Religious Freedom, Multiculturalism, Islam: Cross-reading Finland And Ireland (Muslim Minorities)

RELIGIOUS FREEDOM, MULTICULTURALISM, ISLAM

MUSLIM MINORITIES EDITORS

Jørgen S. Nielsen (University of Birmingham) Felice Dassetto (University of Louvain-la-Neuve) Amira Sonbol (Georgetown University, Washington, DC)

VOLUME 6

RELIGIOUS FREEDOM, MULTICULTURALISM, ISLAM Cross-reading Finland and Ireland BY

TUULA SAKARANAHO

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2006

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A C.I.P. record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

ISSN 1570-7571 ISBN-13: 978-90-04-15317-2 ISBN-10: 90-04-15317-9 © Copyright 2006 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

For Mícheál, a friend among strangers

CONTENTS Preface ........................................................................................ List of tables, diagrams, and abbreviations ............................

xi xvii

Introduction ................................................................................ Muslims, religious freedom and a multicultural Europe .... The case of Finland and Ireland ........................................ The untrodden field of inquiry ............................................ Themes and issues ................................................................

1 3 8 9 12

Chapter One Religion and multiculturalism ........................ Fragmentations ...................................................................... Religion reconsidered ............................................................ The religious landscapes of Finland and Ireland ................ Multiculturalism: Identity and equality ................................

19 19 20 30 45

Chapter Two The rhetoric of religious freedom .................. Contested ‘good things’ ........................................................ The rhetorical approach ........................................................ Religious freedom as a rhetorical act .................................. International scenes ................................................................ National scenes ......................................................................

72 72 73 82 88 115

Chapter Three Religious freedom in Finland ...................... From compulsory Lutheranism to religious freedom .......... Religious freedom in the Finnish law ..................................

123 123 129

Chapter Four Religious freedom in Ireland ........................ From penal laws to a Catholic country .............................. Religious freedom in the Irish law ......................................

163 163 173

Chapter Five Rooting Islam in Europe ................................ Islam: ‘The third pillar of Europe’ ...................................... Muslims in migration ............................................................ Muslims in numbers .............................................................. Identifications with Islam ......................................................

195 195 196 204 208

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The Establishment of Islam .................................................. Muslims and religious freedom in Europe ..........................

213 221

Chapter Six Finland: One hundred years of Muslim presence .................................................................................. Muslims in two waves .......................................................... Turkish Tatars from Russia .................................................. Recent Muslim communities ................................................

225 225 227 246

Chapter Seven Muslims in Ireland: Establishment and visibility .................................................................................. Respect for religion ................................................................ Settled community with newcomers .................................... Mosques outside Dublin ........................................................ Multicultural challenges ........................................................

270 270 273 302 308

Chapter Eight Diversity of religious education .................... Schools as multicultural testing grounds .............................. Multireliosity and religious education .................................. Between chairs: Religious education in Finland ................ Liberal myth of a multicultural Europe ..............................

315 315 317 332 350

Chapter Nine The Education of Islam in Finnish schools .... Growing demand .................................................................. Curriculum ............................................................................ Challenges ..............................................................................

352 352 356 373

Chapter Ten Muslim national schools in Ireland ................ The quest for Islamic schools .............................................. Muslim schools in Europe .................................................... Muslim national schools in Ireland ...................................... Religious instruction .............................................................. For God and eternal values ..................................................

383 383 384 385 402 406

Concluding remarks .................................................................. Finland and Ireland: Interactive integration and positive religious freedom .................................................................... Muslims: Legitimate actors with status differences ............ Further cross-readings: Substantive equality and negative religious freedom ....................................................................

409 409 415 422

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Bibliography ................................................................................ Primary sources ...................................................................... Secondary sources .................................................................. Literature ................................................................................

425 425 425 432

Index ..........................................................................................

