This is the English translation of «الدين المفتري عليه» (The Slandered Religion), Part 6 of 10.

Chapter Five: Colonialism — Dividing the Nation and Planting Puppet Regimes (الفصل الخامس: الاستعمار — تقسيم الأمة وزرع الأنظمة التابعة)

March 3, 1924: The Caliphate’s Funeral

Picture the scene: Ankara, the morning of the third of March 1924. In the hall of the Grand National Assembly of Turkey, the deputies raise their hands, and the abolition of the caliphate is decided by majority vote. Fourteen centuries of history folded by a single decision in a single session. In Istanbul, the last of the caliphs, Abdülmecid II, receives the news as one receiving his own obituary while alive: leave. The man left his palace that very night, boarded the train into exile, and thus ended an office that was — however disfigured — the last thing gathering the Muslims under one name. A train moving through the night carrying a man once called “Commander of the Faithful,” and behind him fourteen centuries of history closing their doors one by one.

Stop here a moment and ask yourself: what was supposed to happen after that?

Logic says: when the throne falls, the nation returns to itself; it is the one that chooses who rules it, holds him accountable, and removes him — the eternal principle people had forgotten since Muawiya. The vacuum the caliphate left was a golden opportunity: the opportunity to rebuild legitimacy anew — this time from below, not from heaven; from the nation’s ballot boxes, not from the palaces’ swords. But history does not forgive latecomers: the nation was still contemplating the vacuum, and colonialism had already prepared the alternative — an alternative to fill the vacuum without anyone’s opinion being asked.

And the news fell upon the Arab world like a thunderbolt. For while the Turks under Mustafa Kemal were building their national republic on the sultanate’s ruins — after the Treaty of Lausanne (1923) abolished what remained of the empire — the Arabs were asking: who carries the banner after? Conferences were held to find a “new caliph,” the most famous being the Cairo conference of 1926, and they all failed miserably. And no one noticed that the question itself was wrong: the question was not “who will be the caliph?” but “who chooses him?” A nation accustomed for fourteen centuries to having the ruler imposed upon it in religion’s name had not yet learned to ask about its right to choose — so one came who chose instead of it, and his choice was not merciful.

The Ruler on the Map

Go back eight years, to London, May 1916. In a closed room sit two diplomats: the Briton Mark Sykes and the Frenchman Georges Picot. Between them a map of the Arab East, and in one of their hands a ruler. A line here, a line there, and a land that was one is divided into zones of influence: this for Britain, that for France. No Syrian, Iraqi, or Palestinian was consulted; for peoples, in the empires’ convention, are not decision-makers, but “inhabitants of lands” distributed as booty is distributed.

Then came the San Remo conference in April 1920 to dress the division in international law’s garb: Palestine, Iraq, and Transjordan under British Mandate, Syria and Lebanon under French Mandate. Note the naming: “mandate.” Not occupation — heaven forbid! — but “guardianship” over minor peoples, its declared mission “preparing them for independence.” Thus colonialism became an educator, and the peoples pupils in a school of freedom from which no one graduates.

And picture with me what the ruler did on the ground: an imaginary line on paper became a border, barbed wire, and a checkpoint; the single tribe was split between “two states,” the single family needed a passport to visit its cousins, and the merchant who used to move freely between Damascus, Baghdad, and Jerusalem became a “smuggler” if he crossed the line! The artificial borders did not divide the land only; they divided memory, language, and destiny: the Syrian became a stranger to the Iraqi, the Egyptian a stranger to the Palestinian — while they are the sons of one nation speaking one language and praying in one direction. This is colonialism’s greatest crime: it did not steal the land only, but stole the sense of unity.

And here is the question every reader must ask: who gave London and Paris the right to draw our borders with a ruler? The answer: no one — except the logic of force that has ruled the world since the first Muslims mixed religion with power, and rule became booty contested by the strong instead of a trust the nation grants and reclaims whenever it wishes.

Nor forget the deception that preceded the ruler: Britain had promised Sharif Hussein an independent Arab state in exchange for declaring revolt against the Ottomans; the Arabs revolted and fought and their blood flowed — then discovered the promise was ink on paper. When the Russian Revolution published the text of the secret Sykes-Picot Agreement in late 1917, the hidden was exposed: the land promised to the Arabs had already been sold in advance in a closed room in London! Such are colonial politics’ morals: promising you freedom to fight with it, then selling you in the first deal. And the lesson we have not yet learned: whoever derives his freedom from the outside’s promises wakes one morning to find himself merchandise in the market of the great.

