The Pennsylvania State University

The Graduate School

College of Arts and Architecture

MATERIAL CULTURE STUDIES AND ART EDUCATION:

EXAMINING THE CULTURAL ARTIFACTS OF THE BOHRA

FROM MAKAAN TO MASJID

A Thesis in Art Education

by

Themina Kader

Copyright 2000 Themina Kader

Submitted in Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements

for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

August 2000

We approve the thesis of Themina Kader.

Date of Signature

Paul E. Bolin Head of Art Education Program Associate Professor of Art Education Thesis Advisor Chair of Committee

Patricia M. Amburgy Associate Professor of Art Education

Yvonne M. Gaudelius Assistant Professor of Art Education and Women’s Studies

E. Paul Durrenberger Professor of Anthropology

iii

ABSTRACT

In this research study I posit the theory that artifacts are and should be an integral part of art education. Despite continual controversy over the definition of the categories of art and artifacts, researchers generally agree that visual culture in the postmodern and post-historical context, must embrace all forms of expression. That the word “artifact has art embedded in it is no mere coincidence. Art and artifacts are a reflection of a culture, past and present. As such all objects, grand and small, good and bad, become part of the material culture of any given society. These cultural artifacts, once considered

“craft” narrow the gap between European and non-European cultures. Hence, the focus of my inquiry is on how the study of artifacts can help to eliminate distinctions that have been drawn and are still prevalent between art and artifacts.

Using the pedagogy of material culture studies, I examine three questions: (a)

How can material culture studies, mediated by the cultural artifacts of the Bohra, be integrated into art education at the same level as the study of paintings and sculptures?

(b) What is the link between the artifactual and art, vis-à-vis the dress, containers, and furniture of the Bohra? (c) How can artifacts become markers of a cultural identity for a people who are dispersed throughout the world as the Bohra are? These primary questions provoke further inquiry and analysis of the meaning Bohra families attach to their material world. iv This research is an ethnographic study of the culture of a specific community— the Bohra. As such, the interconnectedness of informants, artifacts and researcher was crucial. I employed participant observation as the main tool, supplemented by interview questions, for data collection. I used an intensive sampling of three families and 24 informants to provide me with information. The selection criterion was based on the socio-economic status of each family. In preparation for this study, I made preliminary contacts and conducted interviews with four Bohra families living in the state of

Pennsylvania. The pilot study was particularly useful for revising some of my interview questions and how I presented myself to my informants. My research venue was Kenya, and although I interacted with the informants for only six weeks, any disadvantage accrued by this relatively short period was in part mitigated by my emic role. As a

Bohra, I was able to capture the subtle nuances of attitudes to interpret the significance of artifacts and bring to the research the viewpoint of an observer as participant.

Furthermore, knowledge of their language, customs, rites and rituals created an instant rapport between the researched and the researcher. I have also interspersed this study with narratives of experiences and memories that are inherent to the understanding of the close relationship between artifacts and artificers.

The raison d’être of this study was the hypothesis that material culture studies and art education can be partners—each supporting and complementing the other. This research study enabled me to understand the role of artifacts and how the Bohra make sense of their lives through using them. Because I am a Bohra, I opted to study the artifacts of my culture. I suggest that art educators can utilize artifacts that are familiar to

v their students to include material culture studies in an art education program. Toward this end, I discuss three inquiry methods that can be employed to teach art.

vi TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ...... ix

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... xi

CHAPTER I CONCEPTUAL AND THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK...... 1 Conceptual Framework ...... 1 Introduction ...... 1 Outline of Successive Chapters...... 2 Statement of the Problem ...... 3 The Purpose of the Study ...... 8 The Significance of the Study ...... 10 Definition of Terms—Listed Alphabetically ...... 12 Theoretical Framework ...... 17 Artifacts ...... 17 Methodology ...... 30 Pilot Study...... 33 Participant Observation ...... 34 Historical and Demographic Information on the Bohra...... 35 A Memory ...... 37

CHAPTER II LITERATURE REVIEW...... 40 Material Culture ...... 40 Material Culture Studies...... 41 Art and Artifacts...... 52 Material Culture and Art Education...... 55 Inquiry Methods ...... 60 Recontextualizing Artworks...... 61 Museums, Material Culture, and Masterpieces ...... 63

CHAPTER III THE BOHRA AND THEIR MATERIAL CULTURE ...... 69 A Celebration: Misaaq Mubaarak ...... 69 The Artifacts...... 72 Dress...... 73 Men’s Dress...... 74 Kurta...... 74 Saya ...... 76 Perun ...... 76 Topi...... 77 Women’s Dress ...... 78 Ridah ...... 78 Orhnu ...... 80 Massalaa ...... 81 Tasbee...... 81

vii Bakhoor and Bakhoor Dani...... 83 Personal Experience ...... 84 Misri and Ittar ...... 85 Misri Dani ...... 86 Ittar Dani...... 86 Ornaments ...... 87 Serpech ...... 87 Sehraa...... 88 Baazubund...... 88 Dushalu ...... 88 Sash ...... 94 Kamarbund...... 89 Personal Memory ...... 89 Footwear...... 90 Chakhdi ...... 90 Containers...... 91 Namak Dani...... 91 Safra ...... 93 Kundli...... 93 Personal Experience ...... 94 Thaal...... 95 Chilamchi Loto...... 95 Loto...... 96 Furniture ...... 97 Takhat...... 97 Personal Experience ...... 98 Jazam...... 99

CHAPTER IV ARTIFACTS ANALYSES...... 101 Informants’ Responses ...... 101 Priming the canvas ...... 101 Family A...... 105 Background ...... 105 Personal Experience ...... 107 Analyses of Responses FAMILY A...... 107 Family B...... 114 Background ...... 114 Analyses of Responses FAMILY B ...... 118 Family C...... 131 Background ...... 131 Personal Experience ...... 133 Analyses of Responses FAMILY C ...... 134 Epilogue ...... 136 What Do These Artifacts Mean?...... 136

viii CHAPTER V CONCLUSIONS AND IMPLICATIONS...... 154 Conclusions ...... 154 Suggestions for Further Research ...... 160 Material Culture and Some Implications for Art Education Practice ...... 162 A Bag of Identities ...... 162 Cut Your Cloth According to Your Coat ...... 167 Hats Off to Difference—The Material Culture/Art Education Connection...... 170

APPENDIX A QUESTIONNAIRES...... 178 Dress...... 178 Men...... 178 Kurta...... 178 Saya ...... 179 Perun ...... 180 Topi...... 181 Women ...... 182 Ridah ...... 182 Orhnu ...... 184 Massalaa ...... 185 Tasbee...... 186 Bakhoor and Bakhoor Dani...... 187 Misri and Misri Dani...... 188 Ittar and Ittar Dani...... 189 Footwear...... 190 Chakhdi ...... 190 Containers...... 191 Namak and Namak Dani ...... 191 Safra and Kundli...... 192 Thaal...... 193 Chilamchi Loto...... 194 Loto...... 195 Furniture ...... 196 Jazam...... 196

APPENDIX B RECIPES ...... 197 Recipe for making Bakhoor ...... 197 Recipe for making Misri ...... 198

APPENDIX C DEMOGRAPHIC INFORMATION OF THE BOHRA ...... 199

APPENDIX D ILLUSTRATIONS ...... 200

REFERENCES...... 227

ix LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Figure 1: Kurta Saya ...... 201

Figure 2: Perun...... 202

Figure 3: Man wearing a Topi (front and back view) ...... 203

Figure 4: Topi over a mould, mould and Topi...... 204

Figure 5: Woman wearing a Ridah (front and back view)...... 205

Figure 6: A detail of pattern on Orhnu...... 206

Figure 7: Two rows of Massalaa with Tasbee on the middle Massalaa ...... 207

Figure 8: Bakhoor Dani...... 208

Figure 9: Ittar Dani ...... 209

Figure 10: Serpech ...... 210

Figure 11: Dulha with Serpech, Dushalu, Baazubund and Kamarbund...... 211

Figure 12: Man wearing a Pagri ...... 212

Figure 13: Sehraa ...... 213

Figure 14: Baazubund ...... 214

Figure 15: Dushalu...... 215

Figure 16: Chakhdi...... 216

Figure 17: Namak Dani ...... 217

Figure 18: Offering and taking a pinch of salt ...... 218

Figure 19: Six-legged Kundli ...... 219

Figure 20: Folded Kundli ...... 220

Figure 21: Thaal on Kundli on Safra ...... 221

Figure 22: Chilamchi and Loto...... 222

x Figure 23: Chilamchi Loto on a Safra...... 223

Figure 24: Man performing ablutions. Loto is to his left. Chakhdi is in front of loto..224

Figure 25: Takhat ...... 225

Figure 26: Detail of pattern on Jazam...... 226

xi

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I owe a debt of gratitude to many people for making it possible for me to complete this research study. Foremost among them are my committee members. Dr.

Paul Bolin, my advisor and chair of the committee, Dr. Patricia Amburgy, Dr. Yvonne

Gaudelius, and Dr. E. Paul Durrenberger have unfailingly supported, guided, and encouraged me in the writing of this thesis. It would have been impossible for me to bring this study to fruition without Dr. Bolin’s confidence in my ability to put “my pen where my heart is.” I will always be grateful for that.

I want to thank my informants in Kenya. Their time, patience and good humor in dealing with my incessant questions made my work rewarding and that much easier.

My gratitude goes to my late father, whose spirit has always been with me, my mother, my sisters, brother, my extended family and friends in the United States, Britain,

India, and Kenya. Their concern, love and prayers have sustained me throughout the pursuit of this degree. I want to express my deep appreciation for what Dr. Lois

Petrovich-Mwaniki, my advisor during my Master’s program, and Dr. Madhu Suri

Prakash, a wonderful teacher, have done for me. Without the friendship of the former I would have found it difficult to continue at Penn State, and the latter has enriched and changed my thinking and life.

Finally, my everlasting shukur goes to my mentor and spiritual father Aqua Maula

(TUS). As always, his prayers for me have been my strength.

CHAPTER I

CONCEPTUAL AND THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK

Conceptual Framework

Introduction

This research is my acknowledgment of being a Bohra. In the text I have told the story of how I became interested in artifacts of our material culture, and how art making can be a catalyst for bringing material culture and art education together.

Writing about a culture through its artifacts is not an uncharted arena. But writing about Bohra material culture is something not attempted before. I am keenly aware of the limitations of such a study, but have tried to do justice to a culture that is old but is, like a lot of other less known and understood traditions, influenced by modernity. In doing this research, I have tried to retain the essential character of the Bohra people which is of an enterprising community that is conscious of its cultural and religious obligations. I wish to dwell briefly on the names of the artifacts. I have spelt the names of the artifacts as we Bohra say them. I am aware that readers of Indian origin may find some kinship with the names. The Arabic words, too, I have spelt in a way that will help in pronunciation. Thus, all words that are italicized are said in the way they have been written. In order to facilitate a clearer understanding and appreciation of the artifacts, I have included twenty six original illustrations in this research study. I executed these images, between fall 1999 and Spring 2000, by employing the technique of relief 2 printmaking using a linoleum. The illustrations represent the artifact and the function it performs.

I have provided a list of definitions for those words that represent names of the

Bohra artifacts in alphabetical order and have italicized all non-English words throughout the study. The names of my respondents are pseudonyms.

Colloquially Bohra add an “s” when they talk in the plural about themselves or their artifacts. I have avoided that practice, however, as I believe it would be incorrect in the vernacular grammar. By the same token, I have not placed an article in front of nouns where in English it would be desirable. Thus, number agreement of nouns and their corresponding verbs is literally played by the ear. The noun Bohra in isolation denotes both women and men.

Outline of Successive Chapters

This research study is divided into five chapters. In Chapter I, I lay out the conceptual framework of my inquiry. I state the problem and posit arguments that rationalize the purpose and significance of the study. This coneptualization leads the reader to the theoretical framework in which I introduce a preliminary overview of the research inquiry. I discuss the numerous viewpoints held by various researchers about artifacts, what methodology I employed for the research, the role of a pilot study and how participant observation facilitated the qualitative/ethnographic nature of the study. I also introduce the Bohra—the community whose material culture is the mediator to this inquiry. Examining the artifacts of the Bohra revealed as much about the people as about

3 the objects themselves. These artifacts specifically and artifacts in general, thus, become vehicles for making the link between material culture studies and art education.

Chapter II describes a detailed analysis of the relationship between material culture, material culture studies, art, artifacts, and art education. I conclude this chapter by exploring the viability of integrating artifacts as primary resources for learning and teaching about art.

Chapter III examines in detail three categories of artifacts that the Bohra utilize in their daily lives. I describe the physical characteristics of the artifacts, who makes them, how they are constructed, and how much they cost. Throughout this chapter and the following one—Chapter IV—I intersperse descriptions and analyses with narratives that are personal to me. The experiential in material culture studies is as valid as the physical and legitimates the link that exists between the artifact and the artificer. In Chapter V, I delve into the sociological, semiotic, anthropological, historical, psychoanalytical, and the Marxist perspectives that impact the various artifacts and how the Bohra interact with them.

The last chapter synthesizes the relationships between and among the three main variables—art, art education and material culture studies. It reports on the implications for art education by providing instructional guidelines for an art syllabus, and outlines suggestions for further research.

Statement of the Problem

The study of artifacts has its antecedents in archaeology and art history. To explore and understand these two epistemes is to acknowledge the variety of human

4 experiences and behaviors associated with them. Dissanayake (1990) in her book What

Is Art For? cogently explains the inseparable connection between art and behavior. For her, art is not spelled with a capital A (p. 4). Her approach is ethological or

“bioevolutionary.” She explains, “I will be concerned with the evolution and development of behavior . . . that is as characteristic of humankind as toolmaking, symbolization, language, and the development of culture” (p. 6). She elaborates on the concept of behavior of art as something that is not necessarily compartmentalized into artistic activities such as painting, dancing, pottery or sculpture. Rather, her thesis states that all these physical acts and many more are “art as a general behavior with many varied manifestations” (p. 8). She contends that this thought process allows for the inclusion of all the “arts” from all societies. She says:

Therefore, in the ethological purview, art in the Western sense will have to find its

place as one of a number of manifestations that have existed and do exist; it is not

presumed that any particular society’s notion of art is the one true view. (p. 8)

From this premise, I view art to be a way of life in which there is room for virtually all human endeavors. This, of necessity, nurtures an inclusiveness that embraces all cultural artifacts.

That artifact has “art” as its beginning validates its inherent purpose of recognizing the creative impulse with which all humans are endowed. The word artifact derives from the Latin arte meaning skill and factum meaning something done (Gove,

1981, p. 124). At its most basic level, the word art means, “skill in the adaptation of things in the natural world to the uses of human life” (p. 122). This is more than an etymological coincidence; its significance is greater. Artifacts become windows through

5 which one can see inside a culture (McFee & Degge, 1977). The words “art” and

artifact are inextricably related and the problem of linkage between the two is a primary subject of my study.

What is art? This question has engaged artists in a discursive discourse since

Plato wrote his treatise on What is Art? (Sesonske, 1965). Is art a Grecian amphora, c.

950 BC (Kissick, 1997, p. 78)? Is a digitally constructed photograph on our television screen considered art? Would a winter landscape painted on a canvas be called art?

What about the royal ivory mask of the Benin people (Fagg & Plass, 1964, p. 66)? Can

Chesapeake smoking pipes be categorized as art (Deetz, 1996, p. 247)? Can any of these

“artworks” be independent of the person who made them? What were the processual decisions made and considerations given in their manufacture? How did they affect the lives of the people who made these artworks and the lives of those around them?

According to Lavin (1983), “anything man-made is a work of art, even the lowliest and most purely functional object” (p. 98). Implicit in this statement is the assumption that all artifacts are works of art. However, culturally and historically, because artifacts comprise all manufactured and hand-made objects in Western societies, we have become conditioned to view them outside the realm of art. This has created pedagogic binaries between art and artifacts that are inconsistent with postmodern pluralistic trends prevalent in the United States (Congdon, 1985; Pocius, 1997).

A clear dichotomy, created by utilitarian values, existed and still exists, between objects and art (Deetz, 1980; Hooper-Greenhill, 1992; Judson, 1987; Kingery, 1993;

Newton, 1994; Weil, 1998). The former are generally associated with people and their daily lives. People use artifacts for a variety of purposes—social, religious, and

6 cultural—and replace them when normal wear and tear has taken toll of their serviceability (Deetz, 1980; Gordon, 1993; Leonard & Terrell, 1980; Otzoy, 1996;

Pearce, 1994). Judged by the number of museums that hold artworks from the past, art is unique and made for posterity (Alexander, 1979; Hooper-Greenhill, 1992; Wallach,

1998). Its main function is to use the visual to engage all our sensibilities. Traditional aestheticians believe that an artwork evokes emotional responses in the viewer, and overlook the power of artifacts to do the same. The cognitive and affective domains that enable one to experience fully a work of art are equally at play when one interacts with an artifact. In fact, artifacts can inform all the five senses and promote an appreciation of non-Western cultures (Hudson, 1991). Whereas, it seems inconceivable that art galleries and museums would ever permit viewers to touch and feel the impasto on a van Gogh, a de Kooning or a Pollock canvas, handling objects in everyday life is almost a given. It engages viewers in a conversation whose values go beyond abstract thought to concrete experiences (Durbin, Morris, & Wilkinson, 1990; McFee, 1961; Prown, 1991). Despite the continual controversy between art and artifacts, historians such as Thomas McEvilley and Robert Rosenblum, art philosopher and critic, Arthur Danto, and artists promulgate the theory that art, in the postmodern and post-historical context, must embrace all forms of expression (Bolin, 1993; McFee & Degge, 1977; Menand, 1998). This inclusive concept is termed “pluralist” and is “the ascendant philosophy of the day” (Menand,

1998, p. 41).

Art and artifacts are a reflection of a culture, past or present. Postmodern art is replete with examples of artifacts that stand side by side with some of the most venerated examples of high art. In the context of early 20th century art, consider Duchamp’s urinal

7 exhibited as The Fountain by R. Mutt, in 1917. Although the jurors of the First New

York Society of Independent Artists rejected the mundane urinal as art, Duchamp challenged the idea that art objects must be unique to be accepted as art and resigned, from the jury to which he was appointed, in protest. Picasso used a leather bicycle saddle and a pair of handle bars to create Head of a Bull (1943). The urinal, the bicycle saddle, and the handlebars are mass-produced objects elevated to high art by virtue of a rechristening. For Duchamp and Picasso the ideas behind their artmaking transform the mundane into a sacrosanct artwork. This raises questions of validity. Does an object have to be renamed to be accepted as art? Why cannot a chair be a chair and still be considered art? A Eurocentric perspective, that explores such questions somewhat superficially, has had far-reaching adverse repercussions in the context of non-European culture and its presentation and representation (Arnoldi, Geary & Hardin, 1996). It has created a separation of art and artifacts into two distinct camps that are justified by socio- political premises. Researchers such as McFee and Degge (1977), and Congdon (1985), have theorized that to do so has created a hierarchy—educational as well as cultural— that is ill advised in the United States at the start of a new millennium.

Thus, the overarching questions I address are ethnographic in nature. I suggest that taking an ethnographic approach is closer to Dissanayake’s bioevolutionary construct and one that is more accommodating of artifacts. How can cultural artifacts that are considered “craft” narrow the gap between European and non-European cultures based on sociological, political, and ideological constructs? As Silvers (1999) states,

“abandoning the distinction between art and craft brings us closer to European antiquity, which did not draw this distinction” (p. 97). Hence, the focus of my inquiry is on how

8 the study of artifacts can help eliminate distinctions that have been drawn and are still prevalent between art and artifacts (Bolin, 1995; Deetz, 1980; Prown, 1993; Lock, 1998).

Using the pedagogy of material culture studies, I examine three questions: (a) How can material culture studies, mediated by the cultural artifacts of the Bohra, be integrated into art education at the same level as the study of other “traditional” artworks, namely, paintings and sculptures? (b) What is the link between the artifactual and the art, vis-à- vis the dress, containers, and furniture of the Bohra? (c) How can artifacts become markers of a cultural identity for a people who are dispersed throughout the world as the

Bohra are? These primary questions provoke further inquiry and analysis of the meaning

Bohra families attach to artifacts of their material world. How do Bohra families relate with the various artifacts they use? How does a Bohra family living in rural Kenya

(Mariakani) differ, in its perception and relationship toward the artifacts they use every day, from a family living in an urban center? How does living in New York influence the cultural, religious, and communal awareness a Bohra family has for its artifacts?

Answers to these and other questions I asked my informants provide insight into the socio-political and religious structure of a community and how they make meaning of their lives in a pluralistic society.

The Purpose of the Study

The purpose of this study is twofold. I examine: (a) the problematic of linkage between material culture studies and art, mediated by the artifacts of a specific culture— the Bohra. The concepts of linkage, backward and forward, are necessary components in the interpretation and understanding of artifacts. As defined by Gordon (1993), backward

9 linkage alludes to the origins of artifacts and forward linkage to their uses. These two concepts delineate the difference between how art and artifacts are viewed. Functionality of artifacts resides in a cultural realm in which human endeavor and creativity are interwoven. In contrast to this, art and art making, very much products of human creative impulse, manifest themselves in ways that are only dissimilar in their intent from those of artifact making. Function implies service and as Gablick (1995) has noted, “in our culture, the notion of art being in service to anything [italics in the original] is anathema.

Service has been totally deleted from our view of art . . . I would like to change that” (p.

196). Thus, the second purpose of this study is to ask and answer: (b) How do the functions of dress, containers, and furniture represent the cultural identity of a people who are dispersed throughout the world as the Bohra are? Artifacts can be used to understand how cultures function. They can be seen, touched, felt, and tasted, and can serve as catalysts for a dialogue, in which there is room for celebration and understanding of those objects that may or may not perform similar functions in other cultures (McFee

& Degge, 1977).

This study will also enable me to understand the Bohra, their way of life, and how and why they use these artifacts. Cultural artifacts elucidate why a community wears what it does, eats in a given manner, follows certain rituals and practices specific rites.

Studying the objects, in relation to the various aspects of a culture that created them, helps to concretize that culture. I seek to understand cultural knowledge as a function of the various aspects of the Bohra way of life by analyzing the interaction of the people with the artifacts (Hegmon, 1995; Kingery, 1993).

10 The Significance of the Study

Examining the material culture of the Bohra will enable me to see my study through two lenses—the private and the professional. On a private and personal level, very few among us are not conscious of material possessions that can range from a

Mercedes-Benz to a stuffed animal (Lemonnier, 1993; Menzel, 1994). We use objects to define who and what we are. As a member of the Bohra community, I play an emic role.

Therefore, the study of our artifacts will elucidate how we make sense of our daily life that is juxtaposed between two binaries—living in the United States, Britain, India, or

Kenya, and being Bohra and living with a “realization of who we are, how we act and what we think, and what stories we can tell” (Mohanty, 1994, p. 148). Contexualizing the artifacts of a specific community demystifies that culture, and places it in its appropriate perspective (Dissanayake, 1990; Hudson, 1991; Kyvig & Marty, 1982;

Mohanty, 1994). How do the Bohra maintain their ethnic identity within the parameters of assimilation and acculturation? Understanding one’s own past history raises a consciousness of the diversity that surrounds one’s milieu and creates a curiosity to learn about other cultures (Somjee, 1993). As a researcher, therefore, I situated my study within the context of critical interpretation. I analyzed the information collected against the background of a broader mainstream culture and examined how that helped to shape the multiple perspectives each Bohra family possessed about their artifacts (Creswell,

1998; Danto, 1998).

Pedagogically, the study of artifacts can act as a springboard for integrating material culture studies with art. How is the subjective knowledge of the histories of artifacts and the people who use them reflected in such a cross-disciplinary exchange

11 (Mohanty, 1994)? Does it help us to understand one’s culture and in turn other cultures?

Will artifacts be considered as art (Chalmers, 1981; Danto, 1992; Glassie, 1982; Prown

1993; Sheppard, 1993; Shoemaker, 1998)? The cultural, social and political awareness that will emerge among students, as a result of the knowledge gained by studying artifacts, will make it easier to appreciate the pedagogical and ideological constructs, cultures and their artifacts.

12

Definition of Terms—Listed Alphabetically

Aamil. Chief priest of the community who has both religious and temporal authority

Akni Rice cooked with meat and spices

Allah God in Arabic

Almari Chest of drawers

Baazubund Armband

Bakhoor Dani Incense holder

Bismillahi-rahmani-raheem In the Name of Allah, the Compassionate and the Merciful

Bohra Indian Muslim community whose artifacts are the subject of this study bohra When spelt in lower case it means a trader

Chakhdi Wooden footwear

Chilamchi Loto Composite water container. The second word represents the container that sits on top of the bottom container represented by the first word

Darbaar Royal court

Dupatta Another word for Orhnu

Dushalu Short shawl held over the left forearm

13 Eezaar Trousers

Feta A turban made from gold brocade

Ghaghra Ankle-length skirt

Hajj Annual pilgrimage to Makkah

Hijab Scarf that covers a Muslim woman’s head

Idd-ul-Adha Festival celebrating the end of Hajj

Idd-ul-Fitre Festival marking the end of the fasting month

Imam One who leads the congregation in prayers

Ittar Dani Perfume bottle

Jamaat Social system

Jaman Communal eating

Jazam Block-printed cotton floor covering

Kamarbund Broad waistband

Khurdi Lamb cooked in milk and mint

Kundli Structure that supports a thaal

Kurta Loose calf-length long-sleeved shirt

14 Lisanul-Daawat Esoteric dialect spoken by the Bohra

Loto Water container

Maghreeb Sunset. In the context of this study, the time immediately after sunset when one starts evening prayers

Majlis Communal meeting

Makaan House

Marsiya Dirges

Masjid Mosque. The word masjid was transformed into mosque in the 1870s, through mispronunciation of the Arabic “j” by the Spanish, Portuguese, and French finally becoming mosque in the English language (Yule & Burnell, 1996, pp. 589-590).

Massalaa Prayer mat

Minbar Raised platform or a high chair

Misaaq Ceremony that marks the coming-of-age at puberty

Misaaq Mubaarak Congratulatory greeting for the ceremony marking the coming-of-age at puberty

Misri Sugar or candy

Misri Dani Plate for candy

Moalim Teacher

Mullah Cleric

15 Mumineen Believers

Namak Salt

Namak Dani Salt bowl

Nikah Ceremony that unites a Muslim man and woman in marriage

Niqaab Face veil

Orhnu Large scarf

Pagri Turban

Perun Variant of a kurta but with a distinguishing neck facing

Picho Upper part of the ridah—a hood-and-cape ensemble

Qibla Direction toward Makkah

Qur’an Islam’s holy book

Ramazaan Ninth month of the Muslim calendar when Muslims fast

Ridah Bohra representation of the veil

Safra Floor covering performing the function of a tablecloth

SAW Acronym for the Arabic invocation—Peace Be Upon Him—that is said after the Prophet’s name

16 Saya Long loose overcoat

Sehraa Veil of flowers

Serpech Feather

Shukur Gratitude

Suzni Plastic or cloth lining under a massalaa. It can be either stitched to the massalaa or detached

Tahaarat Cleanliness

Takhat Wooden throne

Tasbee Prayer beads

Thaal Round aluminum or stainless steel tray three feet in diameter

Topi Cap

Waez Oration

Zam Zam Well that is between two hillocks next to the Kaaba, Safaa and Marwa, near Makkah in Saudi Arabia

17

Theoretical Framework

Artifacts

At the beginning of this study, I brought out the conjunction between archaeology and artifacts. Archaeology is concerned with things made and used by humans. These include a vast array of objects such as “settlements, buildings, utensils, tools, weapons, objects of ornaments and pure artistic expression—the sum total of things fashioned in some way for human purposes” (Goetz, 1986, p. 525). Most material culturalists agree that objects are the backbone of a societal structure. Culture reflects the interaction of knowledge, beliefs, norms and values mediated by people and their behaviors. As such, the dissemination of that culture rests upon objects when they are concretized into artifacts by human action for human purpose (Bolin, 1992-93; Bronner, 1986; Chilton,

1999; Fleming, 1982; Hodder, 1992; Mayo, 1984; Prown, 1993; Richardson, 1989;

Schlereth, 1985).

The study of material culture and artifacts has a checkered history. Thomas

Schlereth is a noted American scholar in material culture and artifacts. Although there are many other folklorists (Ames, 1977; Dorson, 1982; Glassie, 1994), archaeologists

(Deetz, 1985; Ferguson, 1977), and anthropologists (Beckow, 1975; Kniffen, 1982) who have explored the subject from their own interests and biases, I have based my research primarily on the writings of Arthur Asa Berger (1992), and David E. Kyvig and Myron

A. Marty (1982).

Although Kyvig and Marty (1982) restrict the use of the term “material culture” to things, they, nevertheless, consider artifacts from “the nearby physical environment”

18 (p. 149) as one more tangible source of studying nearby histories. History connotes the past and by extension the remembrance of things and events gone by. However, Kyvig and Marty (1982) have broadened the scope of historical memory by adding a defining adjective “nearby” that allows the inclusion of the present. Thus in their book Nearby

History: Exploring the Past Around You, the authors explore the concept of “nearby history” to emphasize the importance of “the entire range of possibilities in a person’s immediate environment” (p. 4). However, the immediate has a past that reverberates around us through memory and has the weight of history to sustain people at a local and national level. It is as applicable for individuals as it is for families and communities.

According to Kyvig and Marty (1982), history “reveals the origins of conditions, the causes of change, and the reasons for present circumstances” (p. 10). It can be preserved and disseminated, first and foremost, by an individual and then by a group and their collective memory.

Memory is the cornerstone of local or nearby histories, and the family is viewed as one of its most common units. Within the context of the family there is abundant leeway for study, with shifting foci on relationships among its different components— physical characteristics, location, economic status, daily routine and education. The family, when multiplied several hundred times, becomes a community that has many of these features, and possesses some that are unique to it. Specifically, matriarchal traditions and women in general find a voice for their memories and stories, that have been previously unheard, in material culture studies.

Kyvig and Marty (1982) have enumerated several sources that reveal traces of nearby histories: “Traces are the remains, tracks, marks, records, remnants, relics, and

19 footprints of events” (p. 47). They can be published or unpublished documents, oral documentation of “eyewitness and participant accounts” (p. 111), visual documents such as “photographs, drawings, paintings, and movies” (p. 128), “artifacts” (p. 149) and

“landscapes” (p. 165). Traces form the basis of the exploration of nearby histories.

Kyvig and Marty (1982) have divided the concept of traces into four categories:

“immaterial, material, written and representational” (p. 47). Immaterial traces include customs, traditions, beliefs, principles, practices, and language. Material traces consist of

“products of human doings” (p. 48). Material traces vary in size but are an indication of the remains of human activities and events. Written traces comprise the gamut of all records, handwritten, typed or word-processed, private or public, carved or engraved.

Kyvig and Marty (1982) state that visual documents such as photographs belong to the realm of “representational” trace that has both a “tangible and sensory presence” (p. 48), because it is a trace and within itself it preserves other traces.

So far, I have linked the concept of memory to various sources that provide insight into our individual histories. I now turn to artifacts to theorize how Kyvig and

Marty (1982) make the paradigm shift from the abstract—words and pictures—to the concrete—artifacts. The abstract is the conceptual world and the concrete the perceptual one (p. 149). Paradoxically, the study of material culture is not just limited to the appreciation of its perceived qualities, qualities that are “seen, heard, touched, smelled, tasted, weighed, measured and counted” (pp. 149-150). Rather, material culture studies must be conceptualized—“understood in words” (p. 150).

Kyvig and Marty (1982) rely on the works of Robert Chenhall (1978), a museologist, and Fleming (1974), a material culturalist, to present their own slant on

20 nearby histories and artifacts. Chenhall utilized ten categories to show the vast range of artifacts material culturalists can study. I reproduce these verbatim:

1. Structures. Originally created to serve as shelter from the elements or to

meet some other human need for a relatively permanent location.

2. Building furnishings. Intended to be used in or around buildings for the

purpose of providing comfort, care, and pleasure to the occupants.

3. Personal artifacts. Designed to serve the personal needs of individuals—

clothing, adornment, body protection, grooming aids, or symbols of

beliefs or achievements.

4. Tools and equipment. Made to be used in carrying on an activity such as

an art, craft, trade, profession, or hobby; the tools, implements, and

equipment used in the process of modifying available resources for some

human purpose.

5. Communication artifacts. Originally created for the purpose of facilitating

human communication.

6. Transportation artifacts. Devised as vehicles for the transporting of

passengers or freight.

7. Art objects. Intended for aesthetic purposes or as a demonstration of

creative skill and dexterity; the essential requirement is that the artifact

was created for no apparent utilitarian purpose.

8. Recreational artifacts. Invented for use as toys or in carrying on the

activities of sports, games, gambling, or public entertainment.

21 9. Societal artifacts. Made to be used in carrying on governmental, fraternal,

religious, or other organized and sanctioned societal activities.

10. Packages and containers. Originally produced for the packing and

shipping of goods and commodities; for some containers a precise

function cannot be determined. (p. 151)

These categories, when viewed against a background of a single artifact, elicit numerous questions that must be systematically addressed in order to be effective.