457

PREFACE On the completion of any research project, one has the pleasure of remembering all those who, in one way or another, contributed to one’s work. In the process of writing this book, I have had the opportunity to exchange ideas with many colleagues both at home and abroad, to attend different seminars and workshops, and participate in several research projects. Below I will try to acknowledge all those who have helped me in various stages of my research, and if I inadvertently fail to mention somebody or other I apologise for doing so. First and foremost, I thank those who generously gave me their time for interviews and/or otherwise provided me with material for my research. In Finland, my heartfelt thanks go to Duh Abdal Ali, Hasan Al-Mani, Kadriye Bedredtin, Khodr Chehab, Okan Daher, Dr. Hassan Gubara, Ilona Kuukka, Isra Lehtinen, Arja Sarsama, Marita Uittamo, and Mariam Varjonen. I also thank Mari Karikoski and Hennariikka Lempinen who conducted interviews in the Finnish Islamic communities and among teachers of Islam respectively, and thereby produced valuable data also for this research. Moreover, I also give my thanks to those teachers of Islam who attended a teacher training course organised by the University of Helsinki in 2001 and 2002. My participation in discussions between teachers on this course and attending their classes was a real eye-opener for me regarding the practical difficulties that these teacher have to deal with in their daily work. In observing their teaching, I also learned a lot about Islam and what it is like to live as a Muslim in Finland. In addition, I also want to mention four seminars organised by Pekka Iivonen on the National Board of Education, which dealt with the education of minority religions in Finnish schools. Listening to teachers of different religions in these seminars made me realise how many things are still taken for granted in the wider Finnish society, which very often ignores the minority point of view. These seminars also made me aware how much I, as a comparative religionist, still have to learn about different religions. In Ireland, my heartfelt thanks go to the following key-figures, be they active in different mosques or working in Muslim national schools, namely Rabia"a Golden, Sheikh Hussein Halawa, Imam

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Yahya Al-Hussain, Lalarukh Jovindah, Summayah Kenna, Dr Saleem Khan, Colm McGlade, Sheikh Imam Mosai, Dr. Ali Qirbi, Dr. Syed Ali Al-Saleh, and Dr. Youssef. Even though I often appeared at very inopportune times with my questions, I was always met with the utmost courtesy and kindness. I will always be very grateful to them for their help with my research and hope that this study will justify the time they spent enlightening this particular foreign researcher. I also apologise for any misunderstandings, on my part, in respect of information they gave me. With respect to my colleagues abroad, I first and foremost want to thank Professor Felice Dassetto, who has played a key role as an opener of new avenues for my research. His research group on Muslims in Contemporary Western Europe (European Science Foundation) offered me my first contacts with researchers from various countries studying this topic. After this initial stage, the international cooperation for producing a database on Islam in Europe (Eurislam) has given me a chance to exchange ideas not only with Professor Dassetto but also with many other colleagues, namely Stefano Allievi, Marc Bodenstein, Nadia Fadil, Franck Frégosi, Gerdien Jonker, Nico Landman, Brigitte Maréchal, Jordi Moreras and AnneLaure Zwilling. Operating in a small group which shares a common academic interest—and which is directed by a kind but at the same time very firm chairman such as Professor Dassetto—is a most rewarding experience for any researcher. Therefore, I want to give my warmest thanks to Professor Dassetto for giving me the opportunity of participating in these groups. As is often the case, contacts easily lead to other contacts and so it happened with me. In addition to cooperating in Professor Dassetto’s group, I had the pleasure of working together closely with Gerdien Jonker, with whom I have shared many joint projects. First, we edited an issue on Muslim women for Social Compass, and for this issue gathered together a group of scholars working on this topic, namely Valérie Amiraux, Abdessamad Dialmy, Catharina Raudvere, Anne Sofie Roald, and Marja Tiilikainen. In addition, at Gerdien’s invitation, I had the pleasure of visiting Berlin on two occasions and meet with a small group of scholars enthusiastically working for a joint publication on the visibility of Islam, namely Valérie Amiraux, Stefano Allievi, Welmoet Boender, Nadja Fadil and Philip Lewis. Moreover, Gerdien also arranged for me to participate, as a discussant, in the final conference of the Network on Comparative