Rulers Who Import Their Legitimacy from Abroad

The colonial equation was simple and cruel: a ruler drawing his legitimacy from the occupier rather than the people, his loyalty to whoever installed him rather than to those he rules.

Take Syria as an example. On the 8th of March 1920, the Syrian General Congress met in Damascus and declared Syria’s independence, proclaiming Prince Faisal its king — a genuine attempt by the country’s people to choose their ruler themselves. So what did France, the Mandate holder, do? It gave Faisal an ultimatum, then marched with its armies. And on 24 July 1920, War Minister Yusuf al-Azma stood at Maysalun at the head of a few thousand volunteers with light weapons before a French army bristling with tanks and planes. Al-Azma was martyred along with hundreds, and the French entered Damascus the next day, and Faisal was exiled. This is colonial democracy: the people choose, and the cannons correct the choice!

But note the irony: the very Britain that blessed Faisal’s toppling in Damascus installed him months later as king of Iraq (1921), and installed his brother Abdullah as prince of Transjordan (1921). Legitimacy, then, is not in the will of the Syrian people who chose Faisal, but in the will of London, which appointed him where it pleases. The Hashemite monarchy in Iraq and Jordan was not built on a pledge or election, but on a British decision.

And on the Gulf’s shores, the “protection agreements” were signed: Britain “protects” the sheikhdoms from their enemies, in exchange for these sheikhdoms surrendering their foreign policy — along with their oil and ports — to the British protection. Protection from whom? From colonialism itself in many cases! A profitable deal for both sides: the occupier guarantees bases and oil, and the prince guarantees the throne against his people.

Nor was France content with installing subordinate rulers in Syria; it tore Syria itself apart: dividing it into small petty states on sectarian foundations — the state of Damascus, the state of Aleppo, the state of the Alawites, the state of the Druze — and proclaiming “Greater Lebanon” by annexing vast areas to it. Why? Because the large united entity might revolt, while feuding petty states are easy to rule: divide and rule — the oldest colonial recipe, still fit for use. And when you hear today someone speaking of a “new division” of the region, know that the same ruler is still in the drawer, and the hand that held it in 1916 has not changed — only the gloves changed.

And to beautify the image, the old recipe inherited since the Umayyads was reused: religion as the throne’s cover. The subordinate ruler speaks of Islam, performs the pilgrimage before the cameras, builds luxurious mosques — while signing subordination agreements and crushing the opposition with security apparatuses trained by the colonizer. And ask: what is the difference between a caliph distributing stipends to poets to praise him, and a subordinate king distributing posts to “scholars” to rule for him? No difference in essence: religion in both cases is a commodity bought to polish power. The master changed — from the caliph to the High Commissioner — and the mechanism remained: borrowed sanctity legitimizing unelected authority. The only difference is that yesterday’s caliph at least claimed the pledge, while today’s ruler does not even claim that; his legitimacy comes from London and Paris, full stop.

The 1919 Revolution: The Nation Chooses… and Its Choice Is Aborted

But the peoples were not absent from the scene. Take Egypt: after World War I, Saad Zaghloul and his comrades formed a delegation to demand independence at the Paris Peace Conference. Britain answered by arresting Zaghloul and his comrades and exiling them to the island of Malta in March 1919. So what happened? All of Egypt exploded.

On 9 March 1919 the students of the Law School went out first, then workers, peasants, and employees followed — and the women went out led by Safia Zaghloul in a historic precedent — Muslims and Copts side by side, chanting for independence and demanding Zaghloul’s return. The revolution was crushed by bullets and hundreds fell dead, but Britain was forced in the end to release Zaghloul and allow the delegation to travel to Paris.

Contemplate Saad Zaghloul’s most famous words: “Right is above might, and the nation is above the government.” Underline the second sentence: the nation is above the government. This is the eternal principle itself — legitimacy from the people, the ruler a servant not a master. But what did Britain do with this principle? It accepted half and rejected half: it granted Egypt nominal independence in 1922 while keeping its troops and influence, and King Fuad — then Farouk — remained ruling without true popular legitimacy, protected by the occupation that had “departed” nominally and remained actually.