Although it may seem that materials and functions are the only two characteristics of artifacts, E. McClung Fleming (1974), the material culturalist, has developed a model of analysis of artifacts revolving around five properties, including materials and function, which provide all pertinent facts and information about artifacts.

The properties of an artifact are its history, material, construction, design, and function (p. 153). History pertains to the time when, and place where, an artifact was made. It also encompasses by whom and for whom and why it was made, and what changes have been made in its function. Material refers to the physicality of the artifact and provides a clue to its outer appearance. Construction alludes to the techniques of production, the skill required in its manufacture and how the components are assembled to bring about a functional artifact. Design is closely related to construction and includes structure, form, surface embellishment, style and any symbolisms attached to the artifact.

Function should not override the aesthetic qualities of artifacts, but should act in conjunction with each other. Function refers to the use and the role of the artifact in its cultural context. The use of artifacts is the utility ascribed to it, while role refers to the pleasure that is derived from using an artifact and its symbolic significance.

22 Properties alone do not generate the kind of information sufficient for creating a comprehensive relationship between an artifact and the artificer. They need four supplementary “operations” (p. 153) to be performed on them in order to arrive at answers about artifacts. The first operation is identification, based on classification, authentication, and description, that yields both intrinsic and extrinsic data about artifacts.

The former is the result of “direct examination” of the artifact and the latter depends on external sources (p. 153). Intrinsic data requires a close analysis of the materials the artifact is made from while extrinsic data may lead one to libraries for research.

Additionally, an artifact must be classified either by its function, material, or construction. Once classified, it must be authenticated as to the truth of the claims made about its materials, construction and function. Description denotes the exact size, weight, color, shape, and texture—all the physical descriptors that initially catch a viewer’s eye.

The second operation, evaluation, is judgmental in nature. As such, it is both subjective and objective. The former is a judgment based on the intrinsic value of artifacts, that is to say, their physical, aesthetic, and technical qualities. The latter is extrinsic in that it is compared with similar examples used in other cultures. Kyvig and

Marty (1982) caution the historian/researcher not to make a single artifact responsible for explaining an entire culture.

The third operation, cultural analysis, examines the relationship of the artifact to the culture that created it. This operation delves into the very essence of an artifact. How does it help us to understand human action and human purpose? Kyvig and Marty (1982) elaborate on this premise by stating that,

23 Whether the function is utilitarian (as with a tool), social (as with an instrument of

communication), or artistic (as with a decorative object), it provides the key to the

knowledge, beliefs, ideas, norms, and values of the culture from which the artifact

comes. (p. 155)

Researchers need to be aware of the kinds of questions asked. An artifact cannot “reveal its worth” (p. 52) without external data, neither can an artifact be evaluated without its context, lest erroneous conclusions result.

The fourth operation is interpretation, but its ideational reach goes beyond its dictionary meaning of an explanation (Kay, 1988). Instead, it bears directly on the

“relationship between what is learned about the artifact and some key feature of contemporary life” (p. 155). I can exemplify this concept best by alluding to the ridah and the worldwide resurgence in the wearing of the veil among Muslim women. Despite the notion that “history” is often perceived as a continuum, artifacts do not always follow a progressional path from the old to new.

The discussion, thus far, should not lead one to assume that “nearby history,” though oxymoronic in its connotation, is only about the old and dated. What nearby history does is sensitize material culturalists, teachers and students of material culture studies to the enormous potential of objects as transmitters of meaning that help us to see the surrounding world as a living museum (Durbin, Morris, & Wilkinson, 1990).

Elsewhere I mentioned the close connection between archaeology and artifacts and it is to the former I return, to determine where artifacts may be found and what role archaeologists play in its study. Artifacts uncovered in archaeological digs and those found in our everyday experience both require the same methods of identification,

24 evaluation, analysis, and interpretation. The purportedly “old” furniture, tools, pottery, and clothing become antiques because to the antique dealer, age is often synonymous with monetary value, whereas for material culturalists and historians, all objects regardless of their age are worthy of study. The more exchange value an artifact has the greater its intrinsic value and the more curators, collectors, and dealers covet it.

Museums have played a pivotal role in perpetuating the idea of the artifact as an

“untouchable”—something that is merely looked at from behind bars or railings or inside glass cases. Museums have tended to exoticize the past, misrepresent it, or neglect it completely. Given such ideological attitudes, material culture and artifacts have tended to be displayed in museums when it suited curators, or at the behest of patrons who sought prominent display of their “so-called collections” for political gain. This is antithetical to what artifacts are about. Artifacts are directly linked with stories, and stories cannot be easily heard when artifacts are placed under lock and key.

When artifacts become accessible for examination, the variety of interpretive explanations arrived at by people is a measure of the complex nature of material culture studies. I have discussed at length the criteria Kyvig and Marty (1982) have applied to facilitate an understanding of artifacts and the multiple roles they play. In the last part of this section I wish to examine what methodology Berger (1992) has employed to “read” artifacts, and compare his perspectives with those of Kyvig and Marty (1982).

Berger (1992) concurs with Kyvig and Marty (1982) in stating that material culture is a vast subject. Unlike Kyvig and Marty (1982), who considered artifacts from the past to tell history in the present, Berger’s lens is focused on contemporary objects used in American society in order to capture their relationship with the past and how

25 these objects have been dispersed to other cultures. He uses a comparative approach to make meaning from and bring sense to why, for example, a hamburger is tastier when eaten at Macdonald’s than when it is consumed at home.

Berger (1992) uses a system of classification—such as categories, location, complexity range, and aesthetic considerations—which is similar in concept to the properties Kyvig and Marty (1982) has borrowed from Fleming (1974). The main difference between the two classification systems is that Berger (1992) contends that to unravel the overt and subtle meanings of objects six approaches, namely semiotic, historical, anthropological, psychoanalytic, Marxist and sociological, can be used—the most important being semiotics. He adopts the semiotic theories of Ferdinand de

Saussure (1857-1913) and Charles Sanders Peirce (1839-1914) to explore material culture.

For Saussure, at the simplest level, semiotics denotes a sign. A sign has two components—a signifier and a signified. The signifier is the word that is used to name something. Thus “chair” is a signifier used to identify an object (signified) that has a seat, two, three, or four legs, and it may be made of wood or any other synthetic material.

According to Saussure, the “word” chair and the “object” chair do not have any “natural” connection (p. 18). A chair becomes a viable signifier only when its characteristic feature—that one can sit on it—is compared against an object that does not have it.

Berger (1992) uses this concept of opposition to analyze objects, although he suggests that opposition does not necessarily mean “there are only two sides to an argument” (p.

19). Hence, the “seeing” and “reading” of objects requires multiple lenses that result in asking numerous questions. Why is an artifact precious? What makes it valuable? How

26 was it made? Who made it? The questions reflect on the interdependence of objects and society.

Peirce holds a different position. According to him there are three signs—icons, indexes and symbols. I quote Berger (1992) to explain these three signs and how each operates within the context of material culture: “Icons signify by resemblance, indexical signs signify by causal connections (which have to be inferred) and symbols signify by convention (which means we must learn what symbols mean)” (p. 20). Berger suggests that indexicality of signs is the most pertinent concept for material culture (p. 20), because one gets insight into a society or culture by relating with it. Berger’s (1992) position on the historical analysis of material culture resonates with that of Kyvig and

Marty (1982). History for them goes beyond the record of the great and famous and captures a view of the past, with reference to the present, through the analysis of artifacts.

Berger uses the writings of Huizinga (1924), Braudel (1981), Briggs (1988), and

Gowans (1981) to illustrate the relationship that exists between history and people. In each instance these authors based their research on the historical perspective to interpret everyday life, through objects that were related to religion, culture, art, or society of their time. Alan Gowans (1981) advocates an ideologically radical position that questions the very nature of art history. In the Preface to his book, Learning to See (1981) he makes a position statement that is based on the assumption that artifacts represent and perform the same social functions as traditional or historic arts. He maintains that art and artifacts now as before must be utilized to serve as “instruments of research into the past” (p. 3).

He asserts that some contemporary art historians are “reluctant to broaden the definition of art to the extent that social function requires” (p. 4). He elaborates on the theme of

27 social function as a by-product of cultural expression that preceded and was built on an aesthetic line-of-progress. He suggests that these three methodologies inevitably reflect a situation in which art history texts glorify a Eurocentric tradition that, for example, tells one how “taste” could differ so much amongst mankind’s diverse civilizations” (p. 11), but never why they differed.

In this context, cultural expression as a tool for art history is also very limiting, primarily because it fails to acknowledge the paradigm shift that has occurred in the way we perceive art. Art and artifacts should help society to understand “certain specific and objectively recognizable functions,” and not be restricted for “the sensibilities and expression of artists” (p. 17). Gowans cites four social functions of art history:

1. Substitute Imagery: Historic arts made substitute images of things or

ideas whose memory it was desirable for some reason to preserve.

2. Illustration: Historic arts so related substitute image as to tell stories or

record events.

3. Beautification: Historic arts deliberately shaped artifacts so as to make

their function(s) plain to individual beholders, and thence to communities

at large . . . and/or added substitute images, symbols or illustrations to

artifacts so as to link them to beholders’ experience and to the historical

experience of communities.

4. Persuasion/Conviction: Historic arts deliberately “styled” artifacts so as to

evoke associations with, or create metaphors of, ideologies and

presuppositions (convictions) which underlie all social institutions.

Historic arts thus were vehicles and instruments for transmitting those

28 accepted values, ethic, belief systems, upon which ultimately depends the

endurance of city, State and family. (pp. 17-18)

Gowans’ methodologies for an historical study of artifacts reveal the social, economic, and political dynamics of a community.

Rituals, rites, myths, and legends are rich in symbols and a great storehouse of anthropological research. Anthropology is viewed as nearly synonymous with culture

(Appadurai, 1986; Creswell, 1998). Culture is never inborn. It is always shaped and determined by human intervention. As such, for Berger (1992) culture represents ideas, value systems, beliefs, practices, and ideologies held by people and passed from one generation to another and reflected in the material of that culture—hence material culture.

The anthropologic analysis presents many semiotic interpretations of objects, because of the symbolic significance attached to objects when used for rituals and ceremonies.

The psychoanalytic approach is fascinating in the scope it offers for interpreting and understanding the way our unconscious mind reacts to artifacts. Berger (1992) suggests that the function of the psychoanalytical material culturalist is not to delve into a person’s repressed desires and fears. Rather, it is to ascertain how much artifacts matter to them, and how not to be dominated by them. Based on Freud’s “Structural

Hypothesis,” Berger (1992) has developed a typology, based on id, ego and superego to interpret and understand material culture. To exemplify this concept, Berger (1992) identifies a bikini as having an id function—a function that represents all human drives.

A scientist’s white coat has an ego function—a function that relates to a person’s environment, and a clerical garb has a superego function—a function that pertains to one’s personal ideals and a sense of morality (pp. 53-54). Berger believes that the

29 psychoanalytic approach shows “the extent to which objects often are connected to aspects of our psyches” (p. 54). He discusses some common connections or “defense mechanisms” that help a person’s ego “maintain equilibrium” (p. 54). Berger has borrowed from Brenner’s An Elementary Textbook of Psychoanalysis (1974) to describe the way people become dependent on objects for the repression, suppression, reaction formation, undoing, denial, projection, identification, fixation, regression, rationalization, ambivalence and sublimation of their conscious and subconscious needs. The psychoanalytic approach to understanding the relationship we create with the objects around us is worthy of investigation, and elsewhere in this study I have made reference to those qualities that were relevant to the artifacts possessed by my informants (Berger,

1992, pp. 55-57).

The Marxist analysis of material culture revolves around several interconnected concepts such as economy, human needs and desires and how media manipulate these to sell goods, and perpetuate class differences in a capitalist society versus the so-called equality of a true Marxist society. In the new millennium, will the “democratic and humanistic aspects of Marx’s thought” (p. 71) bring about a society that is less divided on economic lines? Why does any government control the purchasing power of its economy and by extension its people? How are people affected by the economic and social conditions of the societies in which they live? Depending upon one’s affiliations,

Marxist thought and ideas may or may not provide the wherewithal to make meaning of material culture.

Finally, the sociological approach to material culture brings us back to function relative to people’s identities, roles and status. One of the main foci of a sociological

30 study of artifacts is to establish identity based on race, religion, ethnicity, gender, and location. Berger (1992) emphasizes the sociological significance of intended and latent functions of artifacts with which we surround ourselves.

In sum, Berger (1992) and Kyvig and Marty (1982) have demonstrated the potential for a comprehensive and rich study of material culture. The paradigms they have discussed and elaborated upon, based as they are on research carried out by previous scholars of material culture studies, attest to the diversity of view points and positions held by all who have a deep and abiding interest in objects that must attract human intervention to become artifacts of great value and interest.

Methodology

This research is an ethnography of the culture of a specific community—the Bohra.

It is a sociocultural interpretation—a written account—of the innate and learned behaviors, customs and ways of life as revealed by the artifacts, language, stories and experiences of these people (Creswell, 1998, pp. 59-59; Merriam, 1998). In an ethnographic research study such as this, the triadic interconnectedness of informants, artifacts and researcher is crucial. As the researcher, I had to recognize the four essential components of any ethnographic study: (a) my relationship with the informants; (b) where, at what time, and which people to select to observe and interview; (c) the data collection: The interview questions helped me to understand and answer my research questions; and (d) the analysis of the data (Maxwell, 1996, p. 68). As an emic insider— a Bohra—it seemed inevitable that I would be a participant observer and even a ‘full participant’—a functioning member of the community” (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992, p. 40).

31 For this study, I used an intensive sampling of three families comprising 24 informants. This purposeful sampling was best suited for my inquiry. It provided me with particular persons (families) “selected deliberately in order to provide important information” (Maxwell, 1996, p. 70). The selection criteria were based on the socio- economic status of each family, and the families were identified and chosen in consultation with the community elders—the Aamil and his coterie of attendants. The

Aamil was my key informant as he steered me in the direction I took with regard to the criterion for the selection of the families (Creswell, 1998). These families were typical of three socio-economic levels prevalent among the Bohra community. The small sample served two goals. First, it represented members of the community mediated by the typicality of the artifacts and the contexts within which they are used, and second, it reflected the heterogeneity of the population. The Bohra, as a community, are mostly self-employed business people and professionals. But, they are dispersed throughout the world. I wanted to determine the extent to which financial stability affected their attitudes toward the artifacts. The second goal—the heterogeneous population—insured that a range of family structures, and conditions of living, was captured. After the families were identified, I set up preliminary meetings with the head of each family to apply the elements of an ethnographic interview to determine their interest in my project and their willingness and availability to participate in it. The common link among the families was their belief in the artifacts as ethnic markers.

The financial situation of each of the three families is relative to the income generated by other families in similar circumstances in Kenya. Family A was an affluent family, well traveled and educated. Their wealth was inherited from a family business.

32 Family B was an average-income family struggling to keep pace with the spiraling inflation and economic fortunes of the country—Kenya. Their income was affected by some important factors: resettling in a new country—Kenya—and plain bad luck.

Family C was the most impoverished. By the economic standards of the community this family could be classified as working class. Furthermore, lack of education was the main reason they never managed to rise above their hard life. The same families, in the United

States, would be designated to lower financial brackets.

Various researchers have maintained that participant observation is one of several ways of conducting an ethnographic qualitative research (Creswell, 1998; Glesne &

Peshkin, 1992; Maxwell, 1996; Spradley, 1979). The other methods are “interviewing, conducting documentary analysis, examining life histories and creating investigator diaries” (Merriam, 1998, p. 14). The process of interviewing evolved in ways that I had not considered. The holy month of Ramazaan happened to coincide with my trip to

Malindi, Kenya—my research venue. Like all Muslims through out the world, the Bohra were fasting during that time. Whereas, Family A was enthusiastic about participating in the research, there was one very important caveat. Their obligation was first to the observance of daily prayers and other devotions that are a necessary part of the rituals of

Ramazaan. The informants in Family A, specifically, could not dispense their time for interviews during Ramazaan. I had to provide them with questionnaires (See

Appendices) to facilitate the greatest exchange of information and knowledge. The questionnaires, thus, were an alternative and additional method of procuring information while I waited for the completion of the fasting month. I circumvented the difficulty this situation presented to me by going for the evening prayers to the masjid where I was able

33 to observe and talk with members of this family during dinner that followed the prayers.

The masjid, as another locus of artifacts, was the ideal place for me to observe, compare, and contrast, unobtrusively, the attitudinal behaviors of my informants with the rest of the community members at large. These informal and friendly exchanges elicited information that I had not anticipated. I was, furthermore, fortunate to live with Family B for six weeks. During that interlude I immersed myself in the day-to-day activities of their life in which the artifacts played such an important role.

The interviews were in English, and in my mother tongue, Gujaraati. I included the viewpoints of children, in order to gauge the attitudinal differences that parents and children display and the inter-generational dynamics that come into play toward the artifacts.

Pilot Study

In preparation for my study, I made preliminary contacts and conducted interviews with four Bohra families, comprising 16 people, in the State of Pennsylvania.

One family has lived in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, for 25 years; two of the families are in

Philadelphia and one is in State College, Pennsylvania. The informants of my pilot study were comparable in their life style with those of my actual study (Glesne & Peshkin,

1992). However, by American standards, the family living in Carlisle can be considered middle to upper class, in which both parents hold well-paid jobs allowing them to support, financially, the college-going son. The Philadelphia informant was an affluent businesswoman who managed her own travel agency from her own home. The State

College informant’s life style was commensurate with that of a student living in the

34 United States. The pilot study was particularly useful for revising some of my interview questions and how I presented myself to the informants. Prior to traveling to Kenya, I corresponded with families in Kenya to determine their reactions and to ascertain the degree of cooperation and interest I could elicit from them in my research topic.

Participant Observation

Rigorous searching has produced no evidence of any studies conducted about the material culture of the Bohra. As such, I wanted to be actively engaged in the process of collecting my informants’ reflections, viewpoints and experiences vis-à-vis their artifacts.

This collaboration was based on the principles of participation in which the researcher and the researched were equally engaged. I wanted my study to present “a holistic cultural portrait” (Creswell, 1998, p. 60) of the Bohra that would describe their entire life style surrounded by artifacts and their historical, religious, political, environmental, and economic ramifications. Although I interacted with my informants for only six weeks, any disadvantage accrued by this relatively short period was in part mitigated by my emic role. As a Bohra, I was able to capture the subtle nuances of attitudes, interpret the semiotic significance of the artifacts, and bring to the research the viewpoint of an observer as participant mediated by my knowledge of their language, customs, rites and rituals (Berger, 1992, p. 9). The interpretation of “mute evidence” gleaned from artifacts

“give an important and different insight from that provided by any number of questionnaires” (Hodder, 1994, p. 395). Fortunately, for me, the objects of my study were not mute, because of the spoken interaction with an emic “insider” as opposed to an etic “outsider” (Creswell, 1998, p. 202). Traditionally, ethnographers eschewed bringing

35 personal experiences into any inquiry, including qualitative research. However, current trends in ethnographic research have validated the efficacy of experiential knowledge that informs an interactive approach in which the research questions, purposes, methods, and trustworthiness are all interconnected (Maxwell, 1996). Thus, the subjectivity of an emic insider is a quality that can strengthen research rather than act as an “affliction” (Glesne

& Peshkin, 1992, p. 104). To counteract any negative effects of experiential knowledge,

I applied the process of triangulation, and corroborated the information by interviewing, one-on-one, more than one member of each family (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992; Maxwell,

1996).

The richness of my experience as a participant observer can only be evaluated in terms of the opinions, stories, and facts I accumulated from my informants. I was pleasantly surprised and humbled by their willingness to participate in my research. The rapport I established with my informants went a long way in making the responses to my interview questions reliable. Of the 26 persons contacted for this study, two informants were completely averse to talking with me or even supplying me with written answers.

Since coercion or any form of persuasion would have been antithetical to qualitative research criteria, I respected the wishes of all my informants and accepted gratefully the stories and information they divulged. Thus, I drew the information used in this study from the responses of 24 individuals making up three Bohra families living in Kenya.

Historical and Demographic Information on the Bohra

The Bohra trace their ancestry to the ninth century through conversion from

Hinduism to Islam in the state of Gujarat, India. Throughout their history, the Bohra

36 have been traders. As a generic term bohra can be applied to other groups who may be traders and business people as well. As a proper noun, Bohra specifically refers to the

Dawoodi community, numbering approximately two million people, of whom some

8,000 live in the East African countries of Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania. (See Appendix

D.)

Indians have been part of the political history of the British colonization of east, central and southern Africa. In East Africa, Indians, both Hindus and Muslims, were imported as laborers to help build the railway line linking the port of Mombasa, Kenya, to Kampala, the capital city of Uganda, a thousand miles away. Some of the first Bohra families migrated from India to East Africa in the late 1860s. Some settled in the coastal towns of Mombasa, Malindi, and Lamu, setting up businesses dealing in consumer goods.

Others started a new life managing and working on sisal farms in Tanzania, and clove plantations in Zanzibar. Yet others found their fortunes in cotton plantations in Uganda.

They contributed both economically and socially to the general civic life of their new country of residence. They also built community schools, masjid, and halls to recreate a cultural milieu wherein they and their children could practice their religion and reestablish their ethnic identity, amid the mainstream culture. However, as the British government’s foreign policies began to change in favor of granting independence to its former colonies in Africa, Kenya became an independent republic in 1963. Many

Indians, among them the Bohra, who had British citizenship, chose to settle in Britain.

The Bohra, who were part of the Asians deported en masse from Uganda by Idi Amin in

1972, were offered refugee status and later citizenship in the United States, Canada,

Europe, and Australia. Today there is a flourishing Bohra community in each of these

37 countries. Currently, the largest concentration of Bohra is in the sub-continent of India,

Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Southeast Asia. Given their emigration to most parts of the world, and the inevitable assimilation into the mainstream culture of their new home,

Bohra artifacts have become ethnic markers uniting them in ways that transcend geographic and political boundaries, and bonding them secularly to their ancestral home,

India (Salvadori, 1983) and religiously to the Fatimid culture that prevailed from AD

907-AD 1171 in Egypt and from where the Bohra trace their religious affiliations and beliefs (Goetz, 1986).

A Memory

It was during the early 1970s that as part of a celebration for Idd-ul-Fitre—the festival marking the completion of fasting during the holy month of Ramazaan—the

Mombasa Bohra community organized an exhibition—a “tour” through a Bohra home.

This excursion took the visitor from the living room to the dining area, the bedroom, the bathroom and the toilet. On entering the living room, you saw the jazam spread on the floor. One part of the room had couches and chairs, the other side the traditional floor seating—a mattress with cushions all covered in fabric block-printed with geometric and floral motifs. Inside a glass-fronted display cabinet I remember seeing the ittar dani— perfume bottle—and in the corner on the floor was a bakhoor dani—incense in its holder.

There was a distinct, but not unpleasant, aroma of homemade incense wafting through the room. As I walked through all these rooms I was struck by the ambiance of the home. I wanted to touch everything—the safra and kundli, the namak dani on the thaal. I was familiar with all the objects and aromas I encountered there, yet they excited me. They

38 had a rich identity. Everything in the home belonged, because it was authentic.

Although it was an exhibition, the rooms looked lived-in. The artifacts came from someone’s home. They were not brand new objects bought from a store just for this occasion. The memory of that exhibition has left a lasting impression on me.

Much later, as a high school art teacher in Kenya, I had the privilege of knowing, understanding and teaching about another culture—Kenyan—where I integrated art making with material culture studies. One of the lessons I learnt then, and which I only fully understand now, is how fundamental artifacts are to all human beings, and how much they matter to us. As Miller (1998) says, “There are many instances where clearly things matter to people even when in speech they deride them as trivial and inconsequential” (p. 19). The conversations I had with my informants validated this sentiment.

These two events, separated by time and place, have influenced my interest in artifacts. Paradoxically, this interest both conflated with the political history of Kenya as it affected Asians, and was almost obliterated by it. Pre-independent Kenya was a time for the Asian communities to become “modern.” One of the ways of doing that was to speak English to the exclusion of one’s mother tongue, wear English clothes, become

Christians or attend Christian schools, work for a European boss, and adopt as many

English ways in one’s life as possible. This portrayed a public image that signified one’s march toward “progress” and “development” (Berry, 1990). The direct outcome of such an ideology was the stricture upon your right to be yourself—to retain your identity. Its first effect was on your daily life. What could you wear every morning to work or to school? Your private and communal life, as opposed to public life, was at odds with each

39 other. In such an environment the polarity between the private and the public was always challenging, and the community’s role in keeping its culture alive most crucial (Berry,

1990; Lappé, 1991; Orr, 1992).

CHAPTER II

LITERATURE REVIEW

The discourse about material culture is remarkable for the scope of its diversity.

Not only does “material” in material culture typify “a broad but usually not unrestricted range of objects” (Schlereth, 1982, p. 2), it also encompasses all human activity with its concomitant behavior patterns. The field of material culture studies is, on the other hand, the systemic examination of objects and their uses. These objects run the gamut from the manufactured to the hand-made—from it being a town in Central Pennsylvania to a mud hut in Lamu, Kenya; a can of Campbell soup to irio (a traditional Kikuyu dish made of corn, beans and meat), nail polish to henna. Artifacts—objects made or modified by humans—forge a statement about others, but more importantly they help us to understand ourselves.

Material Culture

The term material culture has so many interpretations that for the purposes of this inquiry it is necessary to review some of the more salient meanings. Nineteenth century anthropologists were the first to define material culture. In 1875, Pitt-Rivers, in a paper,

“On the Evolution of Culture,” urged fellow researchers to consider material culture as

“the outward signs or symbols of particular ideas in the mind” (Pitt-Rivers, 1906, p. 23).

According to Schlereth, (1990, p. 19), this viewpoint has regained favor among cultural anthropologists, whose interest in archaeology often exposes them, in intimate circumstances, to artifacts. A century later the scope of the definition of material culture 41 had expanded from Pitt-Rivers’ rather abstract notion to Schlereth’s (1985) more tangible explanation: “Material culture is that segment of human kind’s biosocial environment that has been purposely shaped by people according to culturally dictated plans” (p. 5).

He recognizes the complexity of culture and the involvement of humans in activities that embrace producing and using things that can be seen and touched, objects regarded as cultural artifacts. Thus, cultural artifacts are the end product derived from the application of cultural rules, and are not culture itself (Kyvig & Marty, 1982; Selby & Garretson,

1981; Schlereth, 1985; Prown, 1993).

Since artifacts are traditionally situated in the domain of archaeology, most researchers infer that human experience transformed into material culture leads us to an

“understanding of other peoples and other cultures, of other times and other places”

(Prown, 1993, pp. 17-18) [my emphases]. In the early years of the 20th century, when anthropology was still an infant discipline, much of the earlier archaeological and ethnographic work done by British and Western European anthropologists took place in their former colonies. This penchant for the material traditions of native peoples has given material culture an image that presupposed an interest in “primitive” cultures only

(Bronner, 1986; Dietler & Herbich, 1998; Kaeppler, 1992; Lubar & Kingery, 1993;

Mark, 1994; Mayo, 1984; Pearce, 1997; Pocius, 1991; Schlereth, 1982).

Material Culture Studies

Information about material culture studies continues to proliferate. But the debate about its status as a full-fledged academic discipline is as yet unresolved (Dissanayake,

1990; Gell, 1996; McDannell, 1995; Prown, 1982; Schlereth, 1982). Material culture is

42 considered a discipline if, first, it reaches “an intellectual audience with scholarly works” and, second, if it lays “claim to distinctive theoretical methods or empirical data important for humankind’s knowledge of self and of society.” As a pedagogy, material culture studies informs us of the “past and present creations of humankind” (Schlereth,

1985, p. 7). In the American context, Thomas Schlereth, more than any other cultural historian, can be credited with developing a working vocabulary and methodology for material culture studies. Many different handles have been given to the study of material culture. Upton (1985), proposed a rather loose, yet, all-embracing definition—“subject matter.” He envisaged material culture as a field so wide in its reach that it “would treat as many kinds and scales of objects as possible” (p. 26)—from the smallest household utensils to complete houses. Wood (1967) referred to the study of material culture as

“pots and pans history” (p. 431). Fleming’s label was “artifact studies” (cited in

Schlereth, 1990, p. 18). Two researchers, Dorson (1972) and Cotter (1974), called it

“physical folklife” (p. 2) and “above-ground archaeology” respectively (p. 269).

“Hardware history” was Lankton’s (1981) choice. These definitions reveal the individual researcher’s biases and each one has specific limitations and strengths.

I contend that Dorson’s definition is inappropriate for various reasons, the most compelling being the use of the word “folk.” “Folk,” as defined by the American

Heritage Dictionary (1994) means “the common [my emphasis] people of society or region.” Dorson, a folklorist, asserts that folk life entails collecting folklore from people that “enrich the historical narrative” (cited in Kyvig & Marty, 1982, p. 124). I find this rather ambiguous and interpret it as an oral autobiography that may or may not touch upon artifacts. The word “folk” has had a contentious history, and the controversy

43 caused by it is not only a matter of semantics. Holger Cahill, onetime curator at Newark

Museum, self-taught collector of American folk art and head of the overall Federal Arts

Project,1 said of folk, “it is not the expression of professional artists made for a small cultured class, and it has little to do with the fashionable art of its period” (cited in

Bronner, 1986, p. 193). The different social worlds and classes that it connotes, smack of social prejudices that later turn into discrimination against the art of minority groups.

“Material culture,” “material history,” and “material life” are three other labels that have had some currency. The first, material culture, has been in use the longest, while the second is almost exclusively Canadian in origin. “Material life,” as an umbrella term for the study of artifacts, obviously goes beyond the objects and embraces “research into the social institutions and social relations” (Carson, cited in Schlereth, 1990, p. 21).

Of the three, “material culture” has the strongest arguments in its favor because it encapsulates other disciplines, embodies the “culture concept, historical lineage, and evocation of human behavior and belief” (Schlereth, 1990, p. 21). Critics of this term consider it too broad and a contradiction in terms, since artifacts are the products within culture and not culture itself. Even a cursory examination of these definitions indicates the close relationship that exists among all of them. Culture, environment, and human beings are the recurring tropes. As such, an understanding, knowing, and valuing of a human being’s past and present creations become epistemologies.

Material culture studies is most closely related to the physical environment— archaeology. Historical archaeologists, including Deetz (1977, 1996), concern

1 initiated by Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal in the 1930s

44 themselves with the seemingly mundane objects of the past in order to help us understand the present. Deetz confirms the relationship that archaeology has with the study of material culture which is not just about what is underground and resurrected, but includes what is above the ground and often disregarded. For him, material culture studies is more inclusive of the influence culture has on the way we modify our environment through

“culturally determined behavior” (1996, p. 35). Since culture is not inherited biologically, the way we think, do things, and the way we behave ultimately reflect on the physical world and the social interaction we have with others. This perception, rooted as it is in Deetz’s chosen field of archaeology, reaches out to all artifacts—from the simplest to the most complex. There is hardly any facet of a person’s life that cannot be classified as material culture. When contextualized within historical material culture, the relationship between the awareness of culture and the artifact includes our body, what we eat and how we eat, what we do for leisure, where we live, and how we live. Hence, historical archaeology is more than just the study of history or decorative arts. Its analytical approach covers a broad socio-scientific arena.

Rathje (1981) sets out to outline a manifesto which proclaims the need to study modern material culture: “Archaeologists draw a line between the material commodities that are the traditional domain of their discipline and the material culture that shapes every day of their lives” (p. 55). This is in direct contrast to Deetz’s pedagogy of historical archaeology that concentrated on the past. Rathje ventures into the field of reusable materials and waste to suggest that contemporary Americans do not have to wait for years to pass in order to do archaeological work. Material culture studies for Rathje focuses on the “interaction between material culture and human behavior, regardless of

45 time and space” (p. 52). Thus, the availability of and access to diverse ephemera, vis-à- vis current trends in consumer spending, make material culture studies relevant for most societies, not least the United States (Ritzer, 1996). It also provides a theoretical framework for the study of the Bohra material culture, the subject of my research.

So far I have discussed material culture and material culture studies in the

American context. Across the border in Canada, the definition debate is also an on-going issue. Pocius (1991) in Institutional Power and Levels of Dialogue, observes astutely that the study of Canadian material culture is deeply intertwined with the polemics of regionalism, the binary of Anglophone and Francophone interests, and a lack of a unified research strategy. The basic differences in academic traditions in Canada are more oriented toward British university systems, so that a distinctly Canadian definition of material culture is rather hazy and unresolved. Pocius envisages a definition that would transcend “the boundaries of their region or artifact type” (p. 251).

The British tradition in both anthropology and material culture studies is more protracted in time and structure. According to Miller (1987), the politics of material culture studies is concerned with theories of artifacts as property in the service of mass consumption. For him the study of material culture was and still is defined as an integrative process in which the duality between self and society, function and utility, space and time, style and habitus2 constitutes culture and human relations. The study of material culture for Pearce (1997) is an amalgam of many congruent concepts. She claims that “objects, like words and bodies, are not ‘themselves’, but symbols of

2 the concept of familiarity and order espoused by Bourdieu, a French social anthropologist.