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Research on Islam and Muslims in Europe, directed by Professor Jocelyne Cesari and held at the Sorbonne. In addition to many of the colleagues listed above, I had an opportunity in this conference to listen to the interesting papers by Jonas Otterbeck and Sean McLoughlin. Recently, Gerdien invited me to join a seminar in Braunschweig on a timely topic regarding Islam in school books, where I truly enjoyed learning about different European countries in this matter. She also put me in contact with Irka Mohr, who generously send me her articles on Islamic education in Germany and Austria. I wish to thank Gerdien, as well as those persons mentioned above, for these invaluable opportunities for the mutual exchange of ideas, which have greatly enriched my research. Some years ago I had an opportunity to spend an academic year in Ireland as a visiting researcher in the Department of Irish Folklore and Ethnology in University College Cork. For this rewarding experience, I wish to thank Professor Gearóid Ó Crualaoich and Diarmuid Ó Giolláin who kindly invited me to work in their department. In particular, I want to thank Diarmuid who, as a friend and a colleague, has for years been an important base for me and my family on visits to Cork, and who is a frequent visitor to Finland. Perhaps this book can operate as a small token of gratitude for the hospitality shown me in the Department of Irish Folklore and Ethnology. Also on the staff of University College Cork I wish to extent my special thanks to Siobhán Mullally (Department of Law), Piaras Mac Éinrí and Breda Gray (Centre of Migration Studies), Desmond Clarke and Dolores Dooley (Department of Philosophy), and Paulina Chiwangu and Linda Connolly (Department of Sociology). It was Siobhán Mullally who introduced me to the immigrant life in Ireland, and her work on, and experience of, human rights in different countries has been a constant source of inspiration for me. In addition to colleagues in University College Cork, I am also indebted to certain members of the staff of University College Maynooth: Professor Lawrence Taylor and Séamas Ó Síocháin (Department of Anthropology), Etaín Ó Síocháin ( John Paul II Library) and Jacinta Prunty (Department of History). I also wish to thank Geraldine Prunty and Derek Hanly for their warm hospitality during my visits to Dublin and for aiding my research in various ways. My many visits to Ireland have been made more pleasant by the hospitality shown me by my large family there. First, I wish to give special thanks to my father-in-law, Thomas Briody, who has down

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through the years received me with open arms. It has always been most entertaining to listen to his reminiscences, extending over ninety years, of the Ireland that used to be. In addition to his pleasant company, his allowing me to work in his beautiful garden on summer holidays has helped me to escape from the stresses of research. My other in-laws have not only facilitated my visits to Ireland but have also aided, in various ways, my research. The year me and my family spent in Ireland was the occasion of much sadness as my mother-in-law, Nora, died during the early part of our stay in Cork. This cast a shadow over the whole year in Ireland, but it also showed how important it is to have a caring family about one, with whom to share both the sorrows and joys of life. International contacts notwithstanding, naturally those I am most indebted to are in Finland, where I have written up the bulk of my research. First, I thank my colleagues in the Department of Comparative Religion (University of Helsinki) for the most warm, relaxed, and encouraging environment one can hope for. The coffee-room, where news and gossip are exchanged, but where also many important discussions take place, is the heart of the department. At times, it takes a real effort not to join the talk and laughter there, but to stay in one’s room to write and toil. I wish to thank the Head of Department, Professor René Gothóni, for his constant support and encouragement, which he has given me ever since my undergraduate days. In respect of other colleagues in the department, who have helped me in my research, but also in certain positive ways distracted me from it, I thank Titus Hjelm, Elisa Heinämäki, Veronika Honkasalo, Riku Hämäläinen, Mira Karjalainen, Kimmo Ketola, Johanna Konttori, Sonja Pakarinen, Salla Peltonen, Vesa Matteo Piludu, Risto Pulkkinen, Mari Rahkala, Mia Rikala, Katja Ritari, Tom Sjöblom, Salome Tuomaala and Terhi Utriainen. In particular, I wish to thank my friend and colleague Heikki Pesonen, who for years now has shared his insights with me in numerous, ongoing discussions. Being able to discourse, teach, and publish together has been a great help to me in the course of my research. With respect to this book, I have worked closely with several people. First, I thank my research assistants Mika Lassander, Jussi Niemelä ja Kati Nieminen, who in different periods of time helped me with many practical matters dealing with my research. In particular, I wish to thank Kati, who has always been ready to give a helping hand and has completed her work most efficiently and accurately.