Indeed, contemplate what happened to Zaghloul himself: he became prime minister in 1924 with a sweeping popular majority, and the king and the occupation did not grant him months before he was forced to resign. The message was clear to all who understand: even when the nation chooses you, the choice is conditional upon the palace’s and the British embassy’s approval. The nation spoke its word in 1919, and the word was aborted, and the revolution was turned into a memory celebrated while its results were buried. Thus the Egyptians learned — and the Arabs learned with them — a bitter lesson: to revolt is one thing, and to rule is another entirely; for revolution topples faces, but it does not build institutions protecting the popular choice from being overturned.

The Caliphate as a Slogan: The Indian Movement

And here is a forgotten chapter of the story worth contemplating: in British India, thousands of miles from Istanbul, a huge political movement rose between 1919 and 1924 called the “Khilafat Movement.” It was led by the brothers Shawkat Ali and Muhammad Ali Jauhar, along with Abul Kalam Azad and Hakim Ajmal Khan, and Mahatma Gandhi himself joined it in support of the Muslims. Hundreds of thousands went out in demonstrations defending the Ottoman caliphate against the punishments the Allies imposed upon it after the war.

Stop and ask: what was moving these Indians? They were not the Ottoman sultan’s subjects, and no one elected them to defend him. What moved them was a sincere religious sentiment — the caliphate as a symbol of the nation’s unity. But note the tragedy: the symbol for which they died was abolished by the Turks themselves in 1924 without consulting them! And when the movement collapsed, its leaders returned to Indian politics, and Muhammad Ali Jauhar remained loyal to Palestine until he was buried in the courtyard of al-Aqsa Mosque in honor of his defense of it.

The bitter lesson: “the caliphate” had turned into an emotional slogan used for mobilization, not into a political institution the people choose and hold accountable. And when religion is a slogan in politicians’ hands — any politicians’ — it becomes fuel for battles, not a foundation for justice. And ask yourself: how many times was Islam’s banner raised in the twentieth century to be used then discarded? This is the same gap colonialism exploited: a nation loving its religion yet owning no political mechanism to protect its will with, so its sentiments are driven wherever whoever owns power wishes.

Palestine: From the Promise to the Nakba

And the most dangerous step in the colonial project: on 2 November 1917, British Foreign Secretary Arthur Balfour issued his famous promise to establish a “national home for the Jewish people” in Palestine. Note the phrase: a colonial state’s minister granting one people’s land to another people — as though Palestine were a British estate disposed of by gift!

And here appeared the clearest face of employing religion in politics — but this time others’ religion: Jewish religious texts were used to justify a colonial settlement project, and the Arab land was presented as a “divine promise.” Religion — any religion — when mixed with power becomes a tool of invasion and a justification for occupation. This is not theory; this is Palestine: an alleged religious promise translated into settlements and rifles.

Under the British Mandate, the doors of Jewish immigration were opened wide, the Zionist gangs were armed, and the Palestinian revolts were crushed. Nor did the Palestinians stand watching: in the 1930s, Shaykh Izz al-Din al-Qassam led an armed revolt against the Mandate and the Zionist project, and was martyred — and his martyrdom ignited the Great Palestinian Revolt (1936–1939): a general strike that paralyzed the country for months, then an armed revolt in which peasants and workers took part. So what did “mandated” Britain do? It crushed the revolt with all brutality: house demolitions, mass arrests, and arming the Zionist gangs to fight the Palestinians. The Mandate whose declared mission was “preparing Palestine for independence” was in reality preparing it for usurpation: weakening the land’s owner and strengthening the usurper, then withdrawing, leaving the stage set.

And on 14 May 1948, with the Mandate’s end, the state of Israel was proclaimed; and on 15 May the Arab states’ armies entered the war — late, scattered, with no unified leadership and no strategy. And the result was what was called the Nakba: the displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians, and the rise of the usurping entity.

And ask yourself — honestly —: why did the Arab armies lose? Because they were the armies of subordinate regimes, led by rulers drawing their legitimacy from London rather than their peoples. The soldier who fights for a regime his people did not choose fights without spirit; and the officer who knows the decisions of war and peace are taken in Western capitals rather than his own cannot win. The defeat in Palestine was not merely military; it was political in essence: regimes without popular legitimacy cannot protect homelands, for whoever lacks legitimacy cannot grant dignity.