46 themselves, and through them we are continuously at the game of re-symbolizing ourselves” (p. 10). Martin (1996), puts it differently when she asserts that the study of material culture “is about the way people live their lives through, by, around, in spite of, in pursuit of, in denial of, and because of the world” (p. 5). This all-encompassing definition considers the crucial role of cultural behavior. She elaborates on this theme:

Human-made things are far more than tools; they are complex bundles of

individual, social, and cultural meanings grafted onto something that can be seen,

touched, and owned. Such meanings are often unstable; they merge into and fly

out of things. (pp. 5-6)

Martin (1996) employs a threefold approach to the study of material culture—an approach that combines contexts, analyses, and methodologies to “connect and juxtapose artifactual and documentary data across disciplines” (p. 6).

The problematic of the multi-disciplinary nature of the study of material culture is in many respects its strength. Prown (1982) enumerates a wide variety of artifacts that cut across archaeology, architecture, and applied arts. Currently, in the study of material culture it is not what is studied that is important, but how it is studied. Despite the many semantic differentiations, it seems clear that all researchers are in agreement over what material culture study is not. Material culture studies is not just a description of the physical properties of artifacts. Its ideational reach is much wider and it accommodates many more ideologies than ever before. Richard Latham (1965), though an industrial designer, applies the principles of archaeology in this way:

Artifacts and useful objects are part of all recorded history. They are devised,

invented, and made as adjuncts to the human being’s ability to accomplish work

47 or enjoy pleasure. A close examination of any object is a graphic description of

the level of intelligence, manual dexterity, and artistic comprehension of the

civilization that produced it. It can reflect, as well, the climate, religious beliefs,

form of government, natural materials at hand, the structure of commerce, and the

extent of man’s scientific and emotional sophistication. (p. 258)

Latham’s observations on the scope of artifacts come closest to my own insights of what

I understand and identify with when considering material culture as a field of study. I appreciate his reference to “the civilization that produced it [object].” It is very open, and inviting. It does not imply an exclusionary policy and allows for the study of any and every culture. I do not believe that the study of material culture should necessarily dwell on the artifacts of the past. As Rathje (1981) says, “the linking of past to present . . . is a natural by-product of doing modern material culture studies (p. 55).

McDannell justifies the study of material culture and art education as viable disciplines by stating that:

Material culture in itself has no intrinsic meaning of its own. Objects or

landscapes are understood and gain significance when their ‘human’ elements can

be deciphered. Objects become meaningful within specific patterns of

relationships. It is only through an examination of the historical and present

context of material culture that it can be ‘read.’ (1995, pp. 3-4)

Since artifacts, as constructs of material culture studies, are tools for sociological, historical, symbolical, structural, behavioral, environmental, and functional analyses, it is necessary to build a theory on which the interpretation of material culture can be based.

48 Against such a background, I wish to turn to the pedagogy of material culture and investigate various paradigms that researchers in America have adopted in pursuing material culture studies. In Material Culture Studies in America (1982), Schlereth suggests “nine conceptual positions that inform material culture research: art history, symbolist, cultural history, environmentalist, functionalist, structuralist, behavioralistic, national character, and social history” (p. 38). Schlereth has deduced from the current state of scholarship in the field of material culture that these nine approaches could well be sub-divided into three main categories:

First, the artifact as an identifiable object of art created by an artist; second, the

artifact as primarily the result of a mental and manual process often called

craftsmanship; and third, the artifact as a significant manifestation of the

economic and social status of an individual in society. (p. 39)

Therefore, Schlereth (1982) maintains that contemporary work in American material culture studies is characterized by one fact—that the work of no single man or woman researcher in the field of material culture can be compartmentalized into one watertight category. He explains that critics of the art history approach believe that excessive emphasis on the art object reduces the study to “object fetishism” (p. 40). Yet, he goes on to say that, “its interpretive objectives lie within the abstract and concrete meaning of past artifacts” (p. 42). The methodology geared to the study of artifacts, from the art historical stand point, resides first in the “analysis of the established canon of Western art” (Schlereth, 1982), and, second, on the cultural meanings ascribed to objects such as paintings, chairs, silver ware, and a mansion (Prown, 1980).

49 The symbolist perspective regards any artifact as worthy of research. An artifact as monumental as the Vietnam War Memorial, or one as inconspicuous as a sewing needle, can be scrutinized under the aesthetic, social, cultural, and political lenses.

However, Bronner (1986), cautions researchers about the proclivity to ascribe symbolic meanings to artifacts even when no “supportive evidence for their validity exists” (cited in Schlereth, 1982, p. 46).

Advocates of cultural history have conducted archaeological digs to unearth material culture of the past. Implicit in their approach is a definition of culture and the realization that all human beings share ideas, values and beliefs. The cultural historical paradigm, espoused by Deetz (1996), has tended to focus on American past history and its artifacts in order to glean the human dimensions of culture. To exemplify this,

Chinese archaeologists have unearthed a 9000-year-old seven-holed flute fashioned from the hollow wing bone of a large bird. This artifact has provided further insights into the burial practices, entertainment, and the relationship of regional musical culture with

Chinese opera (Fountain, 1999).

The environmentalist approach to material culture rests on the assumption that culture diffuses across space and time. The environmentalists maintain that any change in the system of culture will be reflected in the cultural landscape. This is true not only of material culture, especially housing, in the American context (Glassie, 1968), but also across other non-American traditions. Consider, for example, the impact the Pyramids have had on the Egyptian environment, both in the past and in the present.

Malinowski (1961) and Radcliffe-Brown (1939) provide a theoretical framework for the functional approach to material culture. Durkheim (1915) and Bascom (1977) are

50 among the first functional anthropologists. Functional anthropologists have two main concerns regarding artifacts. First, they try to explain the behavior of the maker when making an object, and second, they attempt to clarify how the objects themselves function in a socio-cultural setting (Schlereth, 1982, p. 53). They define the term

“function” and make a clear distinction between “use”—an object’s obvious purpose— and “function”—a word that embraces a wider variety of emotions based on the religious, national, sexual, and regional paradigms (Schlereth, 1982, p. 54). Functional anthropologists explain the evolution of human technologies over time, and regard culture as a means of adaptation. They are not interested in the origins of artifacts, as much as in the “process, change, adaption, and the cultural impact of objects” (p. 53), and the milieu surrounding the maker. Functional anthropologists are interested in tools, architecture and food.

The confluence of a functional role and a sign value of a specific object govern the structuralist perspective, with regard to material culture (Cullar, 1976). The concept of an object, words or behavior possessing a “sign” value emanates from the works of de

Saussure. In the context of American material culture studies, “structuralism is concerned with American popular culture and vernacular folk housing (pp. 55-56).

Their interpretive objectives are to “ascertain basic universal patterns that structure human consciousness” (p. 51). Many of de Saussure’s theories of linguistics and signs— semiotics—resonate in the beliefs held by material culture exponents. They believe that all “cultural systems should be treated as languages and analyzed as to their structure through methods borrowed from linguistics” (p. 55).

51 The maker of the artifact and “the diversity of human creative experience” take center stage in the behavioralistic approach. For the behavioralist, like the art historian, the artificer is unique in terms of “belief, values, skills and the motivations” he/she has toward objects (Schlereth, 1982, p. 58). Most behavioralists study folk art, foodways, spatial constructs, domestic artifacts, and photographs (p. 59). Egyptian archeologists have disclosed the finds of a 2000-year old cemetery at the Bahariya Oasis, 230 miles southwest of Cairo, that illuminates the affluence, art, and religion of the people who lived in Roman Egypt. The gilded artifacts, such as masks, amulets, and pottery provide evidence of funerary practices that started in Pharaonic times and continued well into the second century AD (Wilford, 1999).

The national character focus finds adherents among those interested in the philosophy of history and especially the history of technology. As such, they have an interest in material culture in toto. Because their agenda is so vast and ambitious they synthesize written and visual evidence to arrive at an interpretive overview (Schlereth,

1982, p. 64). Critics of the national character approach have questioned the efficacy of employing material artifacts to analyze national ideologies in a country as diverse, geographically and culturally, as the United States.

An important paradigm for material culture study is one that is based on social history. Viewed currently, the parameters of this approach have incorporated all everyday experiences such as “working, child-rearing, schooling, play, social and economic mobility, marrying and dying” (p. 68). As such, the histories of all peoples, including minority groups and their artifactual remains, form a major part of the focus of social history.

52 Art and Artifacts

If the study of material culture has its antecedents in archaeology and art history, it behooves us to try and make the best possible use of its potential to explore and understand a variety of human experiences. Elsewhere I discussed the view that artifacts comprise all manufactured and hand-made objects. The field of material culture studies requires an objective reading of the artifact. Subjectivity, on the other hand, is the hallmark of artmaking and art. As Prown (1991) states in his article “On the Art in

Artifacts”:

Art raises special questions of authorial intent (“what did the artist mean to say”),

and occasionally questions of possible psychological deviance from social norms

by the artist as communicator. These complications of intentionality and

abnormality seem peculiar to art and threaten to compromise the validity of art as

cultural evidence. If art is different from other artifacts, then art poses problems

for the analyst of material culture. (p. 144)

Prown maintains that words and numbers, rather than artifacts, are the most accurate sources of information. What artifacts do, however, is reveal metaphorically the beliefs and values of the people that make and use them. According to Fernandez (1971), metaphors are essential elements in decoding the inherent beliefs and values embedded within a specific artifact. He defines a metaphor “as a sign, a combination of image and idea located between perception and conception, between a signal and a symbol. A signal is a perception that orients some kind of interaction” (p. 150). There are two types of metaphors—structural metaphors and textual metaphors. The former refers to the physicality of the experience as reflected by the object, and the latter points to the

53 feelings generated by that experience. So, one describes the artifact first, and then makes deductions based on the “physical and intellectual interaction with the artifact” (p. 148).

Finally the object as the metaphor for the experiences “unlocks the cultural beliefs” (p.

149). Thus, if artifactual metaphors denote cultural beliefs, how then can we apply the same principle to works of art that are a result of conscious intentionally created beliefs?

Like texts, works of art are fiction, but they have within them an aesthetic quality and a metaphor. Artifacts as an expression of beliefs are quite different from material (art) that is expressive. Prown, an art historian, says:

It would be absurd to exclude art from material culture. Yet how do we penetrate

the self-conscious or self-deluded cultural disguise of art to reach deeper

structures of meaning? The key lies in the capacity of art for unconscious as well

as conscious metaphorical expression. That is the route through which it is

possible to locate the unintended metaphors of cultural expression in works of art.

(p. 154)

Art and artifacts are inextricably linked to each other, such that both terms are open to varied interpretations. Gell (1996) argues that hunting traps in Africa have much in common with contemporary conceptual artworks that draw on the imagery of trapping, including pieces by the British artist Damien Hirst. This is a shrewd observation. Much of the work of feminist artists Betye Saar, Judy Chicago, and Faith Ringgold display images derived from material culture that is related to each individual artist’s experiences. The study of art, according to Glassie (1997),

offers an entry to culture and a means for comparison. In studying art [mediated

by artifacts], we learn to appreciate the particular case, and we work toward a

54 general theory of creativity that can help us position ourselves in the world. (p.

2)

Glassie’s statement is offered in the context surrounding the potters of

Bangladesh. They engage in making artworks that range from utilitarian to decorative.

The potter relishes the experience of designing and building a pot, and making figurative images. In the series of procedures and actions that start when clay is dug from the earth and culminate into kalshi—a globular water jar, a horse or a Goddess, the Bangladeshi potters fulfill a creative impulse. It is no longer just pottery or ceramic statuary per se; it is an all-embracing life-long experience and a direct reflection of their culture. It crosses cultural barriers and unites men, women and children in a practice that is thousands of years old.

People throughout the world have many reasons for making things: to perpetuate skills learned and passed down from parent to offspring, to propitiate ancestors, or to satisfy memento-seeking tourists. In each case they are making art, and in the process sharing knowledge, making meaning of the world and bringing meaning to their life.

From the perspective of the makers of these artifacts, whether it is considered to be “high art” or not, is irrelevant. The politics of postmodernism has created a paradigm shift from a formalist/elitist viewpoint to an “understanding of objects, their use, or their appreciation in culture-specific terms” (Hardin, & Arnoldi 1996, p. 4), so that the polemics of ethnography over aesthetics is reified. This is a definite milestone for the proponents of material culture studies, because the dichotomy of artifact versus art is artificial and, in the context of art from Africa, Oceania, and the tribes of North and

South America, particularly counter-productive pedagogically. In a country like the

55 United States, the advent of artifacts in the life of its people is so pervasive that it seems undesirable to separate art from artifacts. To do so is to make the latter into appendages rather than to fashion them into the primary limbs of a body. It is in this context that I now examine the relationship of artifacts and art education.

Material Culture and Art Education

“Art educators have been slow to draw on inquiry methods and information that are plentiful within the research field of material culture studies” (Bolin, 1993, p. 143).

Part of the reason for this has been the perceived binary distinction between high and low art. The pedagogy of material culture has often been misunderstood and misrepresented in schools in the United States. This is because there is still a great deal of uncertainty about what constitutes material culture and whose culture should become the focus of pedagogy (Congdon, 1985). Earlier I discussed uses of the word “folk,” mediated by its historical background. It is unfortunate that the connotation of “folk” implies a hierarchy that denigrates the work of a large portion of a particular region’s population.

William Morris, the 19th century folklorist, is best known as a designer and a champion of the “arts-and-crafts movement” (Efland, 1990, p. 151). By birth and schooling he belonged to the gentle class [my emphasis] but was a socialist at heart. Not surprisingly, he changed his focus of interest toward the crafts of humbler folks. For him

“art” was not for a chosen few (Efland 1990). It was part of an all-embracing culture in which art and craft could be unified. Craftsmen at Morris and Company produced works in “modern medieval taste: stained glass and oak furniture, embroidery, wallpaper, metalwork, tiles, carpets, jewelry, and tapestries” (Schlereth, 1982, p. 127), and Morris,

56 himself, was a weaver and a museum consultant on antique textiles. Before the end of the nineteenth century, intense interest in the collection, preservation and reproduction of folk artifacts spawned literature on folk artifacts, folk museums, and even a society for folklore. All this activity, however, did not accomplish the one thing that would have legitimized the study of folk art. It lacked a theoretical foundation.

Congdon (1985) believes that artifacts or the study of material culture (under the rubric of folk art) must have “tradition” and must “display folk tendencies” (p. 66).

These two characteristics are somewhat misleading for art teachers. How can art teachers compare the tradition and cultural baggage associated with an eighteenth century pewter teapot with that of a Wal-mart plastic mug? Tradition suggests age and is grounded in time and space. Will art teachers accept the “tradition” of a plastic mug and consider it worthy of serious analysis? Congdon’s second characteristic is equally problematic. An object is said to display folk tendencies if it has the following five prerequisites:

1. It is intended to be used in everyday life among members of a small, close

group.

2. It functions as a remembrance of the past or as a demonstration of respect

for elders.

3. It demonstrates a re-creative process.

4. It is created by persons who do not call themselves artists as readily as

artists from other areas of art.

5. The artist and/or group members use a different language structure from

the art school or university trained artist to talk about the artwork (p. 66).

57 Examine the plastic mug. Folks use it, but is it “folk” and is it “art?” Is the pewter teapot more “folk” and more “art” than the Wal-Mart mug? Glassie (1982) has approached the problem of folk versus art in a very elegant manner:

“Folk” is not one “style” of art, folk art is not confined to a certain historical

period, folk art is not inevitably rural. . . .“Folk” when applied to an object

provides specific information about the source of the ideas that were used to

produce the object. . . . “Art” provides information about the intentions of its

producer. (p. 129)

The logic of my argument emanating from Congdon’s lenses is that folk art has too many imponderables and ambiguities. These are centered around conflicts of definition, location, language and aesthetics, the praxis of art education versus “folk” education, insufficient number of teachers who are knowledgeable of folk art, and the ill preparedness of institutions of higher education to address this subject. Material culture studies may create confusion in the mind of art teachers because of the uncertainty over whether an artifact being studied should be considered antiquated or modern. Antique objects or “marginal objects” as Gottdiener (1995) suggests, signify “historicity and otherness” (p. 45). This dichotomy leads well into Congdon’s analysis of folk art as being “culture bound” and “culturally changing” (p. 72). It also exacerbates the dilemma created by the shifting emphasis from the home—the milieu within which artifacts were traditionally situated—to the school.

How can art educators benefit from material culture studies? Material culture studies reduces the formalist approach to the “reading” of artifacts in favor of context- based approach. Hardin, Geary and Arnoldi (1996) maintain that, although the two

58 approaches address art history and anthropology respectively, there is a great deal of overlap between them mediated by who and how each approach is addressed (p. 10).

Indeed, Montgomery (1982) suggests that there are different criteria for studying artifacts. Form, color and style, specifically, are among the 14 he advocates that are formalist in nature. Yet they facilitate information that leads to “rational judgment” (p.

145) about artifacts. Material culture has been confined to occasional cabinets of curiosities until recently. In the post-World War II era, less money was spent on ethnographic museums than was given to support art and history museums (Alexander,

1992; Pearce, 1994; Wallach, 1998). Material culture was relegated to galleries and museums of “folk art” because curators considered the makers of such artifacts to be

“untrained” and “non-academic.” The polarization of viewpoints is what art educators need to guard against, and calling material culture folk art simply perpetuates this controversial notion. I believe that art educators must be cognizant of the pedagogy of context that categorizes art into the so-called “pleasure-giving” high art, and the purely functional/utilitarian low art camps.

The conundrum surrounding “folk” versus “art” has always been one of attitudes.

Folk art, and by extension material culture, are intricately twined with the history of class-consciousness inherited from Europe. Delacruz (1999) examines the validity for coalescing folk art with the so-called mainstream Western art. But her thesis falls short of including artifacts within the study of material culture. Rather, she concentrates on the

“iconographic paintings and multimedia assemblages”of such contemporary American artists as Kenny Scharf and Rhonda Zwilliger (p. 24).

59 The study of material culture is a particularly effective tool for addressing the issues of cultural pluralism and cultural relativism. By definition cultural relativism implies that all cultures are different, and no one culture is superior to another (Haviland

1993; Pai, 1990; Selby & Garretson, 1981). The composition of the school population in the United States is more multi-ethnic than ever before. In such an environment the vanguard position held by Discipline Based Art Education is, perhaps, falling short of its goal to make art education in American schools extend beyond the teaching of elements and principles of design. In The Quiet Evolution: Changing the Face of Arts Education,

Wilson (1997) has written:

The physical art objects found in museums, art galleries, artists’ studios, and

public spaces become works of art only when they are transformed from mere

objects through mindful activity. The work of art is a physical art object or event

that has been “worked” experientially or has been interpreted as a work of art. (p.

86)

Obliquely, Wilson’s statement connects art objects to material culture through experience

—a hallmark of material culture studies. Yet, his claim that a work of art must rely on the endorsement of peer groups or anyone else plunges an art object (if ever it was meant to include material culture) into the realm of the Western art forms. Wilson, in fact, concedes that using the elements and principles of design to “focus only on a small group of sensory, formal, and expressive features is not in keeping with DBAE” (p. 89).

Nevertheless, he affirms that conventional art instruction does use the “design lenses” which draw attention away from the “social, historical, thematic, symbolic, metaphoric, and subject-matter aspects of works of art” (p. 89). DBAE has sometimes been

60 challenged because it has been perceived to emphasize the conventions of Western formalism with minor modifications to legitimize its practice (Ewens, 1988). The “art object” that DBAE speaks of is, more often than not, a traditional painting and sculpture.

Consider Grant Wood’s (Wilson, 1997, p. 95) American Gothic, Faith Ringgold’s (p.

157) Tar Beach, (Woman on a Beach Series #1) Francisco Gallego’s (p. 87) The

Martyrdom of Acacius and the Ten Thousand Martyrs of Mount Ararat, Saint Sebastian painted by Hernando Yáñez de la Almedina (p. 87) and, Return of the Hunters by Pieter

Brueghel the Elder, (p. 99) as subjects of analyses in various fora. The changing gender roles at home and at work, the interrelatedness of the community, and the environment are discussed in American Gothic. Seasons of the year are the main topic of discussion in

Brueghel’s work. Tar Beach addresses issues of slavery and quilting as a labor of love.

In the hands of a museum docent the paintings by Gallego and de la Almedina are treated true to form. Color, line and shape are the most dominant issues (p. 87). In all the four

“art objects” real objects are never alluded to. Thus, is DBAE advocating the study of material culture? Some researchers have questioned whether DBAE provides adequate theoretical base to students in university art education departments to face the pedagogical challenges of looking at a range of objects through the lens of material culture studies? Those teachers who teach DBAE are best suited to answer these questions that are very often ignored (Kaderbhai, 1998),

Inquiry Methods

This research is grounded in the theory that the study of material culture has pedagogical and phenomenological underpinnings for art education. The case studies I

61 have selected demonstrate the efficacy of artifacts as vehicles of learning for art educators who wish to venture into a newer approach to teaching art.

Recontextualizing Artworks

Jules Prown, an art historian, uses an artifact such as an eighteenth century pewter teapot to understand a painting titled Roman Charity: Cimon and Pero by Dirck van

Baburen. He uses the theories of semiotics to make connections between a metallic vessel and a human breast as receptacles that supply nourishment. He maintains that the pewter teapot and the breast in and of themselves are nothing more than objects, but each becomes a symbol of beliefs and values when examined within the context of a culture.

In deconstructing the teapot, the breast is recontextualized and the painting showing a man sucking at a younger woman’s breast is not something gruesome and depraved, but an act of charity. Prown suggests three steps essential to the process of object analysis.

The first is the description, followed by “deductions based on the physical and intellectual interaction with the object” (Prown, cited in Pocius, 1991, p. 149), and the final step is the emotional response. This is when the object as a metaphor—the tool of semiotics—brings to the fore, through recollections and probing, the experiences and emotions related to the object and signified by it. The teapot—a metaphor for giving and receiving, sociability and hospitality, love and the gratification of thirst—becomes an indicator of deeply held beliefs and values. The physical shape of the teapot looked at from above resembles a breast and the young woman—a daughter who offers her breast to an elderly man—her imprisoned and chained father—is the ultimate symbol of charity.

62 Whereas, intentional expression of belief is inherent in art, the less-obvious expression embedded in artifacts must be prized open and discovered.

This brief analysis was meant to elucidate the manner in which artifacts become works of art themselves and help analyze other art. Consider, for example, the seventeenth century Dutch genre paintings. Vermeer’s The Letter was painted in 1666.

According to Janson (1997),

the cool, clear day light that filters in from the left is the only active element,

working its miracles upon all objects in its path. As we look at The Letter, we

feel as if a veil had been pulled from our eyes; the everyday world shines with

jewellike freshness, beautiful as we have never seen it before (pp. 593).

Janson continues in this vein about “a mosaic of colored surfaces,” and

“rectangles predominate,” “there are no ‘holes’ no undefined empty spaces” (p. 593). I share Janson’s enthusiasm for the artistry of Vermeer’s brush that enabled him to depict light so realistically. But, I wonder at the lost opportunity to talk about the artifacts and their metaphoric messages. The clothes of the two women, who “exist in a timeless ‘still life’ world” speak volumes. What is the power relationship of the two women as signified by the clothes they wear? Why is the standing woman’s hair completely covered? What does the richness of the drapes indicate? What about the clothesbasket and the broom in an opulent room? What do the paintings on the wall symbolize? Does the abundance of brown in the painting mean anything other than that Vermeer may have had a predilection for this hue? These and many more questions could be asked about this painting.

63 An even more famous painting by Jan van Eyck, is the resplendent Wedding

Portrait (1434). Countless numbers of art teachers, taking their cue from art history books, have deconstructed this painting. How many have talked about the shoes that have been discarded? Yes, the couple is standing on “holy ground.” But who made the shoes? Is the design Dutch in origin? We are told about the reflection of two additional people in the mirror. But, where was the mirror made? And the ornate candelabra?

What about Arnolfini’s hat? The structural metaphors that give credence to the textual metaphors in these two examples are more than just physical descriptors (Fernandez,

1971). They locate the paintings within an environment that relates to the social and religious mores of their time. Are the artifacts just adjuncts to the paintings? If their relevance in the painting were not essential why would the artist include them? In material culture studies, everything grand and small has significance (Berger, 1992).

Museums, Material Culture, and Masterpieces

Museums are sites where ideologies are contested at all levels (Ames, 1992;

Arnoldi, Geary, & Hardin, 1996; Berger, 1972; Lavine & Karp, 1991; Schlereth, 1990).

They are a manifestation of the negotiated “realities” of a cultural system. In most cases museums are highly selective of what they will display for the public. As symbols of national pride, museums play a pivotal role in establishing metaphors “that allow us to create within their walls, describe and reveal both the mundane and the greater truths of our lives” (Cannizzo, 1991, p. 18).

Chalmers (1981) maintains that “any definition of ‘education’ must include reference to teaching, learning, and setting” [italics in the original] (p. 12). His

64 emphasis on setting is appropriate in the context of my second issue—the role museums play in material culture studies mediated by what I term the “masterpieces.”

Historically, in Euro-American cultures, paintings (masterpieces) were often created for hanging on walls; sculptures on pedestals then filled the floors of museums.

They glorified the artists and the patrons. In fact, museums as sites of power and privilege have been the cause of some of the most acrimonious debates not only in the

United States but in other countries vis-à-vis the choices of exhibitions that are mounted, and who makes these choices for whom. My thesis is that material culture is sometimes under-represented in museums that are traditionally the repositories of a nation’s “high” art. Is it a coincidence that until about 20 years ago, men executed nearly all art exhibited in museums and galleries? Is there a correlation between curators and museums directors, who for the most part are men, and the work they exhibit? Why is it that material culture is often thought of as a woman’s domain? In fact, the decision behind every museum exhibition is the outcome of the cultural assumptions of the people who make it. Even if curators wanted to, it would be physically impossible for museums to collect “all the artifacts which constitute a people’s past or display all those objects which constitute its cultural and artistic heritage” (Cannizzo, 1991, p. 20).

Material culture displayed in museums and historical centers is gaining acceptance as testified by the many exhibits that are mounted in local and national museums in America and elsewhere in the world. Whether the nomenclature used is

“folk art,” “popular art,” “outsider art” or “naive art,” all forcefully rejected by practitioners (Glassie, 1982; Lavine & Karp, 1991), the realization that material culture can attract attention and visitors vis-à-vis “traditional-museum-art” is making curators

65 scramble to acquire artifacts. The change in this policy is attributed to a change in the attitude toward non-Western artifacts of not only African origins but also of artifacts from other parts of the world, including the United States.

How can art educators use the museum effectively to promote an awareness of material culture studies? In the field of anthropology there is ample literature on the methodologies of museums as sites for disseminating knowledge. Williams (1996) highlights the initial practices, policies, and strategies employed by art museums, their problems and how they affect art education. He posits (1996) that “as in 1986, currently there seems to be little cross-fertilization of art education theory into the literature of museum education, or vice versa” (p. 43). Despite this gloomy aside, one area of material culture that gets coverage in art periodicals is architecture and environmental design. Research articles and classroom activities about material culture studies are occasionally featured in Art Education, School Arts, and Arts & Activities. Furthermore, art teachers at all levels of the education hierarchy are using museums to inculcate a sense of community and creativity that exists among all peoples.

Ames (1986) describes how material culture studies can help re-enact the original settings, meanings, provenance and properties (where such information is available) of objects. I believe that students’ activities in a museum should go beyond the obligatory lectures given by docents. I suggest that art educators visit museums to make a diagnosis of their own reactions and examine how an exhibition of the material culture of, say, the

Baga of Guinea can help us to see something of how we “reflect ourselves in the exhibits we invent about others” (Halpin, 1978, p. 41).

66 An alternative to the above activity is one that Ames (1986) refers to as “looking at objects” (p. 47). He states that objects in a museum are “presented as artificial curiosities, as specimen of nature, as elements or building blocks in reconstructed contexts, as works of fine art, and as fragments of an insider’s history” (p. 47). Ames, also, emphasizes that how one views objects will depend on the cultural assumptions and the axiological orientations of the people who use the objects. Ames states:

It is not necessary to renounce one’s own point of view or to accept the principle

of relativism, however, in order to grant the possibility that the other views also

make useful contributions to knowledge. It is not a question of there being an

infinite number of views with which to contend, but a limited number that may, to

a degree, complement one another—providing we are willing to recognize the

limitations as well as the strengths of each view. (p. 47)

The relationship between material culture and the museum is comprehensively debated in Arnoldi, Geary & Hardin’s edited book African Material Culture (1996). The focus of the book is African, but the methodologies discussed in the essays represent multicultural interests and certainly enhance the case for inclusion of material culture in art education curriculum.

Art educators could engage in recontextualizing artifacts with one or several of the lenses suggested above, as a way of examining and understanding long-standing biases about other cultures. As McFee and Degge (1977) write:

There are common human experiences in the processes of living that are

expressed, but the interpretation of the meaning [italics in the original] of time,

space, human relations, the structure of social life depend on the cultural group.

67 To some degree we can respond to any people’s art even though their language

may be incomprehensible to us. But we can only understand their art in the

degree we can learn their culture (p. 279).

Since this diversity of viewpoints offers a democratic way of looking at objects of another culture, art educators consider them worthy of a trial in their curriculum.

The two paradigms I have selected in this section discuss how artworks can be recontextualized and looked at entirely with different lenses. Artworks and material culture are a fitting subject for museum studies. A museum need not be a site for underscoring differences between the world of mainstream fine art and material culture.

Rather, it can provide a milieu for coalescing two opposing ideologies—that an artifact is just as representative of a visual culture as a sculpture, or a painting.

This literature review has laid the foundation for an inquiry into the artifacts of the Bohra. I have examined diverse meanings and interpretations given by researchers to artifacts in the context of material culture and explicated the rationale for material culture studies. The endless fascination for mundane objects has become a focus of research in art education. Erickson (1983) finds inspiration in record album covers, gravestones, or sheet music for her research. Szekely (1991), advocates using artifacts that children naturally collect and gravitate toward, to introduce “college art history lessons” (p. 42).

Of the numerous conceptual positions and guidelines offered by researchers, I have opted to discuss the nine suggested by Schlereth (1982) to analyze artifacts. How art education can utilize artifacts is the raison d’être of this study. What is critical to the study of material culture is the approach one takes to it. A context-based approach grounded in

68 textual metaphors, rather than a formalist approach, with its emphasis on the physical structure of artifacts, should be the guiding principle of all material culture studies.

CHAPTER III

THE BOHRA AND THEIR MATERIAL CULTURE

The study of material culture is a synthesis of relationships. These relationships draw us back and forth from the past to the present and then into the future. Narratives inform us of the integral relationship between artifacts and artificers and why they matter to people (Orwell, 1949). In the following chapter I, first, introduce the reader to some artifacts that the Bohra use during a dinner to celebrate a rite of passage, and, second, I examine holistically, in an authentic and naturalistic environment, some specific artifacts of material culture from the Bohra community.

A Celebration: Misaaq Mubaarak

It is a blustery cold evening. 50 Manor Farmhouse is all spruced up, and the aroma of seasoned bakhoor (incense) blends well with the mouth-watering flavors of akni and khurdi (rice and lamb cooked in milk and mint). The floor of the spare bedroom is covered with a jazam (a block-printed cotton carpet), and two safra (square place mats), each with a kundli on it, are spread on the jazam. A kundli is a 36-inch long and 12-inch wide brass sheet folded over and welded to form a circular “table” of 18 inches in diameter. Everything is ready for the guests who are expected to arrive at about 6:15 p.m. This is a Thursday in late-July, 1993, and I am in London at my brother’s house.

We are celebrating his daughter’s misaaq—a coming-of-age at puberty—ceremony. The thaal (stainless steel round tray three feet in diameter), with a namak dani (a small shallow bowl for salt) on it, is carried in and placed on the kundli as soon as the guests 70 take their places around the safra. Men sit separately from women during jaman

(communal eating), but because all the visitors are teenagers—friends of my niece—the rule is bent. Besides, numerically men are in the minority this evening. Each thaal has eight people sitting around it. When the guests arrive, the girls are a little self-conscious dressed in their pretty ridah (the outer garment representing a veil). The ridah are all different colors. The men’s outfit is all white—a kurta, eezaar, and a topi (a loose calf- length, long sleeved shirt, long trousers and a cap). My brother calls out Bismillahi- rahmani-raheem. That is the signal to begin the meal. But, first, each person must take a pinch of salt from the namak dani, and then partake of the food.

There is an air of gaiety during the jaman. Somehow, the word dinner doesn’t sound right to me. It is too foreign. The occasion for which the young people are invited is a milestone in the life of a Bohra child, in this case, a girl, who has reached physical maturity and with it the realization and acknowledgment of her religious responsibilities.

I have described a scenario that is part of a time-honored ritual enacted in many Bohra homes, no matter where they live. A dining table and chairs often replace the thaal, but the concept of a circle seems a fitting metaphor in a community for whom the proximity of a sphere represents unity (Coe, 1976, p. 18) rather than the exclusion of a metaphoric

“closed circle.” The Bohra way of life, as exemplified by my brother’s family, is a clear synthesis of the authentic and the acquired. I use the word “acquired” to denote the adjustments most Bohra make living in their adopted countries (traditionally the Bohra consider India their cultural home, but today they reside in most parts of the world).