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I truly hope that our cooperation will continue in one form or another. Moreover, I thank Katja Ritari for her comments on the history of Ireland and Johanna Konttori for her help with French language texts. Johanna has also joined me in a project for producing a data base of European Islam, and has actually fed in all the information that can be found in this Eurislam-database on Finnish research. It is a most rewarding experience to work together with a young, enthusiastic woman who thoroughly knows her business. With respect to my research, I also had the pleasure of directing two research projects, in one of which, on Muslims in Finland, I worked with Anne Alitolppa-Niitamo, Tuomas Martikainen and Marja Tiilikainen, and in the other, on multicultural education, I worked with Tarja Ehnqvist, Antti Räsänen and Mirja Talib. Thank you all for such fruitful cooperation, which I know, for sure, will not end here. Every success to your current projects! In addition to these research projects, in recent years, I have also participated as a director in a project, funded by the Ministry of Education, for planning university education for teachers of different religions in Finnish schools, such as Islam. In this project, Annukka Jamisto, who acted as the project secretary, undertook the bulk of the work. Presently, Annukka and I are in the process of editing a book on the education of minority religions in Finland, and this, no doubt, will keep us busy for a while yet. In addition to Annukka, I thank my colleagues in the Department of Applied Education, Professor Arto Kallioniemi and Eero Salmenkivi, who have been active in planning the pedagogical side of the above-mentioned teacher training. At an earlier stage, I also worked with Matti Meri, Markku Pyysiäinen and Viive Toomesaar, from the same department. There is yet a lot of work to be done in this field and I am most grateful for having such pleasant partners to work with. Thank you for this. I also thank Vesa Nikkilä and Tuula Jääskeläinen in the Faculty of Humanities, who have greatly helped me in planning and funding this project. Finally, I want to thank Armi Mikkola in the Ministry of Education and Pekka Iivonen on the National Board of Education for being so understanding for our ‘cause’. No research is possible without proper funding. Therefore, I thank the Academy of Finland for its generous funding for four consecutive years of my research, which made it possible for me to build international networks and spend a whole year in Ireland. Part of this research was conducted in the Academy’s Research Programme

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on Marginalisation, Inequality and Ethnic Relations in Finland (SYREENI). In addition to the Academy of Finland, I also wish to thank the Network of European Studies (University of Helsinki) and the Niilo Helander Foundation for providing funding for my research. Moreover, I thank Brill for accepting my book for publication, and, in this connection, extend my particular thanks to Trudy Kamperveen, who acted as a kind but very effective editor of this volume. I also thank the anonymous reader of my manuscript whose comments helped me to put this book in perspective both with respect to its merits and failings. Finally, I thank my dear ones: Mícheál, Katariina and Tuomas, not forgetting our family pet, Nasta. At the same time, I need to apologise my children, Katariina and Tuomas, for being a mother who ‘is always working’, and sincerely promise to mend my ways. Fortunately, there is more to life than work—however interesting it may be. Thank you for helping me to keep things in the right order. I also thank my mother and sisters for sharing with me, on a dayto-day basis, the ups and downs in the lives of our respective families. Last but not least, I dedicate this work to my husband Mícheál, who has lived in ‘exile’ in Finland for over twenty years. Thank you for all these years and may many more be in store for us. Lá Buí Bealtaine 2006 Tuula Sakaranaho

LIST OF TABLES, DIAGRAMS, AND ABBREVIATIONS Diagram 1. Table 1. Table 2. Table 3.