As for after the Nakba, the Arab regimes contented themselves with speeches: “the central cause” — a slogan raised on occasions, while whoever moves for it in deed is crushed. Liberating Palestine became a card in the rulers’ hands to drug the peoples, not a true project — for a true project requires free peoples choosing their rulers, and that is what the subordinate ruler fears more than the enemy. Contemplate the irony: the ruler who dares not face the enemy dares to imprison whoever demonstrates for Palestine!

The Arab League: A Club for Rulers

And on 22 March 1945, the Arab League was born in Cairo’s Za’fran Palace, and the Egyptian Abd al-Rahman Azzam was chosen as its first secretary-general. On paper, the charter spoke of cooperation and safeguarding independence. In reality, the League was — and still is — a club for rulers, not for peoples: kings and presidents meet, issue statements, dispute over formulations, then each returns to his palace.

Why did the League fail to protect Palestine, and to achieve any true unity? Because it was built on the same corrupt foundation: its members’ legitimacy derived from abroad or from force, not from their peoples. An organization gathering rulers who do not represent their peoples cannot represent the nation. Decisions are taken by unanimity — that is, with a veto right for every ruler — so the statements emerge diluted, binding no one.

And worse, the League’s charter enshrined the principle of “non-interference in internal affairs” — which in practical application is the principle of protecting rulers from their peoples: internal repression is an “internal affair,” imprisoning opponents is “national sovereignty,” while Palestine is a “national cause” discussed at summits and forgotten after. The Arab League is the collective image of the deviation: one nation on paper, ruled by persons it neither chooses nor can remove, who protect one another from the peoples’ anger in the name of “Arab solidarity.”

Schools and Diwans: Manufacturing Subordination

Nor was colonialism content with installing rulers and drawing borders; it reshaped minds — and that is the most dangerous thing it did. Schools teaching in its language and its history, administrations run by its laws, missions to its universities returning bearing its mentality. Slowly a ruling class was manufactured seeing in the West the sole model, and in its peoples the minor in need of permanent guardianship.

This elite is the one that would rule after “independence”: speaking the colonizer’s language better than its people’s, importing theories of rule from Paris and London, despising the local heritage as “backwardness.” And when you hear an Arab ruler today speaking of his people as children needing guidance, know that you are hearing the echo of the colonial school. The same mentality: we are the enlightened elite, and they are the ignorant masses — and from here came all the later dictatorships: “the people are not yet mature for democracy.” Not mature for a whole century? Or is the alleged maturity an eternal pretext for the guardians’ stay?

And take Algeria as witness to the project’s ugliness: one hundred and thirty-two years of French occupation (1830–1962) in which France tried to erase identity itself — closing Arab schools, confiscating endowments, imposing French as the sole language of education and administration, until the Algerian became a stranger in his homeland. Yet when the liberation revolution erupted in 1954, the first thing the Algerians recovered was their identity: Arabic and Islam. The lesson: colonialism can occupy the land, the diwans, and the schools, but it cannot occupy the spirit — as long as the nation owns a memory. And the tragedy is that the regimes that inherited colonialism tried to erase memory too — this time in “nationalism’s” name rather than “civilization’s.”

The Conclusion

Colonialism is the fifth chapter of the deviation: it was not content with occupying the land, but occupied the nation’s political decision. It divided it by the ruler in Sykes-Picot and San Remo, installed over it rulers drawing their legitimacy from London and Paris rather than the peoples, and aborted every genuine popular attempt at choice — from Damascus 1920 to Cairo 1919. And it planted in its heart a usurping entity under the pretext of the religious promise, and turned Palestine into a slogan for drugging rather than a project of liberation. And it reproduced the old recipe — religion as the throne’s cover — in a modern garb, and manufactured in the schools and diwans an elite bearing the guardianship mentality.

And note the thread linking this chapter to its predecessors: since Muawiya, rule has been inherited, not chosen; since the Abbasids, religion has been the authority’s cover; since the Ottomans, legitimacy has been imported from the palace, not from the nation. Colonialism did not invent the deviation; it found it ready and invested in it: a nation that forgot that the nation is above the government, so one came who ruled it from above it. The disease is one across the centuries, though the garbs and languages changed.

And when its soldiers departed — or so it was said — and its regimes, schools, and mentality remained, the sixth chapter began: formal independence. The national flags would be raised, the anthems played, the birth of the “independent state” proclaimed, and the people would go out to the streets rejoicing, thinking freedom had come… but the same prisons would remain, the same executioners would remain — only the language justifying repression would change: from the colonizer’s language to the homeland’s language.