Contextually, “authentic” points to not just the overall significance of the artifacts, but to the way they matter to us personally. Miller (1998) has argued

71 convincingly for the use of the word “matter” vis-à-vis the importance of things. He contends that since the subject of material culture is artifacts which are mute, it is essential that neither experience, nor a formal schematic analysis of the objects should make us overlook why artifacts matter to people. In fact, “matter” brings a different slant on the words “important” or “significant.” He continues:

The term “matter,” by contrast, tends to a more diffused, almost sentimental

association that is more likely to lead us to the concerns of those being studied

than those doing the studying. It puts the burden of mattering clearly on evidence

of concern to those being discussed. (p. 11)

Paradoxically, the dinner at my brother’s house demonstrated that “one of the key struggles of modern life is to retain both a sense of authentic locality, often as narrow as the private sphere, and yet also lay claims to a cosmopolitanism” (Miller, 1998, p. 19).

In this chapter I describe the artifacts of the Bohra material culture comprising three categories: dress, containers, and furniture. Under the classification of dress, I examine the following: kurta, saya, perun, topi, massalaa, tasbee, ridah, bakhoor and bakhoor dani, ittar and ittar dani, misri and misri dani, chakhdi, and six ornaments, namely, serpech, sehraa, baazubund, dushalu, sash, and kamarbund worn by a bridegroom. There are six receptacles I analyze under the category of containers—safra, kundli, thaal, namak dani, chilamchi loto, and loto. Takhat and jazam are the last two artifacts I discuss, under the category of furniture.

72 The Artifacts

As an introduction to the artifacts of the Bohra material culture, I revisit the discussion on the pedagogy of material culture detailed in Chapter 1. Researchers have used many different methodologies to classify and analyze objects (Berger, 1992;

Chenhall, 1978; Ford, 1969; Kyvig & Marty 1982; Mayo, 1984; Montgomery, 1982;

Prown 1982; Roe, 1995; Wilcox, 1973). I have opted to follow the Berger (1992), Kyvig and Marty (1982) paradigms. Their system of study is similar, though they differ in the nomenclature used.

Berger’s six approaches (1992) for analyzing artifacts have semiotic, historical, anthropological, psychoanalytical, Marxist, and sociological underpinnings. When contextualized within the categories of objects, location of objects, complexity scale, aesthetic considerations, and functions they are perceptive and based on qualitative research traditions. I employ these guidelines to examine “holistically in an authentic, naturalistic environment” (Creswell, 1998) the “societal artifacts” (Chenhall, 1978) of the

Bohra material culture.

For Kyvig and Marty (1982) artifacts possess “properties”—history, material, construction, design, and function—which depend on four “operations” to produce answers to questions asked about artifacts (p. 153). These operations are identification, evaluation, analysis, and interpretation. Identification consists of description, authentication, and classification of artifacts. Evaluation is based on the comparison of an object to similar artifacts used by other cultures. Analysis denotes an examination of the interconnectedness of artifacts with people who use them. Lastly, interpretation suggests the meaning and significance of the artifact and how people of another culture

73 perceive it. Combined, these properties and operations provide a comprehensive view of the meaning of artifacts which is based upon lived experiences. This phenomenological construct has the potential for revealing the behavior of informants mediated by their interaction with objects and each other (Creswell, 1998, p. 53). Although artifacts mirror the values and norms through seemingly predictable behaviors, there are researchers who emphasize the capacity of the spoken word—oral literature—to arrive at a holistic and more accurate overview of a culture (Kyvig & Marty, 1982; Miller 1987; Tilley 1991;

Prown 1993). Also, the written word has a retention quality that is in many ways more enduring than an artifact which by its very nature has a transitory life span (Goetz, 1986).

According to Richardson (1989), though, an artifact has the same capacity for a narrative as a written “document that describes our past, an image that reflects our present, and a sign that calls us into the future” (p. 172). Thus, the artifacts of the Bohra recount many varied experiences that harken back to the past, present and to an uncertain future.

Dress

One of the questions I investigate in this research is how artifacts become markers of a cultural identity for a people who are dispersed throughout the world. Dress, as a category of artifacts, is one of the most powerful agents for the dissemination of an ideology that seeks to coalesce a community (Bean, 1989; Eicher & Roach-Higgins,

1992). Dress is not just the clothes one wears. According to Eicher and Roach-Higgins

(1992), dress is a more inclusive term, which “unites two major human acts—modifying the body and supplementing the body” (p. 16). Body modification entails “the transformation by adding or subtracting of the hair, skin, nails, muscular/skeletal system,

74 teeth, and breath. Body supplements are categorized into enclosures, attachments to body and attachments to body enclosures. These can be wrapped, suspended, pre-shaped, inserted, clipped and adhered” (p. 18). Eicher and Roach-Higgins’ definition of dress is comprehensive and more accommodating of the artifacts that are a necessary adjunct to the overall structure of the Bohra community. Therefore, for the purposes of this study I use the term “dress” rather than “clothing” to identify those artifacts that result in body changes and additions to the body.

Men’s Dress

Kurta

Bohra men, both young and old, wear a garment called a kurta (Figure 1) over white trousers, for all communal functions. Historically, a kurta was and still is a gender- neutral term. During the Muslim conquest of India by the Mughals, in the 16th century,

Muslim men in northern India wore a kurta over tang pai-jama (tight trousers) (Fabri,

1961, p. 25). The kurta had many variants but all of them were colored and many were extremely ornate. In Kashmir, men wore a simple six-paneled kurta made from cotton or hemp. In Punjab, Sikh princes wore red cashmere kurta elaborately embroidered in gold thread and lined with taffeta (Bruhn & Tilke, 1955). In Baluchistan and Afghanistan, men wore a shorter but richly decorated version of the Punjabi kurta. The Mughal

Emperors retained the influence of the Arab world in their dress but assimilation with

Hindu culture resulted in certain alterations to the dress worn by both men and women

(Fabri, 1961). Muslim men’s dress, from the 16th to the end of the 19th century, epitomized body supplements. Sashes, jeweled turbans, and embroidered scarves were

75 much in vogue. In contemporary Pakistan and Afghanistan men still wear colored kurta with matching shalwar—trousers—although the surface decoration of the fabric is restricted to colors that blend with the fabric, or is completely absent. Body modification for men was visible in well-trimmed beards and twirled moustaches, while women enhanced their natural attributes by applying henna on their hands, feet, nails and hair.

Older men were prone to dye their flowing beards with henna.

In contrast to the colored kurta worn by Muslims of the last three centuries, the

Bohra kurta refers to a white garment worn by men. Cotton, and/or linen are the preferred choice of fabric for making a kurta. A kurta requires three to four yards of fabric. The design of the Bohra kurta is a direct copy of the Kashmiri kurta except for one detail (Bruhn & Tilke, 1955). The round neck of the latter continues into a side opening, while the former has a Chinese collar and a six-inch long center opening that is held together with brown agate, silver, or sometimes, gold studs strung on a fine chain.

Like the Kashmiri kurta, the Bohra kurta has six panels—a wide front and back panel joined together by two narrow side panels. These side panels are attached to the long sleeves by gussets, and are left unsewn to provide six to eight inches long slits on both sides. Often, shadow-work embroidery, in silk yarns, is made along the side seams, sleeves and the neckline. Alternatively, fabric that is self-printed is often used to make kurta, particularly when worn during a festive occasion. In length it is just below the knee. A kurta is either made to measure or sold on racks in India and Pakistan and is charged at $15.00 to $30.00 depending upon the quality of fabric used. Muslin, cotton, silk, poplin or rayon are the preferred fabrics for men's kurta, and white is the rule rather than an exception.

76 Saya

To complement the kurta, men wear a loose coat called a saya that reaches down to the shin. The saya has evolved from the Turkish long-sleeved gown (Bhushan, 1958, p. 28). Unlike the Indian angarkha (coat), that is fastened on the side, and “the Persian gown that buttoned down the front and fitted closely” (p. 30), the Bohra saya has a

Chinese collar but no buttons or a sash. It resembles more the loose robes of the Afghani men. Both the kurta and saya have pockets. The former has one pocket usually on the right-hand side, while the latter has one pocket on each side. The pocket is a contemporary addition to the design and serves a practical function. Like the kurta, other

Muslims, such as the Saudi and Omani Arabs, and the Kuwaitis, wear black, umber, or beige saya of a heavier fabric. Both the kurta and saya are designed loose to facilitate ease of sitting on the floor in the masjid (Ahmed, 1994). A saya is made from approximately four yards of fabric, and costs the same as the kurta.

Perun

A perun (Figure 2) is a garment that is specifically worn by Bohra men for prayers. Its design is a slight variant of the kurta. It is longer than a kurta and as long as a saya. It does not have any slits on the side, rather the four side panels flare a little to provide for ease in sitting when praying. The distinguishing feature of the perun is the neck facing which is shaped like a minaret. A perun requires three and one half to four yards of muslin or voile. Tailoring charges for a perun amount to ten to 15 dollars. A perun does not have a pocket or any studs. Simple buttons hold together the front opening.

77 Topi

An additional feature of men’s communal wardrobe is the topi. A topi (Figure 3) is both an indoor and outdoor headgear for all Muslim males. Throughout the ages and across all cultures men have worn headgears primarily for protection against the elements. In India and the Middle East, the use of headgears—turbans—is symbolic of one’s religion, rank and, in the case of India, the caste of a person. The history of headgears is closely allied to notions of power and status. Although the prominence of turbans is long past, simpler headgears still prevail and play an important role in establishing cultural codes within a community system. The Bohra topi is akin to the close fitting caps worn by the Moors of Mauritania, men from the Kordofan on the White

Nile and East Africa. These caps were made from linen or felt (Bruhn & Tilke, 1955).

A Bohra topi is a white crocheted cap with geometric or stylized floral patterns, and a gold or black edging. The crown, six to nine inches in diameter, is crocheted first and the wall, three to four inches in height, grows down from it. The topi is, very often, made entirely of one ounce of gold thread, and as such, its use is reserved for more festive occasions. The yarns used for a topi are preshrunk cotton, gold and black threads made in India. Its trade name is “anchor” which seems fitting, for the topi is an anchor that holds the Bohra community together. It is a cotton-based thread specially manufactured, and exclusively used for making topi. A topi is made to measure.

Generally, a topi with a circumference of 18 ½ inches is for a child, while adults require from 21 ½ to 23 ½ inches. A circumference of 24 inches is considered large. Once a topi is crocheted, it is washed, starched, and fitted over a stainless steel, aluminum or (Figure

4) plastic mold, custom-made, to fit for different-sized topi, to retain its shape. A mould

78 is an essential element of the crocheting process. Without a mould, it is not possible to form the shape of a topi. Moulds are available in the city of Surat, India that has a very large population of Bohra. A topi is crocheted rather than knitted, because it has to be stiff and not floppy. The stitches used in crocheting are single, double and treble chain, and single treble. A No. 1 metal or plastic crochet hook is used. When worn it fits the head well and comes down to just above the ears. The age of the wearer influences the structural design. A topi can be all one continuous design from the wall to the crown, or a band of a different colored thread—gold—is introduced along the wall. In a child’s topi, this band is proportionately narrower than what is used for an adult’s cap. In either case a black edging finishes the topi. The ability to crochet a topi is an income- generating skill. Bohra women who do are contracted to supply topi to those who need them. A topi ranges in price from ten to 25 dollars depending upon the size, complexity of patterns that determine the time spent crocheting it, the thread used, and how soon it is required by the customer.

Women’s Dress

Ridah

Bohra women can wear what they please—T-shirt and jeans, a dress or a shalwar- kameez—but they must wear a ridah over it. Ridah, the name for a two-piece outfit, namely, picho and ghaghra, constitutes the Bohra women's veil (Figure 5). It is like all other veils: an outer garment that is removed in the privacy of the home. The design of the ridah comes closest to the haba or habara—a garment worn by women of the

Egyptian upper class (Hansen, 1983). Unlike the birdeh, a heavy woolen shawl that is

79 wrapped around the body and worn by Egyptian peasant women, the haba consists of two separate parts. The upper part is like a rounded cape and covers the head and shoulders.

Two inside strings that tie it around the forehead hold it in place. The woman’s hand holds the two sides of the cape. The lower part resembles a skirt and is similarly tied around the waist. This outer garment is worn with a small rectangular veil that covers the woman’s face. In contrast to the haba that is open in the front, the picho is stitched and attached to a yoke that facilitates easier wearing and frees the woman’s hands. She does not have to hold on to the picho as the Egyptian fellaheen had to lest the two parts fall apart to expose her bosom.

The following description will demonstrate the similarities between the Egyptian haba and the Bohra ridah. The picho—the top part of the ridah—is a hood-and-cape ensemble. The hood is sewn to the cape with fine stitches, and forms a circular yoke.

This yoke sits well against the shoulder, and is often embellished with delicate ric-racs, floral motifs, biases or braids. When worn, the picho—hood-cape—covers the head and falls over the shoulders down to the hips. It is held in place by two ribbons knotted under the chin. The hood has a flap, a niqaab or a face veil, which can be turned down when required to cover the face completely.

The ghaghra—the bottom half of the ridah—is an ankle-length skirt held up with a drawstring. The drawstring is the same color and fabric as the skirt. Cotton is the most commonly used fabric for making a ridah, as its natural fibers adapt to the body's temperature. It is easy to wear and wash and lasts longer than silk. The availability and accessibility of a wide range of fabrics, from hardy jerseys, polyesters, and cottons to delicate voiles, rayons, and silks, make the ridah multi-purpose garments with their own

80 hierarchical classifications. During the celebrations marking the end of the fasting month of Ramazaan and the completion of the—Hajj—to Makkah, women come out in their very best ridah, the kind they would not wear when out shopping. The obligatory prescribed prayers can be said wearing a ridah thus transforming its status from a secular item to one that is religious.

In Europe and the United States, a ridah costs between $20.00 to $30.00 and is within the means of most Bohra women. In India, where labor is relatively cheap, a ridah, excluding any additional surface decoration retails for less than five dollars. A ridah requires an average of four yards of cloth.

Orhnu

Orhnu (Figure 6) is a large headscarf. It is a very important body supplement, because it can replace, in certain contexts, the picho of the ridah. Many Bohra women have an orhnu that matches their ridah. Thus, in a masjlis, for example, that is held to celebrate the Prophet’s (SAW) birthday, women will come to the masjid in a ridah. Once they have entered the women’s balcony, they remove the picho and wear the orhnu. An orhnu is a necessary adjunct to the prayer clothes women wear to pray at home. Orhnu varies in size—from three yards long to two-and one-half yards long, with a width of 45 inches. Its large size makes it an alternative ridah, because it covers not only one’s head but also one’s torso. Like all the Bohra artifacts under the dress category, orhnu, sometimes called dupatta, has its antecedents in 16th century India. As styles and designs go, orhnu has not changed much. It was an unsewn garment then and has remained that

81 way ever since. Cotton, muslin and voile are by far the most popular materials for orhnu, because they do not slide off one’s head (Fabri, 1960).

Massalaa

The Bohra are all practicing Shia Muslims, and Islam is a way of life. Hence, some of the artifacts, such as the prayer mat—massalaa—serve a religious function. A massalaa (Figure 7) is a colorfully woven piece of fabric depicting the facade of a masjid and its twin minarets. Massalaa were woven in silk, cotton and woolen yarns as early as the 16th century in Mughal India. Currently, the best massalaa are still produced in India and Pakistan. Taiwan provides a large selection of mass produced massalaa of synthetic fibers. All Muslims—men, women, and children alike—use a massalaa. However,

Bohra men and boys use a plain white piece of cotton cloth to pray on. Women, on the other hand, use colored cotton fabric to make their own massalaa. A massalaa is 45 inches long and 35 inches wide, the longer measurement being vertical. Massalaa that are woven of wool and synthetic fiber are usually much narrower in width.

Tasbee

Counters for prayers, made of beads and other materials, are not just a Muslim tradition but are common to many other religions. Marco Polo (c.1254-1324) noted during his travels that the king of Malabar wore a chain of 108 gems that he used for reciting prayers. The tradition of prayer beads is even older in Hinduism and is connected with the worship of the god Shiva. In Christian religious practices, the rosary fulfills a similar function. Winston-Allen (1997), tells of the pious reciting the words

82 “Ave Maria” in chains of “50, 60, 100, or 150 repetitions as a religious exercise or gesture of devotion” (p. 14).

These repetitions were counted on knotted cords or strands of beads. Prayer

counters of beads were actually in use in Europe before the time of the Crusades.

Lady Godiva of Coventry is said to have bequeathed to the Benedictine priory she

founded a set of gems threaded on a cord. (p. 14)

Christian hermits Paul of Thebes (c. 234-347) and Saint Anthony (c. 252-356) used pebbles and knotted strings to keep track of the prayers they chanted endlessly.

For the Bohra, tasbee also serves a religious function. It has three sections of 33 beads. A differently shaped slightly bigger bead separates each section. The two ends of the strung beads are brought together and threaded through a longer bead that is symbolic of the Imam. A tassel holds the bigger bead in place. There are tasbee with 33, 99, 500, and 1,000 beads. The 99-bead tasbee is symbolic of the 99 attributes or names of Allah, and is the one all Muslims use most frequently. Tasbee, often called rosary beads, come in various colors, and are made of wood, plastic, ivory, agate, glass, silver and amber— the most precious and costly of all (Armstrong, 1994; Chebel, 1997). Tasbee denotes not just the beads but also the set of words, for example, Allah’s 99 attributes, or any other text from the Qur’an that is recited repetitiously usually 110 times. Tasbee can cost as little as a dollar and as much as 50 dollars. During the annual Hajj to Makkah and

Medina, pilgrims invariably purchase a variety of tasbee for giving away as gifts. In the masjid when the massalaa are all spread out in neat lines, each worshipper has a tasbee on his/her massalaa. It is usually carried in the folded massalaa and because it has a religious function it is accorded the same respect as the massalaa itself. Tasbee is a good

83 example of a body supplement. Unlike the rosary that became a fashion statement when

Madonna, the Hollywood film star, wore several as costume jewelry (McDannell, 1995, p. 63), tasbee is never worn around the neck, but held in one’s hand. Tasbee with 500 or

1,000 beads are housed in special bags.

Bakhoor and Bakhoor Dani

Artifacts can be encountered through other avenues besides sight and touch. For us to be fully aware of the power of artifacts, we need to realize that artifacts come to us via all our five senses (Forrest, 1991; Miller, 1998). In no other artifact of the Bohra material culture is this so true as in the case of bakhoor and bakhoor dani—incense and incense holder (Figure 8). Here the sense of smell is the predominant mediator, and bakhoor, the body modification (Eicher & Roach-Higgins, 1992). A bakhoor dani can be terra cotta, stainless steel or just plain sheet metal. It is a receptacle for holding embers into which pieces of incense are dropped. As the glowing pieces of charcoal heat up the bakhoor, it starts to emit its aromatic vapors that waft throughout a room or wherever the bakhoor dani is placed. Usually clay bakhoor dani have tiny holes on the sides for better circulation of the incense. Bakhoor dani is an example of technological resourcefulness. When Bohra people immigrated to countries in the West, necessity became the mother of invention. It was not always possible to ignite charcoal in apartments and flats with stringent fire codes. This initiated the sale of bakhoor dani that contained an electric fixture. All that was required was an outlet for the plug. Such a bakhoor dani was like a stainless steel shallow pan, three inches across and one inch deep, with a wooden handle and a wire with plug fixed to it. Once it was hot the bakhoor melted and the air became filled with the scent of musk, sandalwood, and rose to mention a few choice examples of bakhoor. Electrically operated bakhoor dani

84 were made in India. Bakhoor can be commercially bought or better still one can make it. The finest bakhoor comes from Yemen, and Yemeni bakhoor is in great demand during the month of Ramazaan when Bohra men and women like to have their clothes smell of bakhoor. Bakhoor should not have any alcohol-based ingredient in it, nor should it consist of any bitter-smelling flower. Personal experience

Making bakhoor was a unique experience for me. My research trip to Kenya coincided with the observance of Ramazaan. In a predominantly Muslim town, such as

Malindi, the ambience of Ramazaan is palpable. The aroma of delicacies that most

Muslims never eat during the year fills the air as smoke rises up from charcoal grills and deep-frying pans set up on tables outside the precincts of most masjid. Infused with this is the rather woody and smoky aroma of scents and incense. The masjid and the community hall are two loci of Bohra communal activities—prayers and communal meals. I prayed in the masjid, and after prayers I stayed for dinner. My companions in the thaal were women I didn’t know. They invited me to sit with them during jaman. I introduced myself and told them what I was doing and why. One of the women around the thaal gave me a recipe for bakhoor. Most Bohra families receive bakhoor, like the tasbee, as a gift from friends and family who bring it for that purpose from Makkah and

Medina in Saudi Arabia. I myself have chunks of bakhoor given to me by various people. But to be able to make it myself was a bonus all the more rewarding because I had not expected it. The recipe required sugar, sweet-smelling bark (sandalwood) and sweet-smelling perfume. As is common among women who cook without using

85 precisely weighed ingredients, I was not told the proportions of one ingredient to the other. All I was told was that sugar, bark and perfume had to be cooked over low heat.

One of my primary informants, HOWRAH, intuitively poured all the three ingredients in a stainless steel pan and we took turns stirring the mixture. As the heat melted the sugar it helped bind the bark. The perfumes were absorbed by the bark and all the three ingredients congealed to the consistency of thick dark brown treacle. When the three ingredients were thoroughly mixed, we poured the bakhoor in little round stainless steel plates, made small rectangular cuts and allowed it to cool. HOWRAH’s house was full of the smoky but rich smell of bakhoor. By the next morning the bakhoor had cooled and looked like hard toffee. I was able to break the pieces and store them in small jars.

Bakhoor is so popular with the Bohra that many aficionados use it every Thursday night and Friday afternoon, the two most auspicious times for Muslims. During Ramazaan, bakhoor is used every day in the masjid after the Maghreeb prayers. Women make sure that clothes their family wears to the masjid are exposed to bakhoor. Clothes are first laundered, ironed and then spread over the arms, back, and seat of a chair that is placed in a room where all windows and doors are closed. An incense holder with bakhoor over glowing charcoal is put under the chair. Clothes are left in the room until all the embers have died, and the bakhoor has turned to ash.

Misri and Ittar

Two artifacts—misri and ittar—both body modifications, and their containers, though small in size, hold much currency among the Bohra. Their use is a mark of the

86 esteem one has for one’s guests. After guests arrive in a Bohra home they are given a misri—a small piece of crystal sugar or candy.

Misri Dani

The container for the misri like that for bakhoor and ittar can be made of any material except sheet metal, because it rusts. A misri dani is usually smaller than a saucer, but can be that size if candies are to be accommodated in it. The most prized misri dani are of crystal and silver. Some misri dani are in the shape of leaves, others are circular and even rectangular.

Ittar Dani

Dabbing ittar on oneself was a time-honored ritual and is still practiced. Its antecedents hark back to the days of the Mughal era in the 16th to the 18th centuries

(Bhushan, 1958) when the emperor’s court exhuded fragrance of perfumed water, that like holy water (McDannell, 1995), was sprinkled over guests exalted and common alike.

Those Bohra who do not use bakhoor, either through lack of it, or because lighting a charcoal fire and putting bakhoor in it is a chore they do not particularly enjoy doing, are quite amenable to wearing ittar. When guests depart they receive a dab of ittar on their palm. You literally come and go with a sweet taste in your mouth, and on your person.

The traditional silver-filigree ittar dani (Figure 9) is an intricately crafted silver

“bottle” that has an ovoid body. The lower half of the body is the container into which ittar is stored. The upper half is the cap that is hinged to the body. There is a lip to the cap so that it sits well on the body. The neck of the bottle is attached to a small silver plate. An applicator, about one and one half-inch long, is fixed to a fine chain that is long

87 enough to wind around the neck of the bottle when not in use. The other end of the applicator has a lip no bigger than one tenth of one inch in diameter that picks up enough ittar to smear on a person’s palm. Ittar dani come in different shapes, sizes and materials. Crystal glass and colored plastic vials brought from Cairo, Egypt, are much in vogue in Bohra homes. The price of an ittar dani varies from country to country and is determined by its material. Silver ittar dani are sold at 25 to 130 dollars in India. Crystal glass ittar dani are more expensive than their silver counterparts. When not in use it is wrapped in muslin and stored away. If an ittar dani gets tarnished, it is polished, especially, before the end of Ramazaan, and ittar put in it, in readiness for the festivities of Idd-ul-Fitre.

Ornaments

The six artifacts that Bohra bridegrooms wear have their roots in Mughal culture.

They are the serpech, sehraa, baazubund, dushalu, sash and a kamarbund. They are an example of body supplements that are pre-shaped, suspended, adhered, and tied to the head, arm, waist, and shoulder (Eicher & Roach-Higgins, 1992).

Serpech

Serpech is a white chicken feather that is attached to the feta (Figure 10). The feta is a turban made of gold brocade. The feather is attached (Figure 11) to a brooch, which has a synthetic gold cord divided into two, and is long enough to wind around the circumference of the feta or pagri. Natural or synthetic feathers on turbans, like most

Bohra artifacts, can trace their antecedents to India. During the reign of Mughal

Emperors Jahanghir (1605-1627) and Shah Jehan (1627-1658) and well into the 18th

88 century princes and courtiers wore turbans with elaborately molded feathers (Bruhn &

Tilke, 1955) (Figure 12).

Sehraa

A Bohra bridegroom has a veil of flowers or tinsel, 15 inches long, suspended from a band, ten inches long by two inches wide, round his forehead. Pink or white jasmines are strung on individual skeins. Sometimes, tinsel is added to enhance the appearance of the veil. Punjabi Muslim bridegrooms also wear sehraa (Elgar, 1960;

Salvadori, 1983) (Figure 13).

Baazubund

A Bohra bridegroom is decked out in a fine white kurta and saya over which he dons a baazubund. The baazubund—armband—is made of a deep red velvet fabric that has floral motifs embroidered on it in nylon, silver and gold synthetic threads. Some bridegrooms wear a baazubund around the biceps of both arms.. It is 12 inches long and three inches wide. The most recent alteration to occur in the design of the baazubund is the use of Velcro® instead of cords to hold the band securely around the arm. This innovation is another example of how technological developments influence design changes (Figure 14).

Dushalu

On the left forearm the bridegroom wears a dushalu. It literally means two shawls. It is a piece of red velvet fabric 32 inches wide and 12 inches in length. It is folded over and stitched, to create a wide band. Another line of stitches below this fold forms a sling wide enough for the forearm to be better supported. The dushalu is richly

89 decorated with the same floral patterns as the armband. It is the most frequently worn wedding ornament by a Bohra bridegroom (Figure 15).

Sash

The sash has recently been reintroduced in the Bohra bridegroom’s wardrobe. It is about three inches wide and long enough to drape over the shoulder. The crimson velvet accentuates the gold floral motifs and enhances the elegance of the bridegroom’s attire.

Kamarbund

The last ornament that a bridegroom wears is the kamarbund. This is a broad piece of fabric worn around the waist. Like the baazubund and dushalu it is also made of red velvet and richly embroidered (Bhushan, 1958). Amid the floral patterns on the baazubund, dushalu, and kamarbund, the word Allah and the names of the five most revered personages—Muhammad, Ali, Fatema, Hasan, and Hussein—of Shia Islam and the Bohra are embroidered. In toto these ornaments are made in Mumbai, India, and cost from $100.00 to $150.00.

Personal memory

I am in the house of one of my informants, MARIAM. We are discussing the progress of my data collection. MARIAM identifies several artifacts that she thinks I should include in my research. One artifact I classify under “dress” and the other—a set of ornaments—as body supplements to men’s dress. I am grateful for her suggestion but reject the usefulness of the former artifact as a typical example of our ethnicity. The ornaments worn by the bridegroom, however, arouse my curiosity and I invite her to take

90 me to wherever they were stored. At this point, she triumphantly and willingly told me that she owns them. She brings out a large bag—a fabric envelope—20 inches wide by

14 inches long. The flap, six inches by 20 inches wide, is held in place by a loop that goes round a little plastic button. The material used for the cloth enclosure is a sturdy pale blue cotton. Inside the envelope are the ornaments she purchased in Mamra, a suburb of Mumbai, India, from a store that caters to the sale of Bohra dress and other accessories. Because of the resurgence in practices pertaining to all facets of Bohra culture, MARIAM has capitalized on it by hiring out her own set of ornaments to those families who require them.

Footwear

Chakhdi

The last artifact under the rubric of dress that I describe is a footwear—chakhdi.

Chakhdi (Figure 16) refers to a pair of open wooden stilted sandals. Bruhn and Tilke

(1955) attribute this footwear to “a Zanzibar princess of Arabic descent (representing the nobility of the island)” (p. 68). My travels in India took me to the City Palace, Jaipur, of

Maharaja Sawai Man Singh II Museum where I saw a pair of teak chakhdi elaborately carved as being worn by the Emperor himself. Wooden stilted sandals have been in vogue in India for more than a thousand years. The chakhdi is made of a flat piece of wood, or polished sheet metal, fixed to two one-inch high rectangular or round heels, one at each end. There is a knob that goes between the big toe and the second toe so that when walking, it is the toes that grip and lift the chakhdi (Somji, 1997).

91 In Kenya the Swahilis, who are predominantly Muslims, wear the chakhdi and is known by its Kiswahili name mitawanda. Among the Swahilis, the tradition of wearing this type of footwear originated from Lamu, Kenya, and Zanzibar, republic of Tanzania, both strongholds of the Bohra.

Like many Bohra artifacts that have undergone design changes, the chakhdi is no exception. In India, I saw chakhdi that had a tough rubber strap instead of the single knob between the toes. These “strap” chakhdi are a boon for older Bohra men, women and children. Chakhdi cost less than five dollars and most Bohra families, living in the

United States, Canada, and Europe purchase them from India, Pakistan or any one of the

East African countries.

Containers

In the category of containers, the Bohra have a wide variety of artifacts that are unique examples of design and reflect the concept of form relating to function. Three out of the six containers used by the Bohra are associated with eating. Two of these items could be classified as furniture but they are necessary adjuncts to eating, so I discuss them under the rubric of containers. The remaining one, used in a bathroom, is a container called loto.

Namak Dani

A namak dani (Figure 17) is a small shallow bowl that holds salt. It is made of a variety of materials, such as glass, stainless steel, china or wood. The importance of a namak dani must not be judged by its size, because it is a very essential item in the eating rituals of the Bohra. All Bohra, regardless of where they live, start and end a meal by

92 taking a pinch of salt. It is a symbolic, communal “breaking of the bread” and also forms a link to the early days of Islam when Prophet Muhammad (SAW) always started a meal by eating a date. The pinch of salt replaces the date but retains its essential meaning. It also confirms the connection the Bohra make with the Prophet (SAW). The Aamil of Malindi jamaat informed me that according to the Bohra religious dogma, the therapeutic value of salt is so potent that just a grain can prevent 72 different ailments (Personal

Communication, December, 28, 1998).

The correct way of taking the salt from the bowl is by picking a “grain” between the index finger and the thumb of the right hand (Figure 18). The salt is taken after saying Bismillahi-rahmani-raheem. The namak dani is placed on the palm of the right hand that is over the palm of the left hand. The two hands are stretched in front as you offer the salt to the people you are eating with. During a jaman there is always a good- natured rush of hands that try to grab the namak dani from the thaal, because serving namak at the start of the meal is considered an honor and a blessed act. When the meal is ready to start and Bismillahi-rahmani-raheem is said, the person who succeeds in getting the namak dani offers it to the people sitting around the thaal.

Jaman

A typical jaman takes place in a community hall. The floor of the hall is covered with straw, sturdy raffia mats or wall-to-wall carpets. On the day of a jaman, as men and women come to the community hall they find all the safra, with a kundli in the middle of it, spread out in neat lines. These are two of the three basic elements—safra, kundli, and thaal—required for a jaman, whether it is in a community hall or at home. A safra performs the function of a tablecloth; a kundli is the table itself, and a thaal is the plate

93 one eats from. The Bohra are not the only Muslims who sit on the floor to eat from a thaal. Most Indians, Muslims and Hindus alike, did and continue to do so (Wikan, 1982;

Salvadori, 1983).

Safra

Communal eating has a tradition dating back to Mughal times (15th–16th century) in India. Mughlai safra denotes the sitting arrangement for eating. Two long sheets of cloth are rolled out on a floor creating an aisle along which servers move, dishing out food to people sitting opposite each other. The Bohra have modified the one long

Mughlai safra to encompass several smaller ones, and in the process created an identity that is unique (Lemonnier, 1993). All safra are a standard size—three feet square. They are made of burlap, and/or cotton, either plain or printed. In Europe and the United

States, where labor is prohibitive, plastic sheets protect the cloth safra from spills. The plastic safra are recycled and those made of cloth are washed after a jaman, ready for use the next time a jaman occurs. The cost of a safra in this country is under five dollars.

Safra are arranged in lines leaving enough space between one safra and the next so that one person does not lean against another one in the adjacent thaal. It also provides sufficient space for servers to move from thaal to thaal as they replenish food that is carried in large plastic pails or tubs. Eight people can sit fairly comfortably around a safra.

Kundli

A kundli (Figure 19) is constructed from a 36 inches long by 12 inches wide brass sheet folded over and welded to form a circular “table” of diameter 18 inches. It is 16

94 inches in height. In the 1950s brass kundli were used in communal eating, but economic inflation has made them unaffordable. Sheet metal kundli are most commonly used, yet they have their disadvantages. They are crudely made and not very durable. A rusty sheet metal kundli is not only a safety and health hazard, but also aesthetically unappealing. A four-legged folding kundli was a welcome new innovation. It is made of two aluminum rectangular rods 16 inches long. The rods are put over each other

(forming an X) and fixed in the center with a spring screw so that it can open out wide.

Four hollow cylindrical bars eight inches high are welded to the cross and form the legs.

A piece of rubber cap about one inch long is pushed into the two ends of each of the four legs for stability. When not in use, the two rods are closed. A four-legged kundli is cheaper than the circular one and does not require polishing. Today, in those urban centers where the Bohra live, folding kundli have superseded round ones and eased the problem of storage (Figure 20). However, most Bohra families own a stainless steel kundli, and some a brass one, that are used for very special occasions such as wedding dinners and meals prepared for celebrating certain religious rites, such as misaaq.

Personal Experience

One of my self-imposed tasks while data collecting was also to acquire as many of these types of artifacts as possible. HOWRAH, the principal informant in FAMILY B, has a brass and a stainless steel kundli in her house. Both are stored away when not in use. She does not have a folding kundli. She does not think it is wide and stable enough to support a heavy thaal. She was proved right. Each leg of the kundli has a piece of hard rubber cap pushed into it. If one or more such pieces are missing, the thaal slides to

95 one side. Once on my way to meet with one of the informants in Family C, HOWRAH took me to a store that had artifacts of Bohra material culture. I did not have a kundli.

To my great surprise, I found a six-legged kundli that was ordered from India by a Bohra woman. The storekeeper was happy to sell it to me for 32 dollars. The evolution of the round kundli to four-legs and currently six-legs is a testimony of the technological purview of artifacts. The kundli is an eminently appropriate paradigm for the interconnectedness of design to function and how a need-based object will undergo many changes before it can satisfy everyone’s desires. (Lemonnier, 1993).

Thaal

Food is served in round aluminum or stainless steel thaal three feet in diameter.

Aluminum thaal cost about the equivalent of 50 dollars in Kenya, whereas the stainless steel variety would be twice that amount. Thaal are made in India and Pakistan, and most

Bohra families obtain them from there. Thaal that is placed over the kundli must always have the namak dani on it, before food is served. Each thaal must have eight people sitting around it (Figure 21).

Chilamchi Loto

To the best of my knowledge, the Bohra must be the only Indian Muslim community who uses a chilamchi loto (Figure 22 & 23) at the present time. One of the informants in my pilot study expressed to me that in India, other communities besides

Bohra use a chilamchi loto, though she was not able to elaborate who the people were.

Subsequent to her remark, my own research elicited interesting results. Talking with my older sisters and some friends, I learnt that traditionally Gujaraati Hindus used the loto

96 for carrying water when brushing their teeth. However, they did not use a chilamchi. A chilamchi loto is a two-piece brass or stainless steel container for holding and pouring water. The top—loto—is the pot. It has a three-inch wide mouth that narrows to a neck and then widens to form the body. The pinched neck makes it easy to lift the loto. The chilamchi is the bowl on which the loto stands. It resembles a little wide-mouthed pot joined to a plate. The plate is slightly concave, so that when hands are held over the chilamchi and water poured over them it runs into the vessel. Traditionally a loto did not have a handle or a spout. Currently, a loto with a handle and a spout is being manufactured in India. The introduction of the handle and spout is meant to make it easier to pour water over hands, but has ruined the smooth flowing shape of the loto. It is also an indication that Bohra, by and large, are using the chilamchi loto far less frequently now than they did a generation ago. Thus, pouring water over someone’s hands using a chilamchi loto is a cultivated art that is being lost. A chilamchi loto is, like the thaal, an artifact made to last a lifetime. Unless deliberately misused it can be in a family for generations. Brass chilamchi loto tend to develop leaks, but they can be mended. Stainless steel chilamchi loto are more durable.

Loto

A container that is specifically used for ritual cleansing after using the bathroom is referred to as a loto (Figure 24). It must not to be confused with the container of the same name that is a companion to the chilamchi. But both are used for holding water.

The loto for the bathroom is oblong in shape and nine inches tall. It has a handle on one side and an eight-inch long narrow spout on the other that facilitates pouring of water on

97 one’s feet for ablutions. The mouth of the loto is about six inches in diameter. This enables one to cup water out of it with one’s hands.

Like most of the artifacts used by the Bohra, the loto has undergone a metamorphosis. A brass loto is now a rare sight in Bohra homes. It is replaced by one made of stainless steel that is stronger and easier to keep clean. Stainless steel loto cost the equivalent of ten dollars. The design of the loto facilitates its function. The long narrow spout controls the flow of water and localizes it to the part of the body that needs cleaning. Most stainless steel loto are bought in India. But, nowadays, it is possible to buy a sheet metal loto in any urban center in Kenya or a tinsmith can make one if shown a sample. In Europe and America, a plastic watering can performs a similar function as that of a traditional loto.

Furniture

Takhat

A takhat (Figure 25), like the topi and ridah, is quintessential Bohra. No other

Muslim community uses one, yet every Muslim community has something that bears resemblance to it in its purpose if not in its design. Structurally, a takhat resembles a wooden chair. What makes it different is its short and sturdy legs (20 inches long) in proportion to its very wide seat (15 x 72 x 60 inches) and a 27 inches high back. The takhat has arms and the back is carved like a minaret. The sides and the seat are padded with thick cushions, draped over with white terry cloth. There are smaller rectangular cushions placed on either side of the seated preacher who places on it the literature required for the waez. A low table—like a footstool—is placed in front of the preacher’s

98 bent knees, making it impossible for him to move. At the end of the waez, this stool has to be removed first before he can stand up on the takhat to come down the two steps provided for that purpose. The stool, which is rectangular rather than square, is, in fact, a podium on which the preacher has his notes for the waez. A public address system is placed in front of him for good sound projection.

A takhat, though used in hallowed space is, nevertheless, a secular artifact. It is never used as an item on which to pray. Its size is obstructive. It does not replace the minbar. It is an adjunct to it, because an Imam cannot lead the prescribed prayers from a takhat, but he can and does offer prayers for the congregation from the takhat. A takhat is intricately carved, with floral and geometric patterns and Kufic calligraphy, by craftsmen in Sri Lanka and Jaipur, India, and costs between eight and 12 thousand dollars. At that price, it is made to last more than a lifetime.

Personal Experience

I am in Cairo, Egypt, on the evening of December 5, 1998. In the company of other pilgrims, we are in the courtyard of Jamea-Anwar, a masjid that is more than 1,000 years old. We walk along as our guide, a mullah, points out the unique architectural features of the masjid. At the eastern end of this vast masjid—its seating capacity is more than 100,000 people—something rests under dust cloths. These are removed for our benefit and we see a takhat. This is a stroke of luck, and no one among the pilgrims seems as excited about this as I am. It is unique in its design. It does not have legs and its component parts can be dismantled. Thus, the back of the takhat and the arms can be folded over the seat. This takhat was presented to the Bohra community of Cairo, by the

99 Bohra community of Hong Kong in the year 1400 A.H., approximately twenty years ago when Jamea-Anwar was officially reopened after extensive restorations. The design of this particular takhat was influenced by one factor. This takhat had to be shipped from

Hong Kong. It would be easier to do this if it could be dismantled. The sides and the back of the takhat have a line of “arches” reflecting the colonnades of the masjid. It is made of teak.

Jazam

The jazam (Figure 26), a block-printed cotton carpet found in Bohra homes and masjid, is a very common furnishing. The fabric is first woven and then dyed, and lastly floral and geometric motifs are block-printed on it. A jazam is usually printed in reds and greens, reds and indigo with light yellow.

Cloth printing is nearly as old as embroidery and it is difficult to conclude which art form was introduced to India first. Evidence in costumes from early Indian sculpture suggests that either could have been the first. “Calico” became a term that referred to cotton available from Calicut. Calico printing began before the Mughal era and reached a peak in technical skill when a large number of craftsmen moved to what is now Northern

India (Bhushan, 1958). The size of a jazam ranges from covering a single room to many square yards, large enough to cover the praying precinct of a masjid or an extensive hall.

Most Bohra homes have a jazam big enough to cover the floor space of an average room.

A jazam is used during all communal functions. When not in use it is folded and put away in storage.

100 In closing this chapter I want to reiterate that I have confined myself to the physical descriptions of the most-commonly used artifacts of the Bohra culture, what materials are employed in their construction, who makes them, and how much they cost.

I now shift our attention to discuss questions of how and why these artifacts are used by the Bohra people.

CHAPTER IV

ARTIFACTS ANALYSES

In this chapter I give voice to my informants and permit them to talk about the artifacts through responses to my questions. These responses are reproduced here as they were given. I have made no alterations what so ever to the content. Where our conversation was in Gujaraati, and Lisanul Daawat I have made every effort to retain both the accuracy and spirit of the response in translation.

I also include here the researcher’s comments. These comments elucidate further the relational complexity of the artifacts mediated by the attitudes of individual informants and the information they supplied to me based on the Berger (1992)/Kyvig and Marty (1982) model of analyzing artifacts. The comments on the artifacts follow the order in which I have discussed each of them in Chapter III.

Informants’ Responses

Priming the canvas

From the time the idea of writing about the artifacts of the material culture of the

Bohra was in its nascent stage, I was aware that to confine the study of the artifacts to their physical appearance would serve no useful anthropological purpose. I would have to contextualize them to the people who make them and live with them (Reynolds &

Stott, 1987). I would need people to help me define the objects and let the objects define them as people (Pocius, 1996). 102 Thus, the logistics of identifying my informants was a process that started at The

Pennsylvania State University when I met a 24-year old Bohra doctoral student. In the course of my conversations with him, I discovered that he was an appropriate sounding board for my research inquiry. By his own admission, his awareness and familiarity with our cultural artifacts was rather rudimentary. He attributed that to being away from home since high school. Since my informants would be members of a nuclear family, this student provided me with a profile that helped me to clarify the structure of my questions and, reciprocally, I was able to enlighten him with some information about our artifacts.

He was the first of my pilot study informants. Coincidentally, I met his parents when they came to visit their son. They agreed to my request for an interview. Over the course of two interviews of two hours, and informal conversations, I was able to discern influences that led to certain behavioral patterns. A laissez-faire attitude on the part of one parent undermined the authority of the other and confused the children, especially in relation to the use of Bohra artifacts.

These conversations became a source of comparison when I met my second

Bohra family in Central Pennsylvania. Over a period of three years, from 1996-1998, I visited them six times living with them for two weeks (the longest duration) to a four-day weekend (the shortest duration). They are American citizens and have lived in Carlisle,

Pennsylvania for 25 years. This was a nuclear family of two sons, one a pre-medical undergraduate and the other a high school senior at that time. The parents are professionals in education and health care management. This family provided me with a situation that reinforced my belief that for a culture to survive a woman played a pivotal role (Prakash & Esteva, 1998). The mother emphasized repeatedly how vital culture was

103 to her and her family (Bodeman & Tohidi, 1998; Dahl, 1997). The unavoidable dichotomization of their lifestyle, that was a result of being both Bohra and American, was in large measure alleviated by the tangible presence of the Bohra artifacts around them which acted as a constant reminder of who they were (Tatum, 1999). These informants’ responses became very crucial for establishing the criteria I used for selecting the families when I finally began my participant observation.

When I interviewed the families for my pilot study, it was fortuitous that they represented two different levels of awareness and commitment to the artifacts. One family was fully cognizant of the role artifacts of Bohra culture play in their life. The second family was rather lukewarm in its enthusiasm for the objects. I wanted to meet a third family who was completely unaware of the artifacts; a family who was a Bohra in name only. I imagined, perhaps unfairly, that I would find such a family here in the

United States. Not only was I wrong in my assumption that the process of acculturation would have eliminated all vestiges of a “home” culture from the lives of Bohra living here (as was evident from the family in Carlisle), I was also off-course in assuming that

“awareness” would be a fitting criterion for assessing and analyzing the behavioral patterns resulting from artifactual interaction (Spradley, 1979).

It took the Aamil of Malindi, my research venue, to clarify that interviewing a family who had a “zero-commitment” for the artifacts would elicit “no” or “not- applicable” responses. Interviewing such a family would be tantamount to asking a non-

Bohra what they thought about our objects when they did not know what the objects were. Based on the questionnaire I had prepared which he perused, the Aamil suggested I select families from three different socio-economic levels. This was in keeping with the

104 Marxist analysis of material culture. Certainly, in the context of the Bohra material culture, money or a family’s lack thereof, played a defining role in perpetuating certain attitudes (Berger, 1992). He observed that every one of the artifacts I discussed had one or more questions pertaining to its cost to the informant. He asked me to reevaluate my selection criteria. He offered to assist me in identifying three families who would be affluent, average and impoverished economically. In addition to that, he would use his good offices to procure their consent to cooperate with me in conducting my research. I was a little skeptical of his rationale, but decided that perhaps this was sound advice and I would be happy to acquiesce. His last remark was that I compare the responses of the three families with a fourth one that had no cultural or emotional affiliation with the artifacts. My decision was made. The canvas was primed; I had made the initial preparations. I had selected my palette—the families. My subject was artifacts and their meanings. I was ready to paint a story.

In this study, I allude to the informants as FAMILY A, FAMILY B, and FAMILY

C. I give a background of each family and the number of informants who participated in my study. For each family I present a detailed analysis that I arrived at after studying their responses to my questions. I use their responses in conjunction with my own participant observation to “paint a portrait” of each family. To ascertain anonymity and respect their privacy, I have given pseudonyms to my informants. The dates when I visited them are accurate but I have changed the place names.

105 Family A

Background

I am in Malindi, living with my principal informant, HOWRAH, and her family.

During the first week I call upon the Aamil and he identifies the families I should interview. He agrees with me that my research should be with nuclear families. I ask an old school friend of mine, who also knows FAMILY A—the affluent family, to alert them of my interest and need for interviewing them. The Aamil assures me that the

RASHID family will cooperate with me and I am delighted at their willingness to help.

They are all very interested in the topic of my research, but have reservations about doing the interviews during Ramazaan. In this month, Bohra families prefer to pray in the masjid, so that the normal routine of a household is adjusted to maintain strict punctuality for the five prescribed prayer times, and other religious observances. This results in a time frame in which a day begins much before sunrise and ends late. Because of this I prepare questionnaires for them. HOWRAH’s help in locating these families, where they live, and how I can get to them, is invaluable.

Thus, I made my initial contact with FAMILY A on the evening of Thursday,

December 31, 1998, when I went to pray in the masjid that caters to those Bohra who live in the northern suburbs of Malindi. I met with them after the Maghreeb prayers and gave the questionnaires to the head of the RASHID family and agreed to visit their home after

Ramazaan.

The RASHID family comprises six members. The matriarch of the family is the

68 years old widow MARIAM. She is and has always been an active social worker and

106 is very much in the forefront of the activities of the Bohra community in Malindi. In recognition of the services she renders to the community and her knowledge of Islamic theology with emphasis on the Bohra, community elders have awarded her an honorary title of “mullah.” She has three married children. The eldest is a 41 years old son ALI who has a thriving practice as a pharmacist in Malindi. One of her daughters is married, and lives in Mombasa. The other lives with her family in Quetta, Pakistan. MARIAM lives with her son ALI, his wife, and their three children, a four and one half year old boy, and two girls 14 and 12 years of age.

MARIAM and her family have all the advantages of wealth. They live in a palatial home in an elite suburb of Malindi. Their house reflects their eclectic life style but is in no way ostentatious. Rather, it exhudes an aura of an ideal Bohra family, such that my informants bear the physical markers on and about them of their commitment to the artifacts of our culture. MARIAM, her daughter-in-law and the older grand daughter wear our traditional dress in the house—the ghaghra and blouse, and an orhnu that covers their head. The younger grand daughter wears a jabla, eezaar and a smaller sized orhnu. The young grand son is the only one who wears a T-shirt and shorts. The son wears a topi both as an indoor and outdoor headgear.

In the spacious and well-furnished living room there is a display cabinet with several ittar dani among other souvenirs and memorabilia of a well-traveled family. One section of the large living room is covered with a jazam and cushions are laid on it for sitting on the floor. Towns along the east coast of Kenya have a very strong multicultural population with Muslims of various sects predominating (Salvadori, 1983), so I am not

107 surprised by the blend of traditional and contemporary in this house that indicates the level of ease with which the family accommodate both Bohra and non-Bohra cultures.

MARIAM’s life style revolves around her home, her social work among the less- fortunate members of the community, and prayers and worship during the month of

Ramazaan. This is not to suggest that she leads a monastic life. On the contrary, like any other family there is much fun and laughter in the house, provided in no small measure by her boisterous grand son. She is a woman who has suffered the trauma of losing a husband and a young son, but has overcome her loss by devoting her life to her family and to her community work.

Personal Experience

Almost thirty years ago, MARIAM was one of the presenters at a function in honor of a community dignitary. I remember very vividly her oration on the status of

Muslim women in general, and being a Bohra, in particular. She internalized the issue of women and the veil and made a case for the reintroduction of the ridah among Bohra women. She was, perhaps, one of the first Bohra women who changed her dress without any fuss or furor.

Analyses of Responses FAMILY A

I received very detailed information from five members of the RASHID family.

Their responses, my observation of them in the masjid and my conversations with

MARIAM, ALI, his wife and daughters are the basis of this analysis.

From the responses to my questions, I discern a woman who, unlike a lot of

Bohra women of her age group, has embraced the change that wearing a ridah has

108 brought with grace, equanimity and understanding of the politics involved. MARIAM rejoices in her overt acknowledgement of what it means to be a Bohra with a feeling of

“pride and emancipation” (Answer to questions 4 & 5 Appendix A Ridah).

When I visited her after the completion of Ramazaan, I found a woman whose convictions have not changed over time. We debated the concept of veiling among the

Bohra and the wearing of the ridah in the wider context of a life style, rather than any of the much-publicized tropes of modesty, resistance, shame and oppression that seem to be linked with Muslim women and Islam (Afkhami, 1995; Bodeman & Tohidi, 1998;

Goodwin, 1994; Jeffery, 1979; Kahf, 1999). According to MARIAM, the wearing of a ridah required a complete attitudinal change in a woman, mediated by their role as a woman within and without a family (Brenner, 1996). The ridah was not just a dress to subjugate, rather it denoted an overwhelming sense of personal control that came about when a woman was aware of herself as a woman instead of an object to be possessed

(Hansen, 1983; Lateef, 1990; Papanek, 1973; Stowasser 1994). We discussed the issue of the number of ridah that are owned by Bohra women. Her interpretation was that

Bohra women have, in their zeal to veil, inadvertently distorted the purpose of a ridah. If the primary role of a ridah is to provide a certain degree of “anonymity,” then the Bohra ridah more often than not fail to do that. Multi-colored and multi-printed ridah became a cynosure of ridicule by non-wearers who understood even less the philosophy of veiling.

MARIAM maintained that the Bohra women in the early days of the “wear-the-ridah” movement failed to appreciate the intrinsic value of wearing a ridah. She conceded that rather than persuasion, friendly or otherwise, education was necessary to inculcate in the

Bohra woman a new sense of her own worthiness. Today those Bohra women who wear

109 the ridah do so voluntarily. They choose to wear it when they want to and discard it at will. Without exception, those Bohra women who wish to keep alive their cultural roots and participation in the community wear the ridah during all communal functions. What is perhaps most heartening is that, as the younger generation of Bohra girls reaches puberty and enter the state of misaaq and all it entails, mothers encourage their daughters to wear the ridah and daughters acquiesce.

MARIAM informed me in her responses that she has forty-two ridah. As mentioned elsewhere, Bohra women delight in exchanging gifts on auspicious occasions such as births, marriages, misaaq ceremonies and other festivities. Giving four to five yards of fabric for a ridah is the most common gift the receiver appreciates. This is how

MARIAM’s wardrobe stacks up with so many ridah. However, she has simple taste and eschews for the most part elaborate trimmings on her ridah. She gives away many of her ridah to needy Bohra women, and those ridah that are too old to be handed down she recycles in various ways in her home. Despite the fact that MARIAM can well-afford to have her ridah tailored, she makes her own and those worn by her grand daughter. She prefers plain silk ridah to those made of printed cotton. MARIAM intimated to me during our conversations that, “Fortunately for me, all the members of my family show a positive commitment to our culture, so that I have had no problems with my children.

But I am always ready to explain, advise and educate them and others where and when necessary” (Personal Communication, January, 12, 1999).

As an example of a family on the upper rung of the socio-economic ladder, the

RASHID family possesses all the artifacts I have discussed. Because MARIAM’s married son and his family live with her in the same house, the entire family shares any

110 artifact that is not of direct personal use. In the event that ALI, his wife and children set up their own home, they would have their own artifacts.

MARIAM’s daughter-in-law is a certified nursery-school teacher, although at the time of this research she was not teaching. She, like her mother-in-law, leads a busy life that revolves around her son’s school-life and all the activities that require parental cooperation and participation. She also joins MARIAM in her social work. MARIAM’s daughter-in-law comes from an average-income family. Her marriage to a man of means has in no way altered her attitude toward people of lesser means. I found her very obliging and she, like her mother-in-law, has no qualms about wearing a ridah. The daughter-in-law displays the same austerity. She has about 25 ridah, a lot of them acquired as gifts rather than through her own purchases.

MARIAM’s son ALI is an honorary “Sheikh.” Like his mother he devotes a fair amount of his time to community and philanthropic service. As a professional he is a role model for the male members of the community, and an example of how to achieve an appropriate balance between a traditional/religious and a secular/non-religious lifestyle. I mentioned previously that there are no rigorous strictures placed upon men’s clothing. Lest this is construed as being sexist, I wish to quote the authority of the holy

Qur’an on this matter. In Surah 23 Aayat 30, Allah enjoins thus, “Say to the believing men that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty: that will make for greater purity for them” (Yusufali, 1983, p. 904). The interpretation of this surah in the context of male dress is the injunction against skin-tight trousers. The wearing of a topi is in accord with the concept of respect for a higher being—Allah. ALI indicated in his responses that while he was in England studying he did not wear a topi regularly, but it

111 became part of his daily dress on his return to Kenya in 1984. Because ALI now wears a topi at all times, he has eight of them that he buys either from India, Pakistan, or from the many Bohra women who custom-make them locally in Mombasa, Malindi or Nairobi.

At work he wears what I call a global, “cosmopolitan” outfit, worn by millions of other men (Eicher, 1995)—trousers and a shirt—with a topi. At home he prefers the looser more comfortable kurta and ezaar. In the masjid for prayers and all other communal functions he dons kurta saya ezaar and pagri meaning a turban. A pagri has two components: an inner topi and a long white muslin scarf, about a yard and 18 inches long. The topi is crocheted with a green or red cotton thread. Both the inner topi and the white muslin cloth are starched, and the latter is permanently fixed to the topi. The scarf is folded longitudinally to a width of two and one half inches and wound round the topi in such a way as to be higher in the front than in the back. When worn it is situated off the forehead. ALI wears a pagri only in the masjid because of his position as a sheikh

(Barnes & Eicher, 1992; Dant, 1999; Weiner & Schneider, 1989). Whereas ALI needs eight topi he can make do with three pagri. A pagri is worn primarily during communal gatherings of special religious significance, and because it cannot be washed as easily as a topi, it needs to be carefully wrapped in a cloth and packed in its special box. A pagri is made in India, and costs about $20.00.

ALI and his wife are able to determine what and how the little boy will dress.

The two daughters follow a lifestyle as exemplified by their parents. My questions to the younger daughter, SHIREEN, were confined to the massalaa, tasbee, and orhnu. She is not inducted into the misaaq yet, so she does not own any ridah. She does have eight orhnu that for a young girl who wears one all the time, is quite frugal. She wears jabla

112 and ezaar and occasionally shalwaar and kameez with a dupatta with which she covers her head. Her older sister wears a ridah and has 22 of them. For every ridah, she has a matching orhnu, and she likes to indulge in placing frills and laces on her ridah. At first it seemed to me excessive, but upon reflection I concluded that young Bohra women between the age of 15 to 30 who espouse the ghaghra/blouse and orhnu as their customary outfit need that many because their wardrobe is not diversified. Some ridah are worn to school, some to work, some for the masjid, and yet others are worn for a variety of festive occasions.

Bohra exegesis on prayers gives particular credence to tahaarat—the state of being clean and pure. As such it is imperative that clothes for prayers are “namaazi,” meaning clean (Chebel, 1997). This is also the reason why ablutions have to be performed before praying. For the Bohra, ablution in and of itself does not ensure preparedness for praying. In my experience it is a rare Bohra who prays in the same clothes that he/she has worn for several hours at work or at play. By the same token, the space where one prays must also be clean. Thus, the need for one’s own massalaa.

Bohra seldom if ever pray on a carpet on which people have walked with their shoes.

MARIAM spoke about why Bohra men and women have their own massalaa: “A carpet is not namaazi. Anything that is namaazi can substitute for a massalaa. Carrying one’s own massalaa when praying outside one’s own home saves time finding out what is namaazi or not” (Personal Communication, December 31, 1998). This discussion connects with our understanding of the suzni. A suzni is the plastic backing that is either stitched on to the massalaa or laid against it. This is an additional safeguard for namaazi-conscious Bohra who want to be absolutely sure that the space where they pray,

113 if ritually unclean, will not taint their massalaa. For the RASHID family, tasbee, bakhoor, misri, ittar, and chakhdi represent the full complement of artifacts under the category of dress. Except for tasbee and its bag, all the other artifacts are of a non- personal nature. Every member of a household is not expected to have one, although any one of them may be acquired as a gift that would then go to the whole family.

MARIAM has her own chakhdi that she uses for ablutions. This is purely a personal predilection and is not obligatory. What is mandatory is that both the bathroom and toilet do have a chakhdi that is exclusively for use there. Where the bath tub/shower and commode is a single unit, one chakhdi would suffice. The principle of tahaarat that dictates, for example, that one’s clothes be clean applies equally rigorously to the use of a chakdi such that only the most negligent and unknowledgeable of Bohra would walk with a chakhdi that is used in a low-level commode to the bedroom.

MARIAM has all the containers Bohra use in her home. From my conversations with her, it is evident that she is rather amused at some of my questions. She, like most practicing Bohra, take it for granted that they must have all the accouterments of their culture about them—a symbol that provides strength and continuity in a world that inclines toward homogeneity in a macrocultural setting.

In sum, I wish to state that despite the obvious lack of financial juggling, that I observed in HOWRAH’s family, the RASHID family did not flaunt their wealth. I did not discern any extravagance bordering on over-indulgence. The artifacts that Bohra use have been part of that family’s life for a very long time. They are replaced as and when the need arises. Artifacts such as the thaal, chilamchi loto, jazam are put away in the

114 utility cupboards when not required and anything that is in excess of what they need is given away to the less fortunate.

Family B

Background

It is Tuesday December 15th, 1998 and I have just arrived in Malindi, Kenya from

Cairo, Egypt. HOWRAH and her husband FIDA have invited me to stay with them for as long as I would like. They have two grown-up children—a son and a daughter. The son, DEEN is married to MARIA and they have a son, TAHA who will soon be five years old. MARIA is an agent for a South African company dealing in health foods and other products. She has just started this business and is working hard to make it a success. DEEN is a sailor and currently holds the chair of the African Rowing

Association headquartered in Cairo, Egypt. He also helps his father run a store downtown in Malindi, dealing in popular tourist ware, such as sculptures, batik paintings, and T-shirts with an assortment of traditional African motifs. The unmarried daughter

ARWA works in a fast growing industrial town with an agricultural base. All of them are fluent in English and Kiswahili and their mother tongue, Gujaraati. I conduct my interviews and hold conversations in all the three languages. They are an average-income family. Business is not always successful, but they manage.

HOWRAH’s house is in a residential area in downtown Malindi. It is the second to the last house situated on an unpaved alley, off Jembe road. It is a two-storey building.

HOWRAH lives on the ground floor and the owner of the building lives above.

HOWRAH and her family are nature lovers, as are most Bohra. All my informants have

115 potted plants, gardens or both in their homes. HOWRAH rents this house and there is not much of a garden, but she does have some quite beautiful potted tropical plants—palms, hibiscus, and at least three different types of orchids.

Most residential houses in Kenya have walls built around them. The wrought- iron gate to HOWRAH’s house is rusty, but the wooden door to the house itself is fairly well maintained. Many houses in Malindi have the occupants’ names displayed on the door. Next to their nameplate is a plaque with the words Bismillahi-rahmani-raheem—a symbol of a Muslim home. The front door leads a visitor into the living room.

Immediately my eyes see bits of lego blocks, a truck under a chair, a ball, and some drawings done with colored crayons on pieces of paper. TAHA is nowhere to be seen, but these are his things. Across from the front door, on the opposite wall, is a large display cabinet. On one of the shelves I notice an ittar dani and smaller bottles of perfume. There is a stainless steel bakhoor dani also. As I settle in, I observe that the artifacts of our material culture are a living part of HOWRAH’s household. In four days the holy month of Ramazaan begins, so there is much evidence of the artifacts of the dress category situated about—several ridah are lying on the sewing machine. MARIA is crocheting a topi, and HOWRAH’s mother is stringing beads for a tasbee.

Before lunch, HOWRAH and her mother say their afternoon prayers. This is another opportunity for me to see some other artifacts. In HOWRAH’s house, the bathroom and toilet chakhdi are made of stainless steel with wooden heels. The bedroom chakhdi is wooden and is left outside the bathroom when one goes to perform ablutions before saying prayers. The bathroom has a shower unit and an additional faucet under which is a loto. This loto facilitates the performing of ablutions. After performing

116 ablutions, one wears the bedroom chakhdi that is dry and walks to where one’s massalaa is spread.

HOWRAH and her mother, like all other Bohra, have clothes that are specifically for praying. Women wear a long gathered skirt and a blouse that is tucked into the skirt and an ohrnu—a two, to two and one half-meters long scarf. The open orhnu is held up to the hairline, and down to the buttocks. The right hand portion of the orhnu is a little longer so that it can be taken under the chin, round the face, back over the head and tucked under the chin again to hold it in place. Cotton orhnu are the best and most convenient, because they do not slip off one’s head while praying, especially when genuflecting and prostrating oneself. The skirt and blouse is sometimes replaced by a long dress.

At about 1:30 p.m., we eat lunch at a dining table. HOWRAH and her family do not use a safra, thaal and kundli on a daily basis. In fact, the safra, thaal and kundli have been removed from use in most Bohra homes for more than 40 years. The replacement of a thaal and kundli by a dining table and chairs was part of the so-called “progress,” as measured by the influence of British colonization that made it imperative to remove all vestiges of practices deemed “backward.” Discarding the ridah and eating at a table were two symbols of “progress and development” (Bean, 1989, p. 356). Having said that, there is another reason why HOWRAH’s family eats at a dining table. HOWRAH’s mother cannot sit on the floor anymore. She suffers from arthritis. Thus, for them, a dining table is a necessity. Also, the dining table has other utilitarian purposes. It gets used as a cutting board for HOWRAH’s customers’ clothes. Her sewing machine sits on it. It acts as a desk for TAHA, a place for him to do his drawings and paintings. It is

117 multi-functional. Many of my informants subconsciously feel a sense of guilt about eating at a table. They seem to think it is wrong. Yet, not one of them has or would ever hold the politics of colonization as a reason for a change in their cultural patterns

(Callaway, 1992). The absence of a thaal does not mean that the namak dani is missing.

No meal is ever taken without tasting a pinch of salt.

In preparation for Ramazaan that starts on Saturday, December 19, 1998,

HOWRAH’s household carried out the following activities that had a direct bearing on the artifacts of Bohra material culture. FIDA made sure that his perun, the long white muslin “shirt,” was washed and ironed. His massalaa and topi received the same care.

The topi is starched and dried over an aluminum mould to retain its shape. An unstarched topi sags and is an indication of someone who does not consider the impact, importance and symbolism projected through this object worthy of respect.

HOWRAH’s mother also has her clothes washed, ironed and ready. She suffers from arthritis in her knees and cannot genuflect and sit on the floor with her legs bent at the knees. Islam makes provisions for such situations. HOWRAH’s mother sits on the edge of her bed and places a chair in front of her. She places her folded massalaa on the seat of the chair and instead of a full genuflection she bends over at the waist and touches her head on the massalaa. During Ramazaan, most Bohra men, women and children go to the masjid to pray. Since I live with HOWRAH, I go to the masjid with FIDA.

My first evening prayers in a masjid in Malindi came on Friday December 18,

1998. One of the most pleasing sights for me is to watch row upon row of men, clad in white, praying in unison with the Imam, standing, sitting, genuflecting, and prostrating when he does. The seeming austerity displayed by men’s all white dress is amply

118 redressed by the splurge of color seen in women’s clothes—ridah with matching massalaa, small tote bags to carry their Qur’an, tasbee, and handkerchiefs. The semiotic properties of men’s perun and topi and women’s ridah become tools for uniting a community and developing an identity that acts as a marker for communal solidarity

(Barnes & Eicher, 1992; Berger, 1992).

As a researcher, I have developed a routine whereby every day after the morning prayers I settle down to observe my informants. Although I will live with them for six weeks, I have distributed the questionnaire to HOWRAH and her extended family of ten people—seven women and three men. HOWRAH is a dress designer, dressmaker and crafts woman—an accomplished seamstress. Her main line of business is the designing and tailoring of ridah, kurta, saya, perun, massalaa, and crocheting topi. She keeps extremely busy between her sewing and running the household. She understands the function of the ridah and the properties of the fabric that her customers bring. The connection between function and use and how she utilizes the fabric in the making of the ridah is “evidence of her superior skill” (Gordon, 1993, p. 80). HOWRAH’s clientele is very loyal to her. This is due, in part, to her prompt delivery of the goods they want her to make, and the professionalism she brings into her work. In the context of this study,

HOWRAH’s ridah, orhnu, massalaa, and topi are a fitting paradigm for the linkage between artifacts and art.

Analyses of Responses FAMILY B

The ritual of prayers, the preparation of the prayer clothes, that is to say the massalaa, tasbee, orhnu, ghaghra, the ablutions before praying, taking a pinch of salt

119 before and after eating, the infusion of bakhoor into the clothes, are tasks that Bohra people carry out without question. My research and the questionnaire I gave to each of the ten members of HOWRAH’s extended family did elicit some unexpected reactions.

Since I wanted to know from each informant how many artifacts from each category they possessed, it thus made them question their values and needs (Miller,

1998). KHADIJA, HOWRAH’s older sister, has 35 ridah. HOWRAH’s mother, on the other hand, has four. Granted, KHADIJA’s life style necessitates her going out much more than HOWRAH’s mother, but, are 35 ridah more than enough? KHADIJA explained in her responses that she wears no other type of dress besides a ridah. She has ridah commensurate with the different chores, jobs, and functions she performs and attends. A ridah that she wears shopping is one she will not wear to the masjid. This was the rationale all the informants in FAMILY B used for having more than one ridah.

MARIA, HOWRAH’s daughter-in-law, countered my question with one of her own that made me wonder whether I was unfair in asking them such a question. My question implied that one ridah was, indeed, sufficient for their needs. MARIA asked me if any woman not wearing a ridah could live with just one pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Having more than one ridah was more a necessity. MARIA, KHADIJA, and MARIAM

(KHADIJA’s daughter-in-law) elaborated on the issue of having as many as 35 ridah.

They maintained that the combination of sweat—Malindi is a hot humid town most of the year—and dust and dirt—the roads are in a state of complete disrepair—make it imperative that a ridah be washed before it can be worn again. This is how they rationalized the need for many ridah (Berger, 1992). However, KHADIJA did concede that it was time for her to reexamine her wardrobe to see if she could discard some of

120 them. This raised the issue of recycling unwanted ridah. Bohra women are ingenious.

They give away their unwanted ridah to the needy in the community. Let me hasten to add that unwanted ridah are not necessarily tatty. Alternatively, they exchange them for other household goods to hawkers who go from house to house with their wares displayed on open wheeled handcarts. Some Bohra women who have toddlers recycle their ridah, particularly, the ghaghra, by making light quilts; others make woven rugs.

Yet others use the picho for making jabla for their daughters. Among the seven female informants in HOWRAH’s extended household, 15 ridah seemed a workable average.

For a woman who supplements her household budget from the money she earns from making ridah, I found it telling that HOWRAH could get by with ten ridah. She leads an extremely busy life and although her business is home-based there are many reasons that take her out of the house when she would need to wear a ridah.

The seven women informants in HOWRAH’s household range in age from under

30 to over 80. This makes for vibrant intergenerational exchanges mediated by the issues of why a ridah should be worn, do they like wearing it, what is their comfort level wearing a ridah now as opposed to 20 years ago when the “movement” was revived.

These questions produced the most profound heart-searching examination of the very nature of being a woman and a Bohra (Brenner, 1996; El Guindi, 1999; Hasan, 1994;

Papanek, 1973). My conversations and the responses from the seven women informants has made me conclude that for the Bohra woman, the ridah did not, in and of itself, represent a restriction on her right to be a woman. On the contrary, compared to other

Muslim women, Bohra women have always enjoyed the right to be themselves. For example, the wearing of a ridah would not and has not prevented her from pursuing a

121 career outside her home. What the Bohra woman could not come to terms with, was that the ridah made her, paradoxically, more visible than she was when she did not wear one.

Wearing a ridah made her an individual, whereas when not wearing a ridah she was seen as one of the masses. For some there was security in anonymity. For others, to be seen in a ridah was to be recognized as a Bohra, and that embarrassed them intensely.

Across much of the world, the debate about women and veiling has raged, and media attention has been on all Muslim women. What is painful for Bohra women to understand is the “patronizing preoccupation” (Tohidi, 1998) with the veil, and the condescending language used by certain sections of the world press, Eastern and

Western, in determining for the Muslim woman what is right for her (Abraham, 1998;

Ellison, 1998; Hicks, 1998). Certain pockets of resistance by some sections of Bohra women—the affluent but not necessarily educated, women in their 40s, and working class women—to wearing the ridah, were squelched by what were draconian measures— removal from community participation. Overzealous enforcers of the “wear-a-ridah” movement, both women and men, exacerbated an already emotionally volatile situation by constant reminders. Tropes such as identity and ethnic markers that today are embraced by the early Bohra dissenters of the ridah were anathema then. The younger generation of Bohra girls, born after 1976 and later, has not seen their mothers and older sisters going outside the house without a ridah. For them the ridah is a dress like any other. Wearing a ridah is much the same as wearing a hijab. Whatever name you want to give a veil, more Muslim women than ever before wear it. Bohra women are no longer individuals. They are part of a mass. The ridah has come full circle.

122 Having accepted to wear the ridah, Bohra women realized they had no control over its design. However, they recognized that they could determine and control the color and the supplements that went with it (Barnes & Eicher, 1992). Ridah come in all colors of the rainbow. They are laced, embroidered, sequined, beaded, printed and plain.

It seemed that Bohra women were going to make themselves look as beautiful as they could while wearing something they did not want to (Wikan, 1991). According to one of my informants, RADHIA, wearing ridah had succeeded in removing class barriers. I believe this to be partially valid. The cut of your cloth does distinguish “social structure

(including social conflicts within and about that structure) into the realm of appearances”

(Riggins, 1994, p. 436). But through that uniformity, individual choices of fabric—plain versus printed, embroidered or painted—reveal an aesthetic sensibility that separates the commonplace from the extraordinary. The ridah as a community dress is now accepted and worn by those Bohra women who wish to retain their communal connections mediated by their strong commitment to Islam. They are able to detach secular activities from religious ones and in the process compartmentalize voluntarily their life style. Thus

RADHIA’s decision to shed the ridah when she is out with her Western friends is a reversal of her original attitude toward the wearing of ridah. She rationalizes it by convincing herself that even without a ridah she is always modestly dressed (Brenner,

1996).

Men’s dress has not had the kind of controversy that surrounded the ridah. Body modifications such as a beard have been a distinguishing feature for a Muslim man, not just a Bohra. Covering one’s head and dressing modestly is enjoined upon all men and women in Islam (Afkhami, 1995; EL Guindi, 1999).

123 I would now like to focus my research lens on TAHA—HOWRAH’s five year old grandson, and on BATOOL—KHADIJA’s granddaughter, four years and seven months old. Both these children are old enough to understand and be instilled with attitudes and behaviors that will shape their future. While BATOOL goes to a non-Bohra administered Muslim school that accepts children of all other faiths, TAHA attends a school managed by the Bohra. He is in the second year of kindergarten (in Kenya, children go to kindergarten for three years). The children were at home when I was there because schools are on vacation in December. These children can converse in three languages—Gujaraati, Kiswahili, and English. Although their English does not yet stretch to my written questionnaire, I succeed in talking with them and getting responses to my questions. TAHA also learns Lisanul Daawat at school and speaks it more fluently than does BATOOL. BATOOL is younger by five months and is a little shy, but I was thrilled to see that she held her own when TAHA tried to talk over her conversation.

Both the children wear their traditional dress. TAHA has his kurta, saya, eezaar, and topi. He has four topi and he was able to tell me who made them for him and which one he wears for what occasion. He has his own chakhdi to fit his tiny feet, and he wants to be sure that I write down in my journal that his father made them for him, because the regular chakhdi is too big for him. I ask him if he knows why he has to wear a chakhdi.

He looks at me with child-like scorn and precociously says in English, “Don’t ask me stupid questions.” I know it isn’t a stupid question, but what TAHA is conveying to me is that, though young, he is aware of the various reasons and occasions that require the use of certain artifacts. He thinks I am stupid not to know the significance of a chakhdi.

He has his own massalaa and tasbee. At one point in our conversation when I asked him

124 to repeat an answer, he said with great exasperation, “when will you stop asking me so many questions and let me play with my toys in peace?”

BATOOL, for her part, was more impatient. She was not as forth coming with her answers either. Rather, she wanted to model for me the ridah her mother had stitched. She had outgrown it. MARIAM, her mother, had made it for her when she was three years old. There are many years left before she will be required to wear one, but she sees her mother and grandmother each wear one, and for her it is not soon enough. I asked her if she would wear a ridah when she became a big girl. She interjected with a question of her own. It was, “do you mean after I have had my misaaq?” As a girl she wears a jablaa and eezaar and a topi. A jabla is a straight caftan that has a draw stringed neckline and cap sleeves. It reaches below the knee. Under the jablaa BATOOL wears an eezaar. The difference between a boy’s and a girl’s ezaar is that the latter is colored, printed and has wider legs than the former, which is white with narrow legs. A girl’s topi is much like a man’s in shape. But that is where the similarity ends. A girl’s topi is not crocheted. It is colored and a strong but fairly pliable cardboard about six inches wide is rolled into a cylinder and joined to a flat crown. The desired fabric that matches the jablaa/eezaar outfit is used to cover the topi.

The remaining artifacts under the category of dress elicited little controversy.

Rather, I had some illuminating dialogue about them. The two artifacts of dress that found most favor with my female informants were the orhnu, and the massalaa. An orhnu is a very comfortable item of dress. In the home older Bohra women use it all the time. In the masjid, the picho of a ridah can be replaced with an orhnu. Orhnu make great gift items, because one can always buy fabric that can be made into a ghaghra to

125 wear with it. Readers of this study may wonder what Bohra women wear under the picho and over a ghaghra. Most of my informants preferred to wear a short-sleeved plain T- shirt. To coincide with the ridah that are worn for more formal occasions, a blouse is made of the same fabric as the ghaghra so that if an orhnu replaces the picho the three- piece ensemble is a harmonious whole (Barthes, 1970). Many Bohra women choose not to remove their picho in a masjid. They can then dispense with an orhnu and wear a T- shirt or an off-the rack blouse that is not visible as it is under the picho.

Massalaa, as body supplements, are equally important for fashion conscious

Bohra women. A massalaa has religious implications. It is a prayer mat used when praying. Cotton massalaa are easier to stand and sit on. Unlike the ridah it is not elaborately decorated. The only embellishment on it may be a lace round three edges— sides and the top—to differentiate the side that will face the qibla. Colored massalaa are the rule rather than an exception for women.

A man’s massalaa is a white piece of cotton fabric. The back of massalaa made for both men and women are covered with a suzni. A suzni is a lining that is either sewn to the massalaa or is detachable. When sewn to the massalaa, it is made of plastic. A plastic lining serves a pragmatic function especially if a worshipper finds herself/himself praying in a space that is not visibly clean. Suzni can also be lightly quilted. This is a small luxury that Bohra allow themselves during the month of Ramazaan when they spend more time than ordinarily in prayers. A quilted suzni is easier on one’s knees when one genuflects. In Family B, KHADIJA has 20 massalaa, to match her ridah. However, does a massalaa have to “match” one’s ridah? The answer is fairly obvious. There is no community injunction that dictates the number of clothes a Bohra should have. If

126 anything, the trend today is toward austerity and thrift. Is KHADIJA a hoarder? Does she have an unfulfilled desire that she sublimates by acquiring more ridah, more orhnu, and more of everything that she can call her own than she actually needs (Berger, 1992)?

From my observations and conversations with her, I believe that KHADIJA has had a very difficult life. Her marriage ended in divorce, and she never had enough money, or the opportunity to make it. She, like HOWRAH, is an expert needlewoman. She now has a grand daughter and she makes references to what she will leave for her grand child when she, KHADIJA, is no longer of this world.

MARIA, ARWA, RADHIA, MARIAM and HOWRAH are slightly more frugal.

On an average they have four massalaa, ten orhnu, and three tasbee. The number of artifacts does not reflect the “Bohra-ness” of any of my informants. Rather, it is meant to reveal psychoanalytical underpinnings in the relationship between the artificer and the artifacts (Berger, 1992).

The category of dress has artifacts that are personal to the wearer. There are others that every member of the family does not have to own. These are chakhdi, bakhoor and bakhoor dani, ittar and ittar dani and misri and misri dani. HOWRAH has a chakhdi each for the bathroom and the toilet and one pair of chakhdi each for the four bedrooms. The bedroom chakhdi is used by anyone who wishes to wear it for ablutions.

It is a non-personal item. It may be bigger or smaller than the foot size of the wearer (it is mostly bigger), but it is available when needed. The only person in HOWRAH’s household who has a personal chakhdi, that no one else may use, is her husband. His wishes are respected. Why would he want a personal chakhdi? It is a matter of convenience and more to the point, he wants to be very sure that his chakhdi has not been

127 sullied by being used in the toilet. If it were, the chakhdi would have to be “cleansed” ritually. Reciting a brief invocation while washing it does this. Footwear for the bathroom and toilet does not have to be a chakhdi. In many Bohra homes, a pair of plastic slippers replaces a chakhdi. HOWRAH’s mother does not wear a chakhdi. Her toes are no longer strong enough to grip the knob of the chakhdi. She has her own pair of slippers that no one else uses. If a pair of plastic slippers is acceptable, then why retain the chakhdi? This is an instance of “historical continuity” (Riggins, 1994, p. 12) that has changed over time and space. The original context of the chakhdi was with Indian

Maharaja. It was worn in the Darbaar. The Bohra chakhdi is given a fresh history and elevated to a new position just as significant as before (Wolfe, 1951).

Bohra relish fragrances, especially when celebrating. Since a great part of a

Bohra family’s social life revolves around communal gatherings in the masjid and community halls, the aroma of bakhoor and ittar is a palpable sensory delight. Bakhoor and bakhoor dani are family artifacts. As such HOWRAH, KHADIJA and RADHIA each have one bakhoor dani.

A body modification such as ittar can be and often reflects a personal preference in scents and perfumes. But ittar dani in the homes of my three families was a communal artifact usually kept in the display cabinet with all other knick-knacks and memorabilia.

HOWRAH has two, RADHIA has one and KHADIJA has ten. KHADIJA collects vials of different shapes and sizes and some of these she uses for ittar. Thus, she has rather an eclectic collection of ittar dani quite different from the traditional ones that HOWRAH and RADHIA possess. KHADIJA’s predilection for ittar is also demonstrated by the variety she has. Their names indicate that each one is extracted from flowers. Both

128 HOWRAH and RADHIA have sterling silver ittar dani. Silver-plated ittar dani tend to rust in the salt air of Malindi, so Bohra women, who are the mainstay of traditional practices, eschew the sham for the genuine artifact. KHADIJA has had her silver sterling ittar dani for the last 20 years. It was given to her by one of her friends who recently passed away. HOWRAH’s daughter-in-law MARIA and KHADIJA’s daughter-in-law

MARIAM do not as yet have their own ittar dani. As fairly newly wedded wives bakhoor dani, ittar dani, misri dani, namak dani, safra, kundli, thaal, chilamchi loto, loto, and jazam are artifacts they would acquire when they have a home of their own.

The significance of namak in the ritual of eating far outweighs the size of the container and the amount of namak taken. In HOWRAH’s household, the taking of a pinch of salt before and after eating is as natural as washing one’s hands before eating. A namak dani sets the stage, as it were, for a meal. So, a dainty little crystal bowl with namak in it on an empty thaal reflects on the quality of your crockery and silver ware.

HOWRAH and her extended family have on an average four namak dani. This time it was HOWRAH who outdid KHADIJA. The latter had four, to the six for the former.

One of the phenomena of the Bohra social system is the exchange of gifts among friends and kin (Joshi, 1992). The analyses of the responses revealed that in HOWRAH’s household, including her extended family, occasions such as the birth of a baby, the first misaaq of a boy or girl who has reached puberty, the first birthday of a child, marriage, and lastly festivals such as Idd-ul-Fitre and Idd-ul-Adha, are the order of priority for gift- exchanges. Going for Hajj is considered a most auspicious and blessed journey, so the person going receives a gift that in turn obliges him/her to return the favor. In the context of artifacts, therefore, exchange of fabric for ridah or saya, a topi make eminently

129 suitable gifts. The returning pilgrim brings, more often than not, tasbee, bakhoor, ittar and holy water from Zam Zam. KHADIJA explained in her questionnaire that of the 35 ridah she then possessed, at least ten were given to her as gifts. Anthropologically, the exchange of gifts binds the receiver and the giver (Malinowski, 1961; Spradley &

McCurdy, 1998) and can result in rancor if either one reneges.

According to HOWRAH, there was a time when she habitually invited members of her inner circle and some of her family for majlis—prayer meetings—to her house.

The legacy of those monthly majlis is the number of thaal she has acquired. She has a thaal that can each accommodate 11, eight and five people respectively. KHADIJA has a thaal that was given to her by her father and is approximately 100 years old.

Understandably KHADIJA is quite proud of this artifact, especially since her father’s name is etched into the thaal. RADHIA has one thaal given to her by her sister. A thaal without a kundli is like having a table without chairs. Thus, one can eat sitting on a chair, resting a plate of food on one’s lap, just as one can eat from a thaal without having it placed on a kundli. In both instances, it is more comfortable to have a table to situate your plate on and a kundli to put your thaal on. HOWRAH has three kundli, KHADIJA has one and RADHIA also has one. HOWRAH’s kundli are all stainless steel, while

KHADIJA’s kundli is made of brass. This is an indication that it is probably quite old, although how old she could not tell. A dining table without a cloth on it seems naked.

The same is true for a thaal and kundli that do not have a safra under it. HOWRAH has one painted and one embroidered safra. She prefers to make her own safra from a washable jersey material. Her sewing business is not confined to making ridah. She has a steady order for making safra from her loyal clientele. KHADIJA has six safra and

130 RADHIA has two. The life of a block-printed safra from India is not as long as that of a thaal, as the color of the safra tends to fade. Most of my informants have a mix of the

Indian safra, and some that are homemade.

My three principal informants HOWRAH, KHADIJA, and RADHIA each has one chilamchi loto made of steel. All three of these informants suggested that it is a very important artifact as its use is directly connected with the concept of respect and honor one has for his or her guests. Like the person who offers namak in a thaal, the task of taking the chilamchi loto around for one’s guest is reserved for the host or the hostess, unless otherwise delegated to the daughter or daughter-in-law or a male member of the family.

The single loto for the bathroom and toilet is another artifact that is a Bohra fixture. HOWRAH and her extended family have two loto in their house. HOWRAH informed me that about ten years ago she used brass loto, but normal wear and tear meant that sheet metal and/or stainless steel loto have replaced those made of brass. It is likely that very few Bohra families anywhere still possess brass loto. According to HOWRAH, a brass loto gets slimy and rusty, so that a stainless steel loto is preferable. These were also the sentiments of KHADIJA and RADHIA. The latter, though, prefers a bidet, because whether the loto is made of brass or stainless steel, it requires cleaning and “she would rather not have to do it.” (Personal Communication, December 21, 1998)

The last artifact for which I had prepared a questionnaire was the jazam.

KHADIJA has the most original jazam. It is made of 50 different colored pieces of jersey cloth cut into more than 1,000 hexagons, meticulously sewn together using a zigzag attachment on an electric Singer sewing machine. It is 35 years old and took her

131 the better part of three months’ work to complete. The cost to her was the equivalent of

25 dollars. In terms of authenticity denoted by the word jazam, KHADIJA’s floor covering cannot be called a jazam, but it certainly does cover a 15 feet by 12 feet floor.

HOWRAH has jazam that she bought from Jamnagar, a city in the state of Gujaraat, when she went to India in 1978. RADHIA’s jazam is also from Jamnagar, India. These floor coverings are only brought out from storage for a specific function. They cost approximately 13 to 25 dollars. In a Bohra home, masjid or community hall, a jazam is laid out on the floor so that people can sit on it. As such, a jazam is never trod upon with shoes. It does get grimy but never with dirt that can be picked up on the soles of one’s shoes.

My participant observation with FAMILY B contrasted with that of FAMILY A in one respect. I lived for six weeks with FAMILY B and was part of their household. I immersed myself in their life yet maintained a respectful distance so as not to be overbearing (Creswell, 1998, Fetterman, 1998). Because FAMILY B was much larger in number, the diversity of their responses was greater too. But the common threads, the artifacts and their relationship with them, were similar.

Family C

Background

DURAIYA is 41 years old and unmarried. She devotes her time and life to caring for her mother RUKAIYA. who has six grown children: three daughters and three sons.

When I visited them, she was living with three of her children, two sons and her daughter

DURAIYA. It is the mother and daughter whose phenomenological experiences form the

132 bulk of this analysis. HOWRAH had agreed to take me to RUKAIYA’s home in the heart of Malindi, to make my first contact with her. Both mother and daughter were apologetic about their putative inability to help me, but were eager to do whatever they could, especially when I referenced the Aamil’s recommendation that I talk with them.

On January 11, 1999, I went to Baharini to meet with RUKAIYA, but I found

DURAIYA alone in the house. She was quite distraught because her mother was not at home. She had to keep a doctor’s appointment that she had forgotten about on my first visit. RUKAIYA insisted that her daughter stay at home to talk with me while a neighbor took her to see the “eye doctor” (This is a transliteration from Gujaraati). RUKAIYA has had two operations for cataracts and today she has gone for a check-up. The community paid for the surgery. She is by any yardstick extremely poor and barely makes ends meet.

But she is brave and full of hope. At 73 years of age she looks more tired than old and is resigned to her difficult lifestyle.

RUKAIYA’s circumstances are dire. She lives in a house that was converted from a godown (warehouse) and pays an equivalent of $27.00 rent per month. She and her daughter perform various odd jobs to eke out this sum of money and two of her sons contribute in kind to the household kitty from the wages they receive working in a small grocery store owned by their brother-in-law. Considering the condition of the house the rent is exorbitant, but anything better would be totally out of reach for them. When her husband was alive he converted the godown into three spaces to create a small living room and two bedrooms. Thus, the living room and the sons’ bedroom have high windows, but there is no window in the middle room in which the two women sleep.

Entering through the door I notice several features that trigger memories of when I was a

133 young girl living in Malindi. The wooden door has a very high threshold and leads into the hallway. There is a curtain over the netted panel on the door that acts like a peephole.

But the door appears so flimsy that I wonder what measure of security it provides for

RUKAIYA and her family. On the left of the hall is the living room that has a couch and two chairs. There are two Egyptian pouffes that DURAIYA tells me were given to them by some well-meaning Bohra women. There is a small table with a plastic cloth on it, and in the corner an almari—chest of drawers. On top of it is a beautifully crafted colored ittar dani and a crystal misri dani, both given to RUKAIYA by well wishers. At ten o’clock in the morning, light is filtering through a high window in the living room as we sit and talk. The house in general is quite dark, especially the hallway.

In the small hallway there is a partitioned area, behind which is a long narrow room for the family. This area is curtained off into two smaller rooms—one for the two sons and the other for RUKAIYA and her daughter DURAIYA. The house, as I mentioned, was redesigned and rebuilt from a godown. Thus, it is very inadequate for living. But RUKAIYA has few if any alternatives to this living situation. The shower and toilet are on a higher level to the right of the front door.

Personal Experience

When I first met RUKAIYA on January 11, 1999 I was startled to see this weary- looking woman. I immediately recognized her as the erstwhile energetic young woman she was when I was a schoolgirl living in Malindi. I introduced myself and told her the names of my parents. She knew both my parents and spoke fondly of my older sister who she said was always generous in her friendship.

134 I remember my mother telling me that RUKAIYA supplemented her husband’s income by providing catering services to Bohra families during jaman celebrating various occasions. Her husband worked first in a restaurant and later he ran a tailoring business from his home for 40 years until his death four years ago. Times are hard for

RUKAIYA, and in her present condition her life has perhaps never been so bleak.

RUKAIYA, like MARIAM the matriarch of FAMILY A, has given many years of service to the community, especially during the month of Ramazaan.

Analyses of Responses FAMILY C

RUKAIYA and her daughter DURAIYA are not literate in English. So I translated, verbally, my questionnaire in Gujaraati, and noted their responses in my journal. RUKAIYA can, however, read the Qur’an. Whereas both RUKAIYA and

DURAIYA are happy to answer my questions, the men in the family are non-cooperative, so I am unable to get any information from them directly. Their mother, however, is able to supply sufficient information for me to create an overall image of what Bohra artifacts mean to them.

On Wednesday January 13, 1999, I visited RUKAIYA again. She apologized for having missed her appointment with me two days previously. I spent an entire day with her and her daughter. She told me that she has no steady income and relies on the assistance of the community to make ends meet. She cannot afford to buy any new ridah, so she and her daughter wear what various members of the community give to them. She says that she is never given anything that is tatty, and she is grateful for that. The

135 implication of that statement is clearly psychoanalytical. Just because RUKAIYA is impoverished does not mean she has no self-esteem (Berger, 1992).

RUKAIYA has all the other artifacts of Bohra material culture. She possesses a thaal, kundli, safra, namak dani, ittar dani, and a tiny crystal bowl that she uses for misri.

The ittar dani and the crystal bowl seem incongruous on top of the almari. She told me that people are kind to remember her and that those who give her such gifts are people she had served when she was younger. She said she had a bakhoor dani made of sheet metal that broke at the time when she moved into her Kibokoni house. She and her daughter both have their own massalaa and tasbee and she has retained one jazam from the time when her children were younger and her husband was alive. A chilamchi loto is one artifact that RUKAIYA does not have. It is obvious to me that she is upset about that. As I discussed earlier, a chilamchi loto, though not an item of dress is closely related to notions of class and status (Weiner & Schneider, 1989). Although RUKAIYA could easily borrow one should she ever need to, she is aware of the subtle politics attached to having one of her own as opposed to borrowing. She said to me, “I don’t have a chilamchi loto. Who would come to my house even if I could afford to have a jaman?” (Personal Communication, January 13, 1999). Indeed, my conversation with her about the chilamchi loto, bewildered me. I had never realized that the chilamchi loto’s intrinsic value was for my people, far in excess of its exchange value, and the latent power its possession had (Cohen, 1997; Deetz; 1996; Glassie, 1999).

In the bathroom and toilet she does not use a chakhdi or a loto. This is because she has to step over a high threshold, higher than the one at her front door, in order to reach the toilet and bathroom. “I am afraid of missing my foothold on the chakhdi and

136 falling down” (Personal Communication, January 13, 1999), she said to me. Her eyesight is not perfect, and she has not yet been fitted with lenses after the cataract surgery. When her sheet metal loto developed a leak she abandoned it, and replaced it with a plastic watering can that is almost the same shape as the traditional loto and is a suitable substitute. Bohra people, with fewer handicaps than RUKAIYA has, often do not use a chakhdi but wear rubber slippers in the bathroom and toilet.

RUKAIYA’s sons have their own personal dress. They have a kurta and perun, but not a saya. Both of them wear a topi and each son has his own massalaa and tasbee.

Although a saya is a necessary part of a Bohra men’s complete dress, its use can be dispensed with in circumstances such as those of RUKAIYA and her family.

Epilogue

RUKAIYA and her family’s commitment to Bohra culture is unequivocal.

Despite her difficult life she has continued to be faithful to her ethnic identity. HOWRA of FAMILY B who took me to her house in Kibokoni initially, sent me some heart- warming news. The elders of the Bohra community in Malindi have recognized and acknowledged her steadfast support and services to the community by providing her with a brand new apartment into which she moved in the middle of this year. May RUKAIYA yet have a jaman in her new home with a gleaming stainless steel chilamchi loto with which to wash the hands of her guests.

What Do These Artifacts Mean?

In the preceding sections I discussed the logistics of obtaining informants for both the pilot study and for my main research project. I have detailed the role played by the

137 Aamil in the selection of my intensive sampling—the three families—and I have narrated as fully and vividly as possible, the physical features of the artifacts and how each family defined the objects and how the objects helped to define them. In this section I delve more deeply into the Kyvig and Marty/ Berger models to examine the sociological, semiotic, anthropological, historical, psychoanalytical, and the Marxist perspectives of material culture concurrently with “the five basic properties that provide a formula for including and interrelating all the significant facts about an artifact” (Berger, 1992, p. vii; Kyvig & Marty, 1982, p. 153). These observations apply equally well to all the artifacts and to the three families. Any implied bias toward FAMILY B is unintentional and has happened because my observant participation with that family was of a longer duration.

The Bohra believe in the efficacy of identity politics. Communities are stronger when they are united and have a cultural heritage they can call their own. In an age when cross-cultural ideologies impinge upon individual members of the same family in different ways, it may be worthwhile to note how communities establish a sense of cohesion (Bean 1989; Tatum, 1999). The Bohra are dispersed throughout the world.

They speak the language of and mingle with the macroculture of the country in which they reside. What they wear and how they dress defines their communal identity (Eicher,

1995).

The Bohra, perhaps more than any other Indian community, both Muslims and

Hindus, have retained their ethnicity in terms of dress. Historically and sociologically,

Bohra Muslims are among that group of “reformers of social practice who call for a return to the example set by the Prophet Muhammad (saw) and his early followers” (Fernea

138 & Fernea, 1996, p. 242). According to the politics of the jamaat, the system that interprets and enforces Bohra social and communal teachings and ethics, there is a well- defined polarity between male and female dress. It is in keeping with “the assumption of a fundamental God-given difference, social and psychological as well as physical, between men and women (Fernea & Fernea, 1996, p. 242). Moreover, in the jamaat— the social and communal system of the Bohra—the ridah is a very important signifier. It denotes modesty, dignity, and personal protection, and identifies a woman as a Bohra and bonds her with the other members of her community.

Like the dress code for women’s clothing, men are also restricted in the choice of colors for their kurta, saya and topi. The semiotic and sociological underpinnings of colored versus plain dress require that Bohra men never wear colored kurta or saya for certain communal functions (Berger, 1992). The wearing of colored perun, for example, is taboo while praying. Men in a Bohra masjid are all dressed in white. The gaiety and fun that color denotes is strictly a woman’s terrain. Some men wear beige, light blue, gray, and infrequently, a light green kurta and saya during festive occasions, such as Idd celebrations, but they are the exception rather than the rule. For Bohra males, the wearing of a topi is mandatory for praying and eating. All Bohra, men, women and children are enjoined to cover their heads when eating communally or in the privacy of their homes. The custom of covering one’s head when praying or eating is directly related to the concept of respect for a higher being—Allah.

The ridah—the woman’s veil—and the topi—man’s headgear—are quintessential

Bohra attire and provide an instant kinship among Bohra women and men no matter where they live. Historically and sociologically, they are embedded in traditions that are

139 at least 1,000 years old. They reveal our values, and give us a “realization of who we are, how we act, and what we think, and what stories we can tell” (Mohanty, 1994, p. 148).

Although the design of the ridah is the same for everyone, the laity never uses the niqaab—the face veil, which is part of the picho. In keeping with their status in the religious hierarchy of the community, the use of the niqaab is restricted to wives, daughters, mothers, and sisters of Bohra clerics.

Most working-women make their own ridah, while the more affluent and middle class women have them tailored. The stitching of ridah has spawned businesses in India,

Pakistan, and East Africa, owned and managed exclusively by Bohra women, and sometimes in partnership with their husbands, and/or other kin, providing them with a measure of economic freedom. During the pilot study I carried out with three families living in Pennsylvania, I discovered that there are Bohra women who live in Maryland,

Virginia, New York, and as far south as South Carolina who take orders for stitching ridah. These small initiatives have resulted in larger entrepreneurial ventures that incorporate trade in fabrics for both female and male clothing and other allied accessories. This is an example of the interconnectedness of artifacts with the people who use them—one of the four “operations” espoused by Kyvig and Marty (1982).

Sociologically, the design of a ridah is a good example of what Barthes (1970) calls “the garment system.” The language, in the garment system, is made by the oppositions of pieces, parts of garments and “details,” the variation of which entails a change in meaning (p. 27). With respect to a ridah, wearing the ghaghra alone, without the picho, is not only breaking “dress codes” (Berger, 1992, p. 88), but, more seriously, it is tantamount to denigrating the status of a ridah in the hierarchy of garments worn by

140 women. Additionally, Berger’s (1992) psychoanalytic approach to understanding the role of artifacts comes into play in various ways when considering how a Bohra woman wears a ridah, how she perceives herself and how others perceive her. Thus, the hood is more important than the skirt because the former, a symbol for modesty for all Muslim women and not just the Bohra, covers the head. Like formal dress codes found in non-Muslim societies, that when violated create visual anomalies, such as wearing a pair of hiking boots with a pearl-encrusted satin dress, the wearing of a ridah requires the observance of certain conventions. For example, a picho is always the same color as the ghaghra. A blue picho over a red ghaghra or a cotton ghaghra under a silk picho is a violation of the rules of combination (Berger, 1992, p. 88). Although there are no variations in the basic design of a ridah, personal preferences and quirks seem to make each ridah different.

Some women prefer the picho with surface decorations such as embroidered borders or laces; others opt for plain over patterned fabric. Whether to decorate the ridah or not causes a lot of good-natured and sometimes acrimonious discussions among certain

Bohra women. As Braithwaite (1982) has suggested, “Decoration functions as a symbolic and ritual marker of particular areas of concern brought about by the actions of people in the course of everyday life” (p. 87). Some women wear a ridah with grace and panache, others never manage to keep the picho on the head properly and are constantly fiddling with the ribbons.

Historically, the veil in any form was the first to fall victim of colonization, so that the ridah among lay Bohra and other Muslim women was not a de rigueur practice some 20 years ago (El Guindi, 1999; Mandelbaum, 1988; Stowasser, 1994). In fact, 60 years ago, only a few older Bohra women wore the ridah. It gradually disappeared from

141 usage until the late 1970s. But, with the resurgence of Islamic values and consciousness, the veil in all its forms has become a statement of difference between the Muslim and the

Western world (El Solh & Mabro, 1994; Bodman & Tohidi, 1998). As such, its reintroduction during the postmodern era has met with opposition and protests by a section of Muslim women, including Bohra women, fueling heated debates about its merits and demerits in the Western media. The veil arouses "strong emotions in the

West" (Fernea & Fernea, 1996, p. 236). The following excerpt from a newspaper article supports this sentiment:

Working-women phone the Center for American Islamic Relations in Washington

saying that they have been suspended, dismissed or barred from employment

because they insist on wearing headscarves. Outside of the workplace, women

have reported being spat on, denied service and having their scarves pulled off.

Recently, on a highway near Orlando, FL, one driver in a headscarf was stopped

and berated by a state trooper who later formally apologized. (Goodstein, 1997, p.

A1)

For Bohra women the ridah has become a subject of ridicule and suspicion among the non-Muslim communities in Kenya. As mentioned earlier, the Bohra is a close-knit community with a strong sense of faith in the efficacy of their religious beliefs. The

Qur’an sanctions the wearing of a veil, but it has been viewed by non-Muslims as a “sure sign of retrogression” (Fernea & Fernea, 1996, p. 236) and orthodoxy and unsuited to the so-called postmodern notion of progress that was and still is a yardstick by which Muslim women’s credentials as a “modern woman” are measured. Veiling as anti-progress was also a notion that for long was a lodestar of many Bohra women. Thus, like their sisters

142 in the rest of the Muslim world, many Bohra women had personal struggles of conviction. These ran the full gamut of emotions, from ambivalence, rationalization, and sublimation to resignation, and acceptance of the concept of veiling (Berger, 1992).

However, for those Bohra women who have accepted the ridah as part of their Muslim life style there is security and pride in conformity. Veiling—or the ridah—is intimately connected with notions of self, body, and community, as well as with the cultural construction of identity, privacy and space (El Guindi, 1999). Perhaps, most importantly, for women who have adopted the veil, it offers an “alternative modernity” (Brenner,

1996, p. 678) that enables all Muslim women a shared “sense of community and camaraderie” (Brenner, 1996, p. 677).

The psychoanalytical implication of the removal of the ridah in favor of Western clothes “is not deferential, it was demeaning” (Bean, 1989, p. 356). For the Bohra, the ridah is an indicator of their essential Muslim-ness, group identity and political/religious beliefs (Bean 1989, p. 359). The Bohra have come a long way from the days when women, in particular, had to suffer humiliation because of their willingness to adopt the ridah as their “dress” (Bean, 1989, p. 359). In 1908 Gandhi realized and further repudiated that European dress was not an index of civilization and the dhoti (Hindu men’s garments of seamless cloth folded around the lower body) was a marker of an indelible Indian-ness. In a similar vein, Bohra topi and ridah are exemplars of the

Bohra-ness of Bohra men and women.

Purification and sanctity—seemingly abstract concepts—are extremely important for Muslims in general and Bohra in particular. They manifest into tangible actions in the manner in which a massalaa and a tasbee are used. In tandem with that come the

143 ablutions that are a necessary ritual before saying one’s prescribed prayers (Chebel,

1997). They have both sociological and semiotic undercurrents. The sight of Muslim men standing, sitting, genuflecting, or prostrating in row after row one behind the other on carpets is fairly common. What is also quite common is footwear placed in front of the worshippers in the aisles that separate one row of men from another. In a Bohra masjid, all men are dressed in white and they each have their own massalaa. Before stepping on the massalaa, one’s feet and the whole body have undergone purification by ablutions. The observance of cleanliness is stringent in Bohra religious teaching, so that no shoes or sandals are ever taken inside a masjid or where a massalaa is spread. They are left outside the masjid on shelves provided for that purpose.

After prayers, whether said at home or communally in the masjid, the massalaa is folded and placed in a clean dry place such as a closet. There is a special way of folding a massalaa. The bottom third of the massalaa is folded inwards first. The top is then folded directly over the bottom third and then folded back on itself. The final fold takes the right side over to the center and the left to the center and both over each other to form a neat “package.” Thus the feet-end of the massalaa never comes in direct contact with the head-end. The Kaaba is the holiest place in Islam. Thus, when a worshipper bows her/his head on the massalaa that faces the Kaaba, semiotically it is the same as being in the Kaaba. A massalaa, though just a piece of fabric, commands great regard from

Bohra men, women and children. The latter are taught at a very early age to value the massalaa for what it represents. For a child of six years, going to the masjid and being given their first massalaa is almost a rite of passage. It denotes her/his understanding of what a massalaa stands for (Barnes & Eicher, 1992).

144 The tasbee is an optional body supplement. One can use the phalanges of the right hand to keep count of the words of blessing and grace that are repeated 33 times after every prescribed prayer five times in a day. A tasbee is kept safe within the folds of the massalaa where it remains from one prayer time to another. During Ramazaan when devotion and worship is the main focus of all practicing Muslims, tasbee with 500 or

1,000 beads come in handy. These tasbee are placed in specifically made drawstring pouches. Tasbee are strung on cotton threads. With constant use the thread may unravel and break, scattering the beads. This is when it is quite easy to lose one or two beads so that a tasbee with a bead that does not match with the rest is one that has fallen victim to such a mishap. To minimize the occurrence of cotton threads snapping, very fine nylon skeins have replaced them. Like the massalaa, a tasbee is a sacred artifact. One does not deliberately step on it, nor is it ever worn as a necklace.

In general, those Bohra artifacts that have some religious associations enhance the sanctity of a specific locus, be it one’s person, a home or the masjid. Bakhoor is one such artifact. I have already discussed its use and the episode that led to my making bakhoor.

Bakhoor’s properties are intrinsic to the whole notion of cleanliness, purity, and sanctity.

Bakhoor does not stain one’s clothes, as do some eau de Colognes and Western brand name perfumes. Those Bohra who prefer not to use bakhoor apply ittar on their bodies and rub it in their clothes. Ittar must be alcohol free, and as a fairly expensive artifact it has to be used sparingly. Much sought after ittar comes from Yemen and India. Some of the ittar have exotic names. I have the most fragrant ittar called fitna, meaning

“mischief” that I procured from a Bohra woman during my data and artifact collection sojourn in Kenya. An ittar dani is not the most essential artifact of a Bohra household.

145 Yet, its presence, on a mantle piece in a living room in a Pennsylvania home or in a display cabinet with all other artifacts and souvenirs, is a status symbol that is not lost on one’s Bohra visitors (Dant, 1999)—a clear case of Marxist and psychoanalytic influences

(Berger, 1992).

Visitors, particularly children, love receiving misri. Bohra women are very innovative in creating new recipes for misri. Traditionally, when guests arrive at your home, they are welcomed and led to the living room. After preliminary greetings have been exchanged, the daughter of the house brings in plain white sugar on a misri dani and offers it to the guests. Each guest takes a pinch of sugar and tastes it. These days, health and diet-conscious Bohra decline to take sugar. However, my interpretation, perhaps unfairly severe to my compatriots, may be more arcane. There is a greater variety of candies and chocolates available that have replaced plain sugar. Most Bohra want to reflect some aspects of contemporary society and show themselves well in their choice of offerings made to their guests. Also, the kind of misri one offers to visitors is a direct measure of one’s hospitality. Guests who arrive during the festivals of Idd-ul-Fitre, which is celebrated at the end of Ramazaan, are usually plied with homemade nutty candies made of dates and almonds.

Ittar and misri, as body modifications, are closely intertwined with the six ornaments that bridegrooms wear. Bohra men are handsomely attired when they get married. The day the nikah is performed, a typical Bohra bridegroom wears the serpech in his feta, has seraah hanging in front of his face, a dushalu over his left arm, a baazubund over his right and left arm, a kamarbund round his waist, and a sash across his right shoulder. Except for the seraah, which once lifted from his face may be removed

146 altogether from his feta, the bridegroom wears the other five ornaments throughout the nikah ceremony and the official meal that follows it. Because these ornaments are so esoteric, not all Bohra families have them. Even the one most commonly used, the dushalu, is borrowed. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the other ornaments are being reintroduced in our culture.

Berger’s (1992) sociological, semiotic, and historical approaches, and properties such as material construction, design, function and aesthetic qualities of artifacts (Kyvig

& Marty, 1982) are closely linked in the analyses of the chakhdi, thaal, kundli, safra, and chilamchi loto. One artifact that needs no re-introduction in Bohra homes is the chakhdi.

The tradition of wearing chakhdi emanates from the ritual of ablutions and the concept of tahaarat—cleanliness. It is worn in and from the bathroom to the particular space where a massalaa is spread. A towel, placed at the feet-end of the massalaa, helps to absorb moisture from damp feet. Its use is almost universal in a Bohra home. However, the use of a chakhdi creates some interesting dynamics vis-à-vis bathrooms in Western countries.

Most houses in the West have either a tub with a shower unit, or a shower unit on its own. Some may have both. In the East African countries, South-East Asia, in the Middle

East, a shower unit with an additional faucet is part of a building’s structural design. The faucet facilitates getting water in a container, a loto, if one is available, for the express purpose of performing ablutions. In the United States, Canada, and Europe, the bathroom sink precludes the need for a water container and a pair of plastic slippers often replaces a chakhdi. The former are also favored by older Bohra men and women who find gripping the knob of the chakhdi with the toes rather difficult. The lack of a pair of chakhdi does not in and of itself bear any social stigma, but in pursuance of maintaining a cultural

147 identity, all Bohra masjid and communal hall-complexes provide chakhdi in their bathrooms and toilets. Most Bohra homes in East Africa, the Middle East and India and

South East Asia have low-level commodes. As such, it is essential to keep one’s feet off the floor. The chakhdi used in the toilet and bathroom is left there and not taken to the bedroom. During my pilot study all the three families I interviewed and visited in the state of Pennsylvania had a pair of chakhdi in their homes.

Eating around a thaal in one’s own home is a practice that is fast disappearing among the Bohra, particularly in East Africa, the United States, and Europe. Because of this, its significance as a ritual identifying a communal behavior is of extreme importance

(Bean, 1989). It is a paradox that despite this seeming rejection of one of the most characteristic of Bohra life styles, the demand for safra, kundli and thaal is ever increasing. This demand is manifested in the new designs of safra and kundli that are manufactured in Kutch, India. For those Bohra who cannot afford to purchase beautifully patterned Indian safra from Kutch, India, hand-made safra are the other alternatives. They are very much admired and in great demand in East Africa and

Europe. The making of safra, like the crocheting of the topi and the stitching of the ridah, generates income for those Bohra (usually women) who undertake the task.

When the round kundli gave way to the four-legged version, it seemed like the solution to the problem of storage, and an unstable thaal on the round kundli.

Unfortunately, the four-legged kundli was not successful. Its dysfunctionality occurred in the design that initially made it so workable. The stainless steel rods contain rubber tips.

When the tips wear out or fall off, the thaal wobbles just as much as it did on a round kundli. The word kundli derives from kundalu, meaning circle. Semiotically, in no other

148 activity is the metaphor of a circle so manifest as in a jaman. The concept of space and closeness within a community is palpable during a jaman. Bohra communal eating has all the characteristics of a cohesive community. Since men and women do not eat in the same thaal during communal eating, they team up with friends and neighbors to make up the required number—eight. Eight people are considered to be the right number to sit comfortably around a thaal that is three feet in diameter. This arrangement—cultural system—has both positive aspects and drawbacks. Because all Bohra are mumineen— members of a common stock—they are kin, and as such related by ties that are, in many cases, stronger than kinship based on blood lines (Spradley & McCurdy, 1996). Hence, eating together with somebody other than your own family reaffirms the close communal bonds, establishes new relationships, and strengthens those that are old. Furthermore, as a political manifestation eating together becomes a way of keeping a community together. On a more mundane level it provides a shared cooking responsibility and gives everyone, especially the young, an opportunity to interact with each other and forge friendships. For all Bohra, young and old, it is a wonderful milieu for socializing.

The drawbacks of such a communal eating arrangement occur on a more eclectic level. When more than 200 people eat together, the environment for such an occasion often gets very noisy and seemingly chaotic. Bohra of certain ilk cannot abide by that.

They are the ones who have “progressed” to eating at a table, with silverware, and consider the practice retrogressive. They find it virtually impossible to sit on the floor and to eat with their fingers. In the course of conversations with my informants, and during my prolonged participant observations with FAMILY B, it became clear to me that the practice of eating sitting on the floor around a thaal is currently undergoing an

149 attitudinal change in certain Bohra homes. I mentioned earlier that the process of acculturation in Kenya to Western ways is manifested in what we wear, but to be

“modern” one had to be seen as adopting other Western ways, too. Eating at a table was one further step in this “development.” Most Indian households acquired a dining table and chairs. So, for Bohra families, essentially, eating around a thaal in one’s own home as opposed to communal eating at the community hall is designated a newer, special role.

When there is a “communal” meal at home on an occasion that is “traditional,” with religious overtones, say, a misaaq celebration, the thaal is brought out, with the best set of safra and the kundli is polished. Something that is quite commonplace in the wider arena of the community becomes “an event” and for some, a necessary inconvenience.

Thus, eating in a thaal at home is regarded as outlandish and gauche, something that has to be tolerated, something you would not want your non-Bohra friends or neighbors to see you doing. Some Bohra consider it retrogressing to “primitive” ways; the only redeeming quality being that it occurs only for that one day. Thus, a schism in ideology is created that compartmentalizes the home and the community mediated by identity politics that lay the foundations of outright dissent or acceptance under sufferance

(Appadurai, 1986; Esteva & Prakash, 1998). Another transformation that has occurred over the concept of eating around a thaal is the belief that certain days and occasions are so holy and laden in religiosity that not eating in a thaal would be tantamount to sacrilege. So, on the Muslim New Year’s eve many Bohra families eat in a thaal— perhaps as a sign of renewal and affirmation of their cultural beliefs. It is fairly common for Bohra homes to have a thaal and a kundli and a limited number of safra, even if they do not utilize them on a daily basis. When a family has more than one of each, it is an

150 indication of their social status within the community. The RASHID family has four thaal, four kundli and approximately ten safra. MARIAM and her family entertain guests and hold majlis in their home frequently enough to need and utilize that number of safra. FAMILY C, financially embarrassed as they are, have a thaal, kundli and a safra which they use every day for their meals.

An artifact that is closely aligned to eating while sitting around a thaal is the chilamchi loto. Its use in Bohra homes emanated from a simple need—water. In India, from where Bohra originate, not every home had access to free flowing water. The washing of one’s hands before eating is a necessity dictated by the fact that we eat with our fingers. A chilamchi loto is, I believe, a perfect example of form that suits a function.

Semiotically, a chilamchi loto connotes a certain status. Today, its functional value is enhanced by the prestige that is attached to it. Its role and not its original function has changed. Thus, owning a chilamchi loto implies a certain position financially and socially within the community that influences your desire to invite people for jaman to your home. When guests are seated around the safra and the kundli is placed in the center in readiness for the thaal, the hostess/host comes around with the gleaming brass or stainless steel loto. Each person holds her/his hands over the chilamchi. The water that is poured from the loto over the outstretched hands goes into the chilamchi.

Performing this service is an act of respect and honor that the hostess/host bestows upon her/his guests. It eliminates the need to go to the kitchen sink or the bathroom basin, and from the point of view of the hostess/host a certain degree of privacy is maintained. The same process is repeated at the end of the meal. A family does not ordinarily use a chilamchi loto. It is brought out from storage when one has a jaman at home. During

151 communal jaman in the community hall, a chilamchi loto is used only for the community elders and other guests of honor. The rest of the people attending the jaman use the faucets that are strategically situated for the purpose of washing hands before and after a meal.

Of all the objects of material culture with which Bohra are associated, the one that has perhaps the greatest cultural overtones is the takhat. The sociological, semiotic, anthropological, historical, psychoanalytical and Marxist perspectives that I have adopted to “read” artifacts from Berger (1992) play a significant role in the analysis of the takhat.

A takhat is the symbolic throne upon which a preacher sits to deliver waez—a sermon.

Sermon is rather an inadequate translation for an esoteric, liturgical account consisting of recitation from the Qur’an, singing of marsiya by members of the congregation, narration of parables, homilies, and historical events related to Islam generally, and Bohra culture specifically. Although a takhat is not as tall as a pulpit, it nevertheless, fulfills a similar function—that of representing position and power bestowed upon a person by virtue of his training as a moalim. Like all other Muslims, the congregation in a Bohra masjid sits on the floor, so that the preacher, seated on the takhat about three yards behind the qibla, is still at a much higher elevation and easily seen by everyone. He is in a position of authority, commanding every one's attention. Semiotically, its use is charged with meanings that are culture-specific to Bohra. That a takhat is used for waez alone, by a male preacher only, inside a masjid, denotes the significance of the waez as the most profound forum for disseminating religious dogma. The takhat, by its size, enhances the status of the preacher and makes him "larger" than he may be. That the preacher is male is not to suggest that women in the Bohra religious hierarchy have never ascended to a

152 preacher’s position; rather, it is in keeping with the binary relationships between the male and female in Islamic theology (Fernea & Fernea, 1996). At the conclusion of the waez, the preacher walks to the qibla and leads the congregation in prayers.

Elsewhere I recounted my experience of seeing a unique takhat in Cairo, Egypt.

All Bohra masjid, regardless of their location, have at least one takhat. In India,

Pakistan, East Africa, the Middle East, and countries of South East Asia every city has more than one masjid. For example, in Malindi, where I conducted my research, there are five Bohra masjid. Each masjid has its own takhat. Since a takhat is used only for a waez, it is usually kept at the back of the main prayer hall. The takhat belongs to the community. Very often a member of a community donates a takhat to the jamaat in memory of a deceased member of that family. The cushions that are an essential accessory are custom made for the takhat. These are also donated or purchased with the funds the jamaat has at its disposal for communal affairs. The cushion covers are changed commensurate with the occasion. During a majlis—communal function—that is held to commemorate a joyous event such as the Prophet’s (saw) birthday, the cushion covers are changed from plain green cotton to a richer fabric such as a brocade or velvet.

The artifacts discussed in this section provide insights into several domains with respect to the Bohra and their lifestyle. I have attempted to go beyond the descriptive profiles of the artifacts the Bohra use. Rather, the interaction of the informants, their behavior related with the artifacts, and what they, the Bohra, communicate about themselves through these artifacts were my primary concerns (Schiffer, 1999). The various artifacts, furthermore, “privilege the ordinary” (Schiffer, 1999, p. 7), in that they tell us about how the Bohra interact with them in their daily lives.

153 Artifact—a word associated with art and things—is my second interest. When

KHADIJA, in FAMILY B painstakingly makes a jazam out of 1,000 hexagons cut from jersey cloth, when HOWRAH crochets an intricately patterned topi for her grandson, then both those acts are works of art. As Glassie (1999) states, “things are works of art when the act is committed, devoted, when people transfer themselves so completely into their works that they stand as accomplishments of human possibility” (p. 41). Artifacts are vehicles for narrowing the gap between art and material culture. I have introduced the readers of this study to a variety of objects that the Bohra use, but other artifacts familiar to students can replace those that the Bohra possess and utilize in their daily lives.

CHAPTER V

CONCLUSIONS AND IMPLICATIONS

Conclusions

In this chapter I state the problem, discuss the purpose, and reify the significance of the variables that have played a defining role in the inter-connectedness of material culture studies and art education paradigms. I revisit the methodologies adopted and the procedures I followed, to validate my hypotheses—that material culture studies, mediated by the cultural artifacts of the Bohra, can be integrated into art education program at the same level as the study of other “traditional” artworks such as paintings and sculptures. I further contend that artifacts are markers of a cultural identity for a people—the Bohra— who are dispersed throughout the world, and that any category of artifacts can be a link to art. I also examine the implications of material culture studies on art education and make suggestions for further research in the material culture of the Bohra.

The problem I examined in this dissertation is ethnographic in nature. The study of artifacts has its roots in archaeology and art history, both of which confront us to acknowledge the variety of human experiences and behaviors that are associated with them. I focused on how the study of artifacts could help to eliminate the distinctions that have been drawn and are still prevalent between art and artifacts (Bolin, 1995; Deetz,

1980; Prown, 1993; Lock, 1998). These distinctions exist because in the Western world we are conditioned to view artifacts—all manufactured and hand-made objects—as being outside the realm of art. This has created pedagogic binaries between art and artifacts 155 that are inconsistent with postmodern pluralistic trends prevalent in the United States

(Congdon, 1985; Pocius, 1997).

The purpose of this study was two-fold. The primary function was to examine the problematic of linkage between material culture studies and art, mediated by the artifacts of a specific culture—the Bohra. The concepts of linkage, backward and forward, are necessary components in the interpretation and understanding of artifacts. As defined by

Gordon (1993), backward linkage alludes to the origins of artifacts and forward linkage to their uses. These two concepts delineate the difference between how art and artifacts are viewed. The secondary purpose of this study was to examine how specific categories of artifacts, such as dress, containers and furniture, represent the cultural identity of a people who are dispersed throughout the world as the Bohra are. Artifacts can be used to understand how cultures function. They can be seen, touched, felt, and tasted, and can serve as catalysts for a dialogue in which there is room for celebration and understanding of those objects that may or may not perform similar functions in other cultures (McFee

& Degge, 1977).

The significance of this study rested on the hypothesis that artifacts could act as a springboard for integrating material culture studies with art. Examining the material culture of the Bohra enabled me to see my research through two lenses—the private and the professional. It is in the nature of human beings to be surrounded by objects. We use objects to define who and what we are. As a member of the Bohra community, my emic role elucidated for me the dynamics that exist between what our artifacts are and how we make sense of our life using them. Above all, the significance of this study lay in the awareness, that came as a result of knowing, that the histories of artifacts and the people

156 who use them was an inter-disciplinary exchange. Material culture studies and art education can only be separated at the risk of ignoring the former and weakening the latter.

In order to conduct a study focusing on material culture, whose relevance to art education practices is crucial in a pluralistic society such as the United States, I had to rely on the assistance and cooperation of a large number of people. Since objects, in and of themselves, do not constitute any meaningful dialogue, I had to contextualize them with people. Toward that end, I contacted Bohra families in the State of Pennsylvania.

This pilot study was essential as it highlighted the many variables I had to take into consideration when I interviewed the members of my intensive sampling—the three families—in Kenya.

The pedagogy of material culture study is rich with literature. The information provided by material culturalists, archaeologists, anthropologists, and, more recently, art educators, promulgate the efficacy of material culture. They enumerate various methodologies and procedures that can be followed to pursue a systematic examination of artifacts—from a grand piano to a humble chakhdi. I opted to follow the models presented in the writings of Berger (1992), and Kyvig and Marty (1982). Berger uses the theories of Huizinga (1924), Braudel (1881), Briggs (1981) and Gowans (1981) to illustrate the relationship that exists between history and people. According to him, objects have both direct and subtle meanings that can only be understood if we examine them through semiotic, historical, anthropological, psychoanalytical, Marxist, and sociological approaches. Kyvig and Marty (1982) also maintain that artifacts are a manifestation of a culture and represent varying degrees of historical events. This is true

157 of the Bohra whose cultural history is an amalgam of the influence of Hinduism and the religiosity of the Fatimid Dynasty.

I have been acutely conscious of the pitfalls of looking at only the physical attributes of artifacts—a practice that, in part, is responsible for the “lowly” status ascribed to material culture. An examination of the artifacts of the Bohra culture could only be worthwhile if I moved beyond the description stage to one in which criteria and parameters accommodated other variables. Thus, history, material, location, complexity of design and construction, aesthetics, socio-economic status, function, human needs and desires, rites involving objects, and symbolism, supported by classification, evaluation, cultural analysis, and interpretation, played a major role in how I conducted my research.

My research lens was focused on the categories of dress, containers and furniture. Under the classification of dress, I examined the following: kurta, saya, perun, topi, massalaa, tasbee, ridah, bakhoor and bakhoor dani, ittar and ittar dani, misri and misri dani, chakhdi, and six ornaments, namely, serpech, sehraa, dushalu, baazubund, sash, and kamarbund worn by a bridegroom. There are six receptacles I analyzed under the category of containers—safra, kundli, thaal, namak dani, chilamchi loto, and loto.

Takhat and jazam are the last two artifacts I discussed, under the category of furniture.

In examining the artifacts of our culture, I relied on the responses to my questionnaires by the informants and my own emic participant observation of the three families. This duality in approach enabled me to corroborate information that often seemed contradictory. The material culture of the Bohra represented one private image of Islam, and is associated with the everyday life and rituals of Bohra families.

Examined at close range, the artifacts raised complex questions. What did they say of the

158 history, material, construction, design, and function of the dress, containers and furniture of the Bohra? Who inculcated in whom a sense of commitment and belonging for the objects? What role did men and women play in upholding Bohra culture? As a woman I want to acknowledge the considerable contribution Bohra women have made to keep

Bohra culture alive. During my interviews in the United States and Kenya, it was evident that women more than men bore the responsibility for disseminating knowledge, explaining concepts, and inculcating attitudes that are an integral part of any society.

The artifacts may have seemed mundane and quite ordinary, but they provided a unique insight into the political structure of a community that is dispersed throughout the world. For example, the lifestyle of a Bohra family living in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, was quite different when compared to a Bohra family residing in Malindi, Kenya. The former family leads a fast-paced and relentlessly busy life. The latter family, on the other hand, enjoys a more relaxed life with time to savor life’s pleasures. In Kenya, Bohra routinely participated in activities and functions related to communal feasts and festivities. In the

United States, proximity to the masjid and the community hall was the single most compelling reason for a less-than-full participation in the same activities. Did they eat at a dining table or would they eat sitting on the floor around a thaal? Did the family living in Pennsylvania feel obliged to use these artifacts? How did eating a meal sitting on the floor strengthen the concept of ethnic identity vis-à-vis assimilation? During conversations and interviews with my informants I attempted to understand and analyze how Western concepts of secularism mediated by what the Bohra wear and how they eat, had altered their worldview toward assimilation. Why would any one acquire a stainless steel thaal, at no small cost from India, when they could eat just as well sitting at a dining

159 table? My research supported the view that it was the axiological assumptions within which value and meaning of eating from a thaal versus a dining table and chair, and the use-value/exchange value duality become irrelevant (McDannell, 1995). As Hodder

(1991) asserts, artifacts are produced and used so as to transform living conditions materially, socially, and ideologically (p. 395). The artifacts discussed in this study have, by and large, created a homogenous Bohra lifestyle. Their sense of communality might seem parochial and rigid, but each family had succeeded in creating a fine balance between the macro culture of their new homeland and the need to be themselves within the parameters of being Bohra.

After I had interviewed my informants and read their responses, I was convinced that the socio-economic status of the family influenced certain attitudes toward the artifacts. Each family tried to live within the limits of its budget. As an example, initially there seemed to me to be excess wealth displayed by some of the women informants through the number of ridah they possessed. Upon reflection, I concluded that it was no more an extravagance than, say, having six pairs of jeans, five trousers, ten

T-shirts, five silk shirts and six pairs of footwear.

Because the Bohra are dispersed throughout the world, their current home countries play a major role in shaping the attitudes they have toward their material culture. Notwithstanding all evidence of assimilation, Bohra remain, by and large committed to their ethnicity. According to Tatum (1999), an ethnic society is a socially defined group based on cultural criteria such as shared history, customs, and language.

My interaction and participant observation with the three families revealed an interesting lingual phenomenon. Since English is the lingua franca at work and in school, Bohra

160 children living in Kenya and the United States speak it more fluently than either Lisanul

Daawat or Gujaraati. Their speech is interspersed with non-English words representing the artifacts. Thus, it is artifacts, their names, and their usage rather than any language that unite the Bohra as a social and cultural entity.

One of the purposes of this study was to understand cultural knowledge as a function of the various aspects of the Bohra way of life by analyzing the interaction of the people with the artifacts (Hegmon, 1995; Kingery, 1993). The research I undertook over a six-week period was of necessity short, but the methodology I employed and the process of triangulation I applied elicited responses that lead me to conclude that these

Bohra are quite comfortable being who they are. They maintained two separate lifestyles: one where the locus began at home and ended at work, and the other that started at home—makaan and ended in a masjid—mosque. The former provided the wherewithal to support a lifestyle in which the latter was an equal participant.

Suggestions for Further Research

Despite the lack of research in the Bohra material culture, I submit that our artifacts have the potential for further study. My research was confined to families living in Kenya. A “cross-country” study involving a larger sampling between families living in Kenya and India would elicit different observations and conclusions. India, as the cultural home of all Bohra people, could be the venue for a study in which the operational foci would shift from the socio-economic status of the people to the village, town, or city in which they reside. Each individual artifact is a repository of histories that

I have not fully discovered. Since most of these objects have their antecedents in Mughal

161 India, future research could reveal uncharted knowledge. The technological evolvement of, say, the electrical bakhoor dani, as opposed to the terracotta one that is ignited with charcoal, the round kundli versus the folding one, and the role of women in the cottage industries that supply all the items of dress the Bohra wear, are just a few areas of research that could be incorporated in future material culture studies research.

The common denominator of the present study was the commitment of the three families, of my intensive sampling, to the artifacts. The subject of a specific research project, in the future, could be why certain Bohra families have dissociated themselves from the artifacts under question, or what other stories they have to tell pertaining to the artifacts, or lack thereof, in their life. In such a situation, a larger sampling would provide a greater opportunity for benchmarking many more variables, such as more male and children as informants, the influence of a macro culture on the Bohra life style, and the impact of formal education on attitudes toward the artifacts. Although the three families in Kenya were representative of a larger community, concentrating on more than three families would have provided a wider depth of field for questions.

Finally, the artifacts of the Bohra culture could also become the focus of a longitudinal research study of a selected child—a boy or a girl. Such a study would provide a much deeper insight into the attitudinal changes that take place in the manner in which a child’s relationship develops with the artifacts from the age of three or four up to puberty and beyond, mediated by the role parents play in the child’s life.

The artifacts of the material culture of the Bohra are just the beginning in a continuing process of investigation for me. The raison d’être of this study was the hypothesis that material culture studies and art education can be partners—each

162 supporting and complementing the other rather than be separated by ideologies that are out of step in post-20th century pedagogy and praxis (Bolin, 1995; Chilton, 1999;

Dissanayake, 1990; Donley, 1993; Glassie, 1999). Thus the implications of this study go beyond theorizing and into practical considerations of learning and teaching. In the following sub-section, I discuss three inquiry methods in which artifacts can be employed to teach art.

Material Culture and Some Implications for Art Education Practice

A Bag of Identities

I have discussed how “masterpieces” have been the mainstay of museums for a very long time. Until the advent of natural history museums in Europe and the United

States, artifacts from different cultures were relegated to “cabinets of curiosities”

(Alexander, 1979). Visits to the museums for students were either boring, rushed or an exercise in being “quiet as a mouse” while the docent lectured (Richter, 1993, p. 12).

In trying to create a linkage between material culture studies and art education, one inquiry method that can become a catalyst for lively learning for all students, young and old, is an investigation of objects outside the museum milieu. According to Durbin,

Morris and Wilkinson (1990), objects provide a learning/teaching locus in which students go through numerous applications to experience an understanding of the world around and beyond them. They can do this without the obligatory “field trip” (Sheppard, 1993, p. 13) to the nearest museum where students would probably see cabinets filled with artifacts and an array of paintings on the walls. Rather, the art teacher can create a

“museum” in a classroom that sets a precedent for future visits to museums when “the

163 skills of object analysis” (Durbin, Morris, & Wilkinson, 1990, p. 14) can be effectively utilized across all levels of students.

“A bag of identities” is the title I give to a hypothetical situation in which objects found in a suitcase lead students on a journey of identification of the mystery traveler who has lost his/her baggage. Just as a visit to the museum would benefit from a pre-trip activity, this exercise of decoding the suitcase and its contents requires that the students be given an introduction (Sheppard, 1993). How many students have ever lost a school bag? What does it feel like losing a possession? How many have traveled in an airplane and have not seen their bag come on the conveyor belt at the end of the flight in the

Baggage Claim lounge? The art teacher informs the students of the “lost” bag that he/she found abandoned by the bus station near the school and brought it to school for the students to study. By formulating pertinent questions about the objects, the students rebuild an identity of the owner. Did a student coming to school leave the bag by the bus stop? Did the bag fall off from a vehicle? What kinds of objects are there in the bag? Is it a student’s bag? If it is, does the bag belong to a male or a female student? Do the objects inside the bag provide a clue to the identity of the owner? Was the bag hastily packed or are the belongings in it neatly arranged? Is there any evidence to suggest it is an American’s bag, or is there some indication that the bag belongs to someone residing in another country? Such questions will lead the students to realize the pitfalls of determining the true identity of the bag’s owner based on an assortment of objects.

In such a study it is essential that students are well grounded in the elements of material culture studies. Asking a myriad of questions unrelated by a common denominator—concepts—though useful at first is rather frustrating for students. A

164 systemic approach that leads students’ questions to specific areas will gradually enable them to become proficient at analyzing objects. I borrow from Durbin, Morris and

Wilkinson (1990), the model they have devised for learning from objects.

INVESTIGATING AN OBJECT

ASK QUESTIONS ABOUT 6 PHYSICAL FEATURES CONSTRUCTION FUNCTION DESIGN VALUE 6 HOW DO WE FIND OUT? 6

OBSERVATION43RESEARCH/KNOWLEDGE43DISCUSSION 6 CONCLUSIONS

165 Objects generate interest and remove barriers that are created when students do not have the same proficiency in any given language for reading and writing. Art teachers can create object-based activities of investigation at which most students will be challenged and will succeed. Students can direct their questions about the suitcase with the objects starting with the physical features. This is the describing stage of the intrinsic data that is dependent upon careful observation of the object (Kyvig & Marty, 1982) and relies upon all five senses (Forrest, 1991; Hudson; 1991; Miller, 1987). What do the suitcase and the objects in it look and feel like? For the sake of hygiene, it may be prudent for students not to taste any perishables that may be in the bag. However, the rest of the four senses provide ample opportunities for asking supplementary questions such as: Is the bag made of leather? Does it smell like skin? Does it appear new or is it a well-traveled bag? Is it repaired in any way? A mug was found in the bag among other things. Is the mug plastic or china? Does it have any stains to indicate what kind of beverage the owner drank from it? Does it smell of tea or coffee? There are jeans and T- shirts in the bag. What do the clothes smell of? Perfume or after-shave lotion or sweat?

Do they smell like new clothes? What colors are the clothes?

The concept of construction will lead the students to ask questions about how the suitcase and its contents were made. How many pieces were joined to make the suitcase?

Is it hand sewn or made by a machine? Was the mug made from a single mould? Does it have a handle? If it is plastic, does it have a lid? Is it insulated? What are the clothes made of? Are the jeans denim and blue in color? Does the T-shirt have a logo on it? As the students answer such questions they will discover how different identities emerge, and that no students’ surmised identity of the owner is the same. They will become

166 conscious of the multiple differences in the interpretations of their answers. They will realize that there is no single correct answer to their inquiries (Ott, 1993).

Function encompasses both the obvious and the unintended usage of objects.

Although the suitcase is made to pack one’s belongings, does it have an unintended role?

How is a suitcase viewed in American culture? Does a suitcase bespeak a certain social class? Does it communicate any message other than the identity of the owner of the suitcase? Can one use a suitcase for any other purpose than the one for which it was made? If the mug in the suitcase is devoid of any stains, then it could provide a clue to its alternative function. This mug could be an example of an object made for one purpose and used for another. The owner of the suitcase may use the mug as a storage container since a lot of pencils, pens, and markers were found in the suitcase.

Is the suitcase well made? Is it an expensive suitcase? Does it have any logo on it to indicate its manufacture? These are questions of design and they apply to all objects—the suitcase and its contents. Students have to be very discerning when judging design. Is the suitcase “ugly” in its shape and color? Such assessments require that students think about how the designer made all the objects. It also requires that they reflect on their perception of “ugly.” If the suitcase and all its contents are mass- produced there will be constraints, such as the target group, for whom the objects were made and how much money they would spend on purchasing such items. If the suitcase is very heavy and big, made heavier by its contents, then perhaps young children were not meant to use it. Students must learn not to be too swift in their judgment or to condemn an object’s design as ugly.

167 The fifth concept that is essential for studying objects is value. In this hypothetical scenario, the value of the suitcase and its contents can lead the students to conclude who the owner of the bag was. Value can be measured both intrinsically and extrinsically. Intrinsic value depends upon its physical features. Is the suitcase leather or a synthetic material? The extrinsic value would raise questions of the worth of the suitcase to the owner regardless of its monetary value. The contents of the suitcase may be more valuable than the suitcase itself.

Having asked questions about the suitcase and its contents in order to establish the identity of the mystery owner, students realize that the entire exercise involved higher- level thinking based on calculated conjecture. What will also become apparent is that every student will bring her/his phenomenological insights in analyzing, and interpreting the objects, resulting from diverse cultural backgrounds. Even if the students are all of

Anglo-American heritage there will be a whole host of ideas and viewpoints to contend with (Donley, 1988).

Cut Your Cloth According to Your Coat

This adage has a decidedly ethnographic ring to it. Food, clothing, and shelter are the three primordial needs of all humankind. In the United States, few things have greater semiotic impact than clothing. We tend to judge people by the clothes they wear.

Nations have been “born” on the semiotic power of cloth. National clothing or costumes display our ethnic roots, and people have endured racial slurs and epithets because of what they wear. Clothing has the potential to be a powerful teaching tool.

168 The ubiquitous denim jeans are tailor-made for material culture studies. The denimization of society, like the McDonaldization of society, has implications that go beyond the desire to rebel (Berger, 1992; Ritzer, 1996) or conform, as the case may be.

The distinction that was always apparent between men’s and women’s clothing underwent changes at the end of the 19th century, so that women’s clothing became more practical and men’s less varied (Paoletti, 1997). Most people who wear denim know what it is. How many people know that denim is the Americanization of De Nimes from

France? Is denim, like material culture itself, considered “low fashion?” Why is it so popular in America? Why is it equally popular elsewhere in the world? Examine the label of denims sold in Wal-mart and you will not be surprised to learn that they were made in China, Thailand, or Taiwan. Does a denim jean made elsewhere in the world bears the same use value for the wearer as one made here? Does wearing denim make one more “American”? For material culture studies these questions provide deep insights into a culture that did not exist in its present form 40 years ago. One of the most significant points of denimization is the relationship it has created between what is considered “work” clothes and “play” clothes. Berger argues in his book Reading Matter

(1992):

A significant change that is taking place in American society where work is losing

its identity and being transformed, more and more, into play. At the same time,

play seems to be more and more transformed into work. (p. 90)

This means that work and play are being regarded more and more as equally important and operate at par. The study of material culture recognizes differences and similarities between people. Denim jeans, as artifacts, produce exactly the opposite

169 result. When work and play clothes appear to be similar, then there is no identity crisis.

In fact, there is no identity. Individuals become the mass, and everybody dresses and looks the same. Is this creating a classless society? Marvin Harris, (1974) the cultural anthropologist gives an etic slant. He suggests that:

Conspicuous consumption in the grand manner became dangerous, so highest

prestige now once again goes to those who have the most but show the least . . . .

the wearing of torn jeans and the rejection of overt consumerism among middle-

class youth of late has more to do with aping the trends set by the upper class than

with any so-called cultural revolution. (pp. 129-130)

The symbolism behind clothing plays a major role in conveying meaning to every day life. Together with the denim jeans are T-shirts and the denim jackets.

Contemporary American art and media history provide enough opportunities for a comparative study of clothing. Students could examine paintings in museums to see how prevalent denim’s influence was in contemporary artists’ works. Did denim influence the making of collages? Did Picasso put any denim on his collages? Consider the importance of denim in films. Did denim jeans become more popular after the late actor

James Dean’s classic film, A Rebel Without a Cause?

Cloth has a rich history of pedagogy. Cloth was central to India’s struggle for independence from the British (Bean, 1989). Cloth is a marker for socio-economic status. Cloth delineates gender and sexuality. Cloth is “dressed”—dyed, embroidered, laced and altered to create limitless personalities. Cloth becomes another skin. In ethnographic literature, Weiner and Schneider (1989) have edited an impressive anthology in which various authors have explored the power of cloth. Given the

170 versatility of cloth and the extensive anthropological literature on the historicity of cloth making, and cloth wearing, it is an ideal subject for research at all levels of art education.

Hats Off to Difference—The Material Culture/Art Education Connection

This inquiry method consists of a unit of instruction with four lessons appropriate for grades six, seven and eight. A teacher can use two artifacts of popular culture—a baseball hat and a bridal veil—to introduce material culture studies in an art lesson. As an introduction, the teacher should tell the students that dress is a system of non-verbal communication. Dress is linked with who you are and where you are situated in the context of a group of people.

In the first lesson, students explore the background of a head gear generally and a baseball hat specifically. Students wearing baseball hats are requested to remove them.

The teacher should then ask the students if they know the history of baseball and baseball hats. Baseball is identified as an American game. Any game that is played against another team requires a uniform. That uniform becomes the team’s identity. Americans played with bats and balls long before the American Revolution. At first these games resembled the English games of cricket and rounders. In 1845, a group of businessmen formed the New York Knickerbocker Base Ball Club. The Club members, led by a player named Alexander Joy Cartwright, created new rules that are still in practice today

(Smyth, 1998).

During the Civil War, the game spread (McCulloch, 1995, p. 39). At first it was a game for gentlemen with leisure time, but soon men of all economic and social classes began to play. In 1876, the owners of eight professional teams formed the National

171 League of Professional Base Ball Clubs. In 1882, a new professional league offered competition to the National League. It was in the same year that Albert Spalding, a pitcher ended his playing days and started a sporting goods company that manufactured bats, balls and uniforms. He also made gloves and catcher’s masks (McCulloch, 1995).

In the history of baseball there is no specific mention of caps being worn when playing. Many famous baseball players had hats that were very personal to them. How did the wearing of a baseball cap change from being part of a uniform to something that is so ubiquitous that it has now many identities outside the game? Can baseball be considered a national game? If so, then is wearing a hat part of America’s national identity? The teacher should show images of different sorts of caps worn by baseball players over time. This will introduce students to a specific culture within the American society, and why the hat is so important and popular within that culture. Students will also examine the hat in the context of gender and age groups.

If a baseball cap is a marker of American culture, is it conceivable that there might be other cultures, which have markers that identify them? Here the teacher should introduce the topi as an ethnic marker for a group of people who wear it to establish a communal identity. The teacher should differentiate between ethnic dress (taking the topi as part of the overall ensemble of clothes), world dress, and national dress and examine how they are inter-related in today’s world, which is made small by media and travel

(Eicher, 1995). The baseball hat is a good example of how it is worn literally throughout the world.

The focus of the second lesson is on headgears worn by people from various cultures. In this lesson, students talk about other traditions and other headgears they

172 know of or have seen. Students have an opportunity to see, touch and wear and compare the differences between the Bohra topi for a boy and one intended for a girl. They analyze the differences between the baseball hat and the topi. They can work in smaller groups to discuss and brainstorm about the production of hats, their symbolism, and who wears what kind of hats? Who are the people who wear the topi? Why do they wear it?

When do they wear it? Who makes it? Can it be bought in stores? What is the process involved in making it? How do wearers identify themselves when they wear a baseball hat or topi?

A topi is both an indoor and outdoor headgear for all Muslim males. A Bohra topi is a white crocheted cap, with, geometric or stylized floral patterns, and a gold or black edging. The crown, six to nine inches in diameter, is crocheted first and the wall, three to four inches in height, grows down from it. The topi is very often made entirely of gold thread, and as such, its use is reserved for more festive occasions. The yarns used for a topi are preshrunk cotton, gold and black threads, easily available in stores. A topi for an average-sized head of circumference 21 to 23 inches requires a one-ounce ball of white or gold thread. Once a topi is crocheted, it is washed and starched and fitted over a stainless steel or aluminum mold, custom-made to fit different size heads, to retain its shape. When worn it fits the head well and rests just above the ears.

The ability to crochet these topi is an income-generating skill. Bohra women, who make a topi, not only save money but also are contracted to supply topi to those who can afford to pay for them. A topi ranges in price from $10.00 to $25.00 depending upon the size, complexity of patterns that determine the time spent crocheting it, the thread used, and how soon it is required.

173 For Bohra men, use of the topi is mandatory for praying and communal eating.

Like the dress code for women’s clothing, men, too, are restricted in their choice of colors for topi. Bohra men never wear colored topi. Clothes worn by Bohra women and men are quite different, and outside of any experience of most Americans. However, they are an essential element of the cultural life of a sub-group who want to make a statement about the ever-burgeoning awareness of Islam.

In the third lesson students focus on the bridal veil. The teacher should show them newspaper articles, pictures and specimens of various women in veils. Students discuss the concept of the veil in the context of women in the Muslim world and women in other cultures. If there are Muslim girls in the class, the teacher should discuss this lesson with them ahead of time. Students brainstorm and come up with reasons why they think Muslim women wear the veil. This will enable the teacher to find out if they know that traditionally non-Muslim women also wore the veil. Students also learn the historical background of the veil. Is the veil exclusively about religion or does it also have to do with culture and the way people interact with each other? How is one’s identity affected with or without a veil?

The bridal veil is one category of dress that is not likely to become a “world” dress. This is because it makes a statement that is specific to the beliefs and life style of one specific group of people—the Western women. Whether it is just a short lacy piece or a long one trailing the floor it represents the concept of identity (Monsarrat, 1974).

The teacher should ask students to describe a veil. The teacher should show them, during the course of this input, examples of bridal veils. How did the practice of a bridal veil start? Why is it still in vogue? What is its cultural significance? How does it affect a

174 woman’s identity to wear one or not to wear one? Why do women wear a veil in other cultures? For the purposes of this lesson, the teacher should tell the students that a veil is a generic term for a form of modest attire that covers a woman’s head and an enveloping outer garment worn over a variety of clothing such as a T-shirt and blue jeans, a skirt and a blouse, an ankle-length dress, a mini skirt or a shalwar-kameez. There are as many types of veiling as there are Muslim women. The teacher should ask the students: How many of you have heard of the veil? In the Western world Muslim women wear a scarf—hijab—to cover their head, neck and the shoulders. The veil creates a culturally defined site. It has to do with women’s identity in a world where men and other women do not wear veils. How does it relate to the issue of gender? Muslim women are initiated to a hijab from puberty.

A veil is not just worn by Muslim women. Christian and Hindu women also wear a form of veil. In the Christian religion, women who have become nuns also wear veils.

In these cases the veil performs two functions. It indicates a certain level of status and it was an identity marker. For Muslim women, the Qur’an says the veil should be worn.

During the first two centuries of the Christian era, the Church required women to be veiled. Clement of Alexandria decreed that when a woman went to church, she was to

“be entirely covered. Tertullian (AD 160-220?) demanded that women veil themselves at all times, including when going to church. “Why do you denude [unveil] before God

[in church] what you cover before men? Will you be more modest in public than in the church?” (On Prayer 2). St. Chrysostom (AD 347-407), yet another church leader, in his

Homilies on 1 Corinthian said that women had to be veiled all the time. In the fourth century, St. Augustine taught that married women were to be veiled if they were to be

175 seen as proper (Letters, no. 245). The church’s role in legalizing the veil is documented in

Apostolic Tradition (a third century document of the Christian church), “and when thou art in the streets, cover they head; for by such covering thou wilt avoid being viewed by idle persons” (The Apostolic Constitutions 1:7). The Apostolic Constitutions 8 & 9 warned women not to appear in the street without a veil (Schmidt, 1989, p. 134). In enforcing these rules, the church was merely perpetuating the dominance over women begun in pagan times. There is plenty of literature that shows that Christian women were expected to veil (Schmidt, 1989. p. 134).

For the fourth and the final lesson in this instructional unit students draw, paint, print, or sculpt their representation of what it means to them to be different.

“A Bag of Identities,” “Cut Your Cloth According to Your Coat,” and “Hats Off to Difference” emphasize the latent qualities of artifacts as instructional aids to learning from objects and as inquiry methods they demonstrate the efficacy of material culture as a subject for art education. The field of material culture studies and its inclusion in an art education curriculum, as a viable topic cannot be sidestepped any longer. Material culture is in a constant state of flux because culture itself is never stagnant. The wealth of relevant literature on the subject of material culture is a testimony to the importance researchers give to the subject. Traditionally, art education has made much of history, social identity, ethnicity, and gender to mention a few constructs mediated by artworks.

These have often been addressed within the context of two-dimensional artworks and to a lesser degree three-dimensional sculptural and architectural forms most of which have been in the European-Christian traditions.

176 Artifacts embody and shape the identities of their makers and as such provide a rich source of discourse within the parameters of an art lesson. If we consider art making or art works to be something more than painting, prints and sculpture, then material culture, more than ever, tell histories using tangible artifacts. Artifacts and their multi- faceted interpretations are windows through which the richness of any culture can be viewed and understood. I believe the future of material culture studies lies in the hands of art educators who are, indeed, well-equipped to teach about the variety and richness of their students’ cultures as well as cultures that are less known to them.

The material culture of the Bohra as an intermediary to the relationship between art education and material culture studies has been successful at two levels. First, the artifacts have helped to disseminate a little known culture. As an emic researcher, this work helped me to appreciate and understand behaviors of my people, which at times seemed contradictory. Since artifacts reveal certain ideas and ideologies, they are more than mere objects. Their makers and users are as important as the artifacts themselves

(Chilton, 1999). Just as a painting reveals the histories of the time when it was created and tells us more than just the identity of the painter, artifacts perform and should be acknowledged to perform similar service. Second, the artifacts of the material culture of the Bohra act as an exemplar of artifacts in other cultures that can be studied in a similar manner.

The future of material culture studies lies in the conviction art educators should have toward the efficacy of artifacts to come under the same scrutiny as traditional artworks do, say, under Discipline-Based Art Education. More pertinently, the increasingly diverse population in schools, universities, and the world of work makes the

177 inclusion of material culture in an art education program a celebratory act, heralding a new trajectory for art education that art educators can follow in the 21st century.

APPENDIX A

QUESTIONNAIRES

Dress

Men

Kurta

1. Do you wear a kurta as part of your every day dress? If not, why not?

2. What color is your kurta?

3. How many kurta do you have?

4. Who makes them for you?

5. How much does one cost?

6. When do you feel most comfortable wearing a kurta?

7. What kind of material is your kurta made?

8. How many meters of cloth does one kurta require?

9. Who chooses the fabric for your kurta?

10. What do you do with your old kurta?

11. Do you like wearing a kurta more than a shirt? If yes, why? If not, why

not?

12. Do you have ordinary buttons for your kurta or do you prefer something

more elaborate? 179

Saya

1. Do you wear a saya?

2. Did you always wear a saya in your community functions? If not, why

not?

3. When did a saya become part of your community wardrobe?

4. Who makes a saya for you?

5. How much does it cost?

6. How much material do you need to make a saya?

7. What color is your saya?

8. What material do you use to make a saya?

9. At one time Bohra men wore a sherwani. Now they wear a saya. Which

do you prefer? Why?

10. How many saya do you have?

11. What do you do with your old saya?

180

Perun

1. How many perun do you have?

2. Who makes your perun?

3. How much does one perun cost?

4. Do you always wear a perun for praying?

5. If you did not wear a perun, what would you wear instead for praying?

6. What do you do with your old perun?

7. Do you ever wear a kurta under a perun or vice versa?

8. What material do you use for your perun?

9. How much fabric does a perun require?

181

Topi

1. Why do you wear a topi?

2. Do you like wearing a topi?

3. How many topi do you have?

4. Are all your topi the same design and style?

5. Who makes them for you?

6. How much does one topi cost?

7. Who chooses the design for your topi?

8. How often do you wash it?

9. Did you always wear a topi?

10. What do you do with your old topi?

11. Why is your topi always white and not some other color?

12. Why is it crocheted and not knitted?

13. Where do you keep your extra topi?

14. Does your topi require any special care?

15. As the elder in your family do you have any influence or give guidance to

members of your family about wearing a perun, kurta, and saya?

182

Women

Ridah

1. How many ridah do you have?

2. Why do you wear a ridah?

3. Do you like wearing a ridah? If yes, why? And if not why not?

4. You did not wear a ridah about 25 years ago. How do you feel wearing a

ridah all the time now?

5. What was your reaction when you decided to adopt the ridah as part of

your communal identity?

6. Does wearing a ridah curtail your activities? If yes, which activities?

7. The ridah has become a “uniform” for Bohra women. Do you feel proud

as an individual wearing a ridah and be recognized as a Bohra? If yes,

why? And if not, why not?

8. What do your non-Bohra friends say about you wearing a ridah?

9. Who makes your ridah?

10. How much does it cost you to make a ridah?

11. How much does it cost to have it made by somebody else?

12. What do you do with your old ridah?

13. Why have you become more comfortable about wearing a ridah now than

when you first started?

14. Are you more amenable to wearing a ridah now that you see other Muslim

communities following suit? If yes, why? If not, why not?

183 15. Do you have a preference for the material from which your ridah is made,

and do you like your ridah plain or printed?

16. As an elder in your family, do you have any influence or give any

guidance to the members of your family about wearing a ridah? If yes,

what? If not, why not.

17. Are there functions or places you go to when you choose not to wear a

ridah? If yes, which ones?

184

Orhnu

1. Why do you wear an orhnu?

2. Do you wear one only for prayers?

3. How many orhnu do you have?

4. What material are they made from?

5. How much does one cost?

6. What do you do with your old orhnu?

7. Do your orhnu match with your ridah/prayer clothes or massalaa?

8. Are your orhnu plain or printed?

185

Massalaa

1. How many massalaa do you have?

2. Who makes them for you?

3. How much does one massalaa cost?

4. Is your massalaa with an attached plastic suzni?

5. Do you have a massalaa with a separate quilted suzni?

6. Does your massalaa match with your prayer clothes or ridah?

7. How big is your massalaa?

8. What do you do with your old massalaa?

9. Do you know why we use a massalaa even when a masjid or your room

has a carpet?

186

Tasbee

1. Do you use a tasbee? If yes, why? If not, why not?

2. How many tasbee do you have?

3. What are the beads of your tasbee made from?

4. From where did you get your tasbee?

5. How much did you pay for it?

6. What is the tassel of your tasbee made from?

7. If you have more than one tasbee, from where did you get all of them?

8. Do you need more than one tasbee? If not, why do you have more than

one?

9. Do you have a bag for your tasbee?

10. Do you have a tasbee with more than 100 beads? How many beads does

your tasbee have?

11. How much did you pay for it?

12. Who made it for you?

13. What is your tasbee bag made from?

14. Is it an important artifact for you?

15. How big is it?

187

Bakhoor and Bakhoor Dani

1. Do you use bakhoor in your house and on your person? If yes, why? If

not, why not?

2. How many bakhoor dani do you have?

3. How much did your bakhoor dani cost?

4. How much did your bakhoor cost?

5. From where did you get it?

6. From where do you get the bakhoor?

7. When do you use it?

8. If you do not have a bakhoor dani, but like bakhoor how do you solve that

problem?

9. How often do you use bakhoor?

10. Can you buy bakhoor in Malindi? If yes, from where?

188

Misri and Misri Dani

1. What is misri?

2. Do you have a special plate for misri?

3. Why do you offer misri to visitors?

4. For what occasions do you use misri?

5. Who offers misri to your visitors?

6. How many misri dani do you

7. What is your misri dani made from?

8. How much did it cost?

189

Ittar and Ittar Dani

1. Do you have an ittar dani in your house? If yes, how many? If not why

not?

2. Why do you use ittar?

3. What kind of ittar do you use?

4. What is your ittar dani made from?

5. From where did you get your ittar dani?

6. If you did not buy your ittar dani, who gave it to you?

7. How long have you had your ittar dani?

8. Does your ittar dani need any special care?

9. Do you like wearing ittar?

10. When do you wear most ittar?

11. Why do you offer ittar to your visitors?

12 Do you offer ittar to your non-Bohra friends? If not, why not? If yes,

why?

13. Does your ittar dani have an applicator?

14. How much money would you spend on an ittar dani?

190

Footwear

Chakhdi

1. Why do you wear a chakhdi?

2. Where do you wear it?

3. How many pairs of chakhdi do you have?

4. Do you have a pair that you use exclusively? If yes, why?

5. Are all the chakhdi the same size in your house?

6. What are the chakhdi made from?

7. Which material do you prefer a chakhdi to be?

8. Do you consider a chakhdi an important object to have in your house? If

yes, why? If not, why not?

9. Can a chakhdi be replaced by anything else?

10. How long does a chakhdi last in your house?

11. From where do you buy your chakhdi?

12. How much does it cost?

13. Does each member of your family have her/his own chakhdi?

14. Do you think the design of the chakhdi is suitable for the purpose it is

used? If yes, why? If not, why not?

15. Do you miss a chakhdi when you are traveling and go to another place?

191

Containers

Namak and Namak Dani

1. Why do you use a namak dani?

2. Why do you take a pinch of salt before and after every meal?

3. How many namak dani do you have?

4. Do you use a namak dani every time you eat?

5. What are your namak dani made from?

6. Do you ever forget to have a namak dani on your thaal or your dining

table?

7. Who offers the namak to the people around the thaal?

8. How much did your namak dani cost?

192

Safra and Kundli

1. Do you have a safra in your house? If yes, how many?

2. What kind of safra do you have?

3. Who made your safra?

4. How much does one safra cost?

5. Do you eat sitting around a safra?

6. How many kundli do you have?

7. What are they made from?

8. From where did you get your kundli?

9. Are they available in Malindi? If yes, from where can you buy them?

10. Where do you keep your kundli when not in use?

11. Does a kundli need any special care?

12. For how long have you been using a safra and kundli?

13. Which kind of a kundli do you prefer? Round or folding?

193

Thaal

1. Do you eat sitting on the floor, around a thaal at home? If yes, why? If

not, why not?

2. How many thaal do you have?

3. From where did you get your thaal?

4. What is it made from?

5. Which metal do you prefer your thaal to be, and why?

6. How much does your thaal cost?

7. Can you buy a thaal in a store in Malindi?

8. Where would you rather eat? Around a thaal or at a dining table

9. What are the advantages of eating from a thaal?

10. What are the disadvantages of eating from a thaal?

11. Do you think the Bohra should omit or replace the system of eating from a

thaal? If yes, why? If not, why not?

12. Have any of your non-Bohra friends seen you eating from a thaal?

13. What do your non-Bohra friends think about our way of eating from a

thaal?

14. Assuming that sometime in the past you did eat from a thaal, when did

you stop using a thaal and start eating at a dining table?

194

Chilamchi Loto

1. Do you have a chilamchi loto in your house? If not, why not?

2. If yes, what is it made from?

3. From where did you get it?

4. How much did it cost?

5. How often do you use it?

6. When was the last time you used it?

7. Does your chilamchi loto need any special care?

8. Can you buy a chilamchi loto in Malindi?

9. Where do you keep it when not in use?

10. If you did not have a chilamchi loto and you needed one, from whom

would you borrow one?

195

Loto

1. Do you have a loto in your toilet/bathroom?

2. How many do you have?

3. Have you always had a loto in your bathroom/toilet?

4. What is the loto you have made from?

5. Which metal do you think is more appropriate for a loto? Why?

6. Why do you use a loto in your bathroom/toilet and not any other

container?

7. How much does a loto cost?

8. Can you buy it in Malindi? If not, from where do you get your loto?

9. For how long have you used a loto?

10. Have you ever found yourself in a situation when there was no loto in the

bathroom/toilet?

11. Can you do without a loto?

12. These days bathrooms/toilets have bidets. Do you think they are a better

substitute for a loto?

196

Furniture

Jazam

1. Do you have a jazam in your house? If not why not?

2. How big is it?

3. From where did you get it?

4. For how long have you had it?

5. When was the last time you used it?

6. How much did it cost?

7. Can you buy a jazam in Malindi?

8. If you needed to use it, and you did not have one, from whom would you

borrow one?

APPENDIX B

RECIPES

Recipe for making Bakhoor

Ingredients:

Sugar, bakhoor sticks, ittar

Method

Crush the bakhoor sticks to a fine powder.

In a stainless steel pan, heat sugar till it melts.

Pour ittar over it and stir.

Add into the melted sugar/ittar the powdered bakhoor sticks, and keep stirring till

the three ingredients form a thick paste.

Pour the mixture into a stainless steel plate and score it to form small squares.

Leave to cool. As it cools it hardens.

Remove from plate and break it into small pieces along the scored lines. Store in

airtight jars. 198

Recipe for making Misri

Ingredients:

Dates, almonds, sesame seeds, desiccated coconut, and milk

Method:

Deseed almonds.

Grind almonds into small pieces

Deseed dates and crush them into paste.

Mix the crushed almonds and sesame seeds with it.

Add a little milk to facilitate mixing.

Roll paste into marble-sized balls.

Sprinkle desiccated coconut over balls.

Store in an airtight jar and put in a cool place.

APPENDIX C

DEMOGRAPHIC INFORMATION OF THE BOHRA

These are some of the available figures showing the distribution of the Bohra in different countries of the world

Country Population of Bohra Australia 200 Bahrain 600 France 900 Germany 4 Italy 8 Kenya, Uganda, 8,000 Tanzania Kuwait 5500 North America 4,000 Norway and 120 Sweden Portugal 16 Republic of Ireland 16 United Kingdom 9,600

APPENDIX D

ILLUSTRATIONS

Figure 1: Kurta Saya 6” x 4.5”

202

Figure 2: Perun 6” x 3.2”

203

Figure 3: Man wearing a Topi (front and back view) 6” x 4.7”

204

Figure 4: Topi over a mould, mould and Topi 4.6” x 2.2”

205

Figure 5: Woman wearing a Ridah (front and back view) 6.1” x 4.6”

206

Figure 6: A detail of pattern on Orhnu 5.5” x 4.3”

207

Figure 7: Two rows of Massalaa with Tasbee on the middle Massalaa 6” x 4.6”

208

Figure 8: Bakhoor Dani 4.8” x 3.2”

209

Figure 9: Ittar Dani 6” x 6”

210

Figure 10: Serpech 4.6” x 2.1

211

Figure 11: Dulha with Serpech, Dushalu, Baazubund and Kamarbund 6” x 2.9”

212

Figure 12: Man wearing a Pagri 4.5” x 2.4”

213

Figure 13: Sehraa 4.2” x 2.8”

214

Figure 14: Baazubund 4.2” x 3.9”

215

Figure 15: Dushalu 4.1” x 2.2”

216

Figure 16: Chakhdi 4.6” x 3.2”

217

Figure 17: Namak Dani 4.6” x 3.2”

218

Figure 18: Offering and taking a pinch of salt 6” x 4.5”

219

Figure 19: Six-legged Kundli 6” x 4.6”

220

Figure 20: Folded Kundli 4.6” x 3.2”

221

Figure 21: Thaal on Kundli on Safra 4.6” x 4.6”

222

Figure 22: Chilamchi and Loto 6” x 4.8”

223

Figure 23: Chilamchi Loto on a Safra 4.6” x 3.2”

224

Figure 24: Man performing ablutions. Loto is to his left. Chakhdi is in front of loto 4.6” x 3.2”

225

Figure 25: Takhat 4.2” x 3.6”

226

Figure 26: Detail of pattern on Jazam 4.6” x 3.2”

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VITA THEMINA KADER

Academic

MA in Art Ed 1996 Western Carolina University Cullowhee, NC

Dip. Fine Art 1970 (4 years) Makerere University College University of E. Africa Kampala, Uganda Professional Teaching Experience

July 8-23, 1999 Instructor at Kutztown University’s Private Industry Council Career Awareness and Academic Enrichment Summer Program, Kutztown, PA.

1996-1999 Instructor & Graduate Assistant, The Pennsylvania State University, Art Education Program, School of Visual Arts

July-August 1996 Adjunct Assistant Professor Art Education, Western Carolina University, Cullowhee, NC.

Spring 1998 Instructor at Lock Haven University of Pennsylvania, Lock Haven, PA

1971-1994 Lenana High School, Nairobi, Kenya, Art & Design Dept, Head

Grants and Awards

Aug. & Dec. 1997 Grant, Graduate Research Office and the School of Visual Arts, The Pennsylvania State University Chicago, IL, and Washington DC to research on Gardner's Art Through the Ages

Dec 1998-Jan 1999 Grant, Graduate School, and the College of Arts and Architecture, The Pennsylvania State University, Egypt and Kenya

March–April 2000 Honorable Award for the etching Veiled but not Hidden. The Electronic Gallery Member Exhibit, NAEA, Los Angeles, CA

November 16, 1999 Certificate in Acknowledgement of Exceptional Efforts in Furthering International understanding at the Pennsylvania State University

Recent Publications & Presentation

Winter 2000 Studies in Art Education: A Journal of Issues and Research in Art Education, The Bible of Art History: Gardner’s Art Through the Ages

April 2000 NAEA Seminar for Research in Art Education, Marilyn Zurmuehlen Working Papers in Art Education

April 2000 NAEA Annual Convention, Los Angeles, CA.

Title: Is DBAE Displacing Artifacts From Your Art Programs?

Title: Hats Off to Difference: The Art/Artifacts Connection

250 April 1998 NAEA Annual Convention, Chicago, IL.

Title: The Bible of Art History: Helen Gardner’s Art Through the Ages, Title: The Elements of Art and Design: The Ruskin/Getty Connection.

January 1995. Art Education Dialogue: integration of Kenyan indigenous arts into the school curriculum and an overview of Kenyan art, East Carolina University, Greenville, NC.