Table 4.

CSO FAS FTB ICCI IFI KKO MSA

Religious freedom as a rhetorical act, p. 83 Muslim migration to Finland, p. 248 Number of registered Islamic communities in Finland, p. 254 Pupils of religious education and the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life (ET) in the metropolitan area of Helsinki (2004), p. 354 The number of pupils in the Muslim National School (1990–2002), p. 389 Central Statistics Office, Ireland Foras Áiseanna Saothair; Ireland’s National Training and Employment Authority Finlandiya Türkleri Birligi (the Finnish Turkish Association) The Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland (Dublin) The Islamic Foundation of Ireland (Dublin) Korkein oikeus (Supreme Court, Finland) Muslim Student’s Association, Trinity College Dublin

INTRODUCTION I’m a Muslim. Out on the street I wouldn’t say I’m an Irishman, people might laugh at me. I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying that but I’ve grown up here all my life. It’s [Ireland] my home. (Millar 2005)

With these words, a young man with a Pakistani background encapsulates his somewhat contradictory feelings about being Irish and living in Ireland as a Muslim. For him as a Muslim there is no problem of feeling at home in Ireland, but this perception is not shared by the wider Irish society which, in his view, might easily ridicule his identification with Ireland. Should this be so, being recognised as an Irishman would not be an option for him. Whatever the case may be, these contradictory feelings about living as a Muslim in Ireland are all the more important when these words are read in their context of an article published in the Sunday Times (Ireland) soon after the London bombings in July 2005. In this article, Irish Muslims express their concern for monitoring radicals in their community and ask for help from the Irish police as ‘a necessary security precaution’. (Millar 2005.) With respect to these bombings, the proximity of Britain to the Republic of Ireland excites fears that Muslim radicals would activate also in Ireland where, according to another observer, the majority of the twenty-five thousand Muslims live peacefully. As a precaution, he urges that Ireland should ‘learn from Britain’s mistakes on Muslim community’ and ensure that the Muslims living in Ireland would be properly integrated into society as a whole; Muslims should be convinced that they have a future in this country. (Hennessy 2005.) However, there are also more pessimistic views expressed concerning the threat of the London bombings spreading to Ireland. The Irish journalist Kevin Myers writes: ‘—how can we prevent the same phenomenon sooner or later occurring also here? By compulsory educational assimilation of all immigrants, as has been so successfully achieved in the US? Or by having helpful little signs in Arabic in our schools: suicide-bombing classes this way?’ (Myers 2005.)1 In 1

Here Myers ridicules the recent guidelines for primary schools, published by

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his column, Myers sharply attacks ‘the witless mumbo-jumbo of unprincipled, doctrinaire multiculturalism’, and points out that the ‘honeymoon period of immigration’ in Ireland is over and therefore the Irish ‘had better face reality, because immigrants are here to stay’. Kevin Myers is right, of course: immigrants, and Muslims among them, are in Europe to stay. At present, Islam is the second largest religion in Europe, and the number of Muslims is growing rapidly (see Hunter 2002). However, whether and how immigrants should be ‘integrated’ or ‘assimilated’ to the European wider society is another, highly complicated matter. For some conceivable future, the questions regarding multiculturalism are and remain to be a pressing issue in Western Europe2 when it is trying to come to terms with a growing cultural, ethnic and religious diversity. Admittedly, the history of modern Europe has been intertwined with the history of other continents for centuries, which led to the movement of people out of Europe. The latter half of the twentieth century, however, witnessed a reverse development with the migration of labour mainly from the ex-colonies to Europe. This process of migration to Europe began in the 1960s when Germany recruited guest workers from Turkey, France recruited from the Maghreb, and Britain recruited from the Commonwealth countries, such as India. The first generation of migrants came to Europe, for the most part, in order to earn their living, ‘make their fortunes’, and then return to their home countries. However, the situation changed in the 1970s. During this decade, immigrant communities started to grow as a result of family unification, and gradually migrants began to settle down in their host countries. Consequently, recent decades have witnessed an emergence of the second and third generation of Muslims with immigrant background who do not have immediate experience of their parents’ country of origin. They are born and bred in Europe, of which the above-mentioned young Irish Muslim is a case in point.

the Department of Education and Science in May 2005, which include putting up multilingual signs in schools and ensuring that teachers and pupils can pronounce each other’s names (see Holland 2005; Chapter One: Multiculturalism). 2 This research focuses on Western Europe, and in particular on the countries belonging to the European Union. Hence the references to Europe in this work should be understood to have this meaning, except when mentioned otherwise.

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Muslims, Religious Freedom and a Multicultural Europe New minorities,3 such as Muslims, pose a novel challenge for European countries which have to decide on their policies concerning the incorporation of the migrant population into their societies. As pointed out by Vöcking, European societies have genuinely become multireligious societies, which, however, ‘was neither expected nor desired’ (1999: 11). On the face of this sudden and unwanted change in the religious landscape of Europe, one can only ask what repercussions await when dealing with non-Christian religious communities in Europe. Certainly, there is an apparent tension in Europe between a need to protect one’s borders and, at the same time, to show good will to the newcomers. This tension is well illustrated in the discourse of the European Union. On the one hand, the Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union (2000)4 states that European societies are committed to principles of democracy and human rights, which set the general outline of how their members are treated. In addition to common values, however, the Charter also recognises the inherent diversity that prevails in Europe and articulates respect for different cultures and traditions. In other words, the European Union is committed to reinforcing common values which no doubt are inherent in the spiritual and cultural inheritance of Europe. As against this identification of a common ground there is also a recognition of cultural diversity among Europeans that is taken into consideration. (See Zemni 2002.) However, the Charter does not explicate what the common values are that European peoples allegedly share and who the Europeans sharing these values might be. It cannot go without notice that the imminent concern for the integration of Europe and the consequent rhetoric of common values is often accompanied by the language of crisis and threat that is imposed on Europe by the free movement of people. Migration to or within Europe is often seen as a problem both for the European Union and its member states (see Geddes

3 Here I will use the term ‘minority’ and ‘majority’ simply as a sociological factor referring to bare numbers within a particular country context. (See Chapter One.) 4 Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union, 2000 O.J. (C 364) 1, entered into force 7 December 2000.

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2000). No doubt, the recent threat of terrorism in Europe accentuates an urgent need for effective security policies and would seem to remove, momentarily at least, the questions pertaining to human rights from the international and national agenda. However, it is argued here that, exactly for this reason, one should pay particular attention to the questions as to how minorities are treated in Europe, and to the rights they should have as old or new inhabitants of this continent. In Europe, concern over the national security should by no means gloss over the concern for the rights of different populations. With regard to religion, the fundamental right granted to all Europeans is the freedom of religion or belief.5 It is a pressing issue, in this era, how these rights can be realised with respect to different religious communities in Europe. Internationally, there is no disagreement on the legitimacy of religious freedom as one of the basic human rights. As against this agreement, however, there is very little consensus about its actual content and scope. In itself this is partly due to the difficulty of defining what actually should be included in religion. Thus, freedom of religion or belief remains one of the most controversial rights set out in international human rights treaties (Evans 2001: 1). However, religious freedom has, in recent years, become an object of growing interest. As argued by Jonas Alwall (1998: 14), this no doubt is linked to the fact that religion has newly become a matter of interest in the political arena, but also as a topic of research in the social sciences. As vigorously discussed in recent sociology of religion, religion has become ‘public’ in a way that was not foreseen in the previous decades by scholars committed to the paradigm of secularism (see Casanova 1994; Davie 2000; Hervieu-Léger 2000; Sakaranaho & Pesonen 2002). Consequently, religious freedom is a topical issue in the contemporary world (Alwall 1998: 14), and has even gained new importance in the face of globalization (Bokser-Liwerant 2002: 261). Indeed, when people from different cultural and religious traditions migrate from one place to another and hence engage in intense encounter with one another, it is important to reflect on the concept of religious freedom in the emerging multicultural contexts that range from the global, to national, and finally to local settings. The

5 See the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (1950), Article 9; see also Chapter Two.

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relevance for taking these different contexts into consideration is accentuated also by the fact that they operate as stages of emerging identities and loyalties, which increasingly cross the boundaries between individual and community, civil society and the state, as well as state and religion. As for religion, it is therefore evident that: in the midst of the contradictory trends of globalization and the responses it elicits, religion interacts in unknown and unexpected ways, shaping and reshaping collective identities, claiming a renewed legitimacy in the social and political realms, displayed along local, national, regional and global dimensions, assuming different forms as well as meanings. (Bokser-Liwerant 2002: 261)

In the face of globalization, religion seems to gather new momentum as an important frame of reference for both collective and individual identity (Bokser-Liwerant 2002: 261; Roy 2004). In situations of migration, religion can even gain new meaning and hence grow in significance in the lives of individuals and communities.6 (Ebaugh & Chafetz 2000: 328–330; Sakaranaho et al. 2004; Martikainen 2004a; Stepick 2005.) Consequently, it is necessary to study the role of religion in the process of migration and the subsequent process of integration of immigrants into the wider European societies. However, research on religion and migration is very much in its infancy and hence there is very little theorising yet on how to conceptualise this phenomenon. In a sense, the study of migrant religions, such as Islam, has fallen between academic chairs. Thus, sociologists of migration have long ignored the study of religion in the process of migration, whereas the sociologists of religion, who undoubtedly study religion, have mainly focussed on Christianity. Political scientists for their part have been more responsive to studying Islam in Europe, but their excessive emphasis on religion as an ideological and political matter has, at best, managed to give only one side of the story. Consequently, research on non-Christian religions, such as Islam, as an organised and lived tradition in everyday life of the immigrant communities has been seriously lacking in the migration and multicultural studies. (See Dassetto 1996b: 9; cf. Martikainen 2004a; Stepick 2005.)

6 It is interesting to note that a growing awareness of religion in ‘diaspora’ is also evident in the new edition of a handbook of living religions, edited by John R. Hinnells (1997).

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Migration of Muslims to Europe is illustrative of the effects of recent global developments, when people of different religious backgrounds travel and interact with each other in a manner that could not be foreseen. Admittedly, Muslims, who now live as a visible minority in Western Europe, are a novelty for Europeans. In similar fashion, however, living as a religious minority in Europe is also a new experience for Muslims.7 As pointed out by Jocelyn Cesari, ‘Muslim theology has not yet provided a systematic formulation of the religious implications of minority status’ (2003: 255). Such new bodies as the European Council for Fatwa and Research are only beginning their work in order to provide European Muslims some guidelines in this novel situation. In the process of migration, Muslims have moved from socio-cultural environments, where their religiousness was part and parcel of everyday life, into a society where JudeoChristian tradition prevails in a highly secularised context. In this context the old certainties are no longer functional, which has forced Muslims to reflect on their affiliation to Islam and to ponder on their identification as Muslims. Reinforcing and maintaining one’s religious identity in a minority position involves engagement in explicit measures of constituting and transmitting the