambitious programme of works. The government wants to do things that arguably no administration in history has achieved, and that is going to need innovative approaches — and from non-traditional sources.
From the initial composition of the Prime Minister’s Economic Advisory Council, it is evident that the government accepts that innovative ideas come from practitioners and scholars, from thinkers and doers who hold beliefs or who have had experiences that are different to those of us in the majority. But from the reaction to the appointment of Princeton University economics professor Atif Mian, it is also evident that the presence of such individuals will be resisted, and especially by those for whom it means having to give up — or share — power.
All new governments feel obligated to pay homage to Pakistan’s founding fathers, but Imran Khan and his PTI appears more genuinely predisposed to studying the actions and motivations of the generation of Jinnah and Iqbal. The party should look closely at one of Jinnah’s short-lived innovations: the Department of Islamic Reconstruction, and consider whether such a vehicle is needed today.
At the time of Partition, the Quaid-i-Azam established — or was possibly persuaded to establish — the Department of Islamic Reconstruction. This was a kind of think-tank or advisory body to the new government and incoming assembly, and its name was more than a nod to Allama Muhammad Iqbal’s The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam. The reconstruction department’s aim was essentially to begin to disentangle colonial influence on policymaking, enact policy instruments that would be more authentic, and to do so in a mid-20th century Islamic context.
Unfortunately, Asad’s Department of Islamic Reconstruction was wound up after Jinnah’s death, which suggests it was unable to garner broader support. Its proceedings are not taught in Pakistan Studies courses and most of its records were mysteriously destroyed.
Jinnah chose as the department’s head, the Austrian-born writer, journalist, scholar and Muslim-convert Muhammad Asad. The appointment was a risk because Asad, who would later produce one of the great English Quran translations, never disguised his rationalism. His Message of the Quran is dedicated “for people who think”.
As the head of the Department of Islamic Reconstruction, Asad drew up a lengthy to-do list which included convening meetings of the nation’s leading ulema, to persuade them to buy into the department’s programme. He proclaimed his department’s aims and objectives to include that “we are an open society”, and he urged all citizens to play an equal part in the building of the new nation, especially women. Asad took to radio and print to expand on what he meant.
“Islamic society is ossified,” he would tell a journalist many years later. “The principle of ijtihad [the exertion of one’s own judgement] was the basis of the Great Arab civilisation.” He would later say: “The principle of taqlid [blind acceptance without one’s own judgement] ruled and created the decadence of the Islamic world.”
Unfortunately, Asad’s Department of Islamic Reconstruction was wound up after Jinnah’s death, which suggests it was unable to garner broader support. Its proceedings are not taught in Pakistan Studies courses and most of its records were mysteriously destroyed. Asad was instead sent to represent Pakistan in New York, which he did until his resignation in 1952, after which he left, more or less, for good.
Some of Asad’s critics feared, wrongly, that his ambition was to create clones of himself. Asad’s aim was, instead, to create a population capable of thinking for itself. Such a misunderstanding about personal motive is what unites Asad with the case of the EAC.
We know that Prime Minister Imran Khan reads and writes history, which means he will know that Madina [See Box: Innovation in Madina] was itself a city of innovation. He will also know that during Islam’s gilded age, discovery and invention in science and engineering coincided with new ideas and rigorous debate in the theory and practice of belief.
Sometimes, as in the case of Ibn Sina [See Box: Unani Medicine’s Radical Roots], the practitioners of both kinds of innovation were often the same person — and they would sometimes come from minority traditions. They would come under attack from ordinary citizens as well as from vested interests. But they were fortunate in that they enjoyed the active protection of the state.
And that is the paradox that PTI must resolve and resolve quickly. The party is doing well to identify and appoint talent from wherever it can find. But the second part of the equation is blank. Information minister Fawad Chaudhary’s spirited defence of minority rights showed that the party knows where it stands, but its strategy of engagement needs to go broader and deeper, and needs to touch all levels of society.
The PTI cannot achieve its goals unless it is able to pick the best people. But the best people will not always share the same views as the majority. That’s why the government needs to be prepared to justify its decisions and provide a rationale for its choices. But more than that, it needs a comprehensive strategy for the long-term; a Department for Islamic Reconstruction for the 21st century.
Whatever it does next, doing nothing or staying silent is not an option.
The writer is a science and innovation policy journalist based in London. He is the author of Science and Islam: A History.
He tweets @EhsanMasood
INNOVATION IN MADINA
The mosque of the Prophet (PBUH) in Madina is unrecognisable from the first building that stood on the present site. The newer mosque, in that sense, is truly an innovation.
However, there is one interior design element common to all mosques, which is not found in the original design. From the floor plans that have survived, the original design of the Prophet’s mosque in Madina does not appear to have a mihrab (arch). There is no semi-circular niche at the front, equidistant from both ends at the top of the front row, from where the imam will lead congregational prayers.
Look closely at the interior design of the original Prophet’s mosque, there is no mihrab; there’s no space carved out at the front.
The story of how the Prophet’s mosque got its mihrab goes back to the time of the caliph al-Walid of the Umayyad ruling family.
We know that the Umayyads were fans of Byzantine buildings which included niche-like interior elements. And we also know that once they took over the reins of the Islamic empire they were keen to extend the original Prophet’s mosque.
There are some historians who say that the mihrab was introduced to address an issue that the Umayyads considered important: the need for a space to recognise the leader of the faithful.
However, the governor of Madina had a job convincing many who opposed the mosque extension/mihrab plan. Among other things, the critics were concerned that tampering with the original structure would be plain wrong, and that there was something to be said for an interior design in which the leader of the community would be first among equals.
But the sceptics were overruled and a mihrab was introduced. Today, few if any mosques are mihrab-free, even though the original was, yes, an innovation.
UNANI MEDICINE’S RADICAL ROOTS
Unani medicine is one of Asia’s greatest exports and led by none other than Pakistan’s very own Hamdard corporation. Except that the Unani tradition may have come much later to the subcontinent had it not been for the work of the 10th-century scientist-philosopher-physician, Ibn Sina.
On the desk or bookshelf of practically every hakeem, or teacher of hikmat, you will find a copy of Ibne Sina’s Canon of Medicine or Canun Fi-Tibb. Centuries after his death, this book remains the gold standard. But what many Unani practitioners are not aware of is that its author, who died aged 57 in the year 1037, was anything but a traditionalist.
Indeed, Ibne Sina’s is a quite remarkable story. He was a child prodigy, born into the Ismaili tradition, who had a gift for healing and had quite a rare capacity to absorb and discover new knowledge. Ibn Sina was a devout believer but in at least two respects, he questioned what were — and still are — mainstream ideas in religion and theology.
Ibne Sina had different views on the nature of physical reality. He believed that there exist laws of nature, and he believed that these cannot be violated—which is not unlike the science we learn at school.
By extension, Ibne Sina was sceptical of people who claimed to perform miracles. He believed that all physical phenomena have a known, physical cause and effect — an idea which very much characterised his approach to medicine.
Not surprisingly, he was criticised in ways that have echoes today. His Western critics felt threatened by someone who represented a new and — compared to Christianity — more innovative belief system. One commentator called Ibne Sina a representative of: “That filthy and wicked Muhammadan sect, which legitimises divorce and takes the view that all miracles have a natural explanation.”
But Ibne Sina also had his share of detractors in the East. Al-Ghazali, for example, famously said that Ibne Sina’s views amounted to extracting spirituality out of religion. And later, an influential theologian from the 14th century, Ibn Qayyim Al Jawziya, could not understand why Ibne Sina would have no truck with faith-healing. “The physicians have nothing whereby to repel these illnesses and their causes, anymore than they have anything to explain them,” he once wrote.
And yet, Ibne Sina today is lauded and celebrated the world over. His name can be found on everything from hospitals to postage stamps. There is even an Ibne Sina mountain peak on the border between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan.
The key to his longevity and acceptance is that Ibne Sina let his achievements do the talking. He managed to describe the concept of momentum being the product of mass and velocity; he produced copious works in ethics and philosophy; and his textbook, which was taught in Latin Europe for five centuries, includes descriptions and treatments for cataract, diabetes, tuberculosis, malaria, facial paralysis and much, much more.
But — and this is a big but — his modern-day descendants have chosen to disregard his philosophy. And so for many traditional healers, Ibne Sina’s Canon of Medicine is practised alongside faith-healing. There is no sense of irony at all that these were originally two distinct spheres of activity.
Published in Dawn, EOS, September 30th, 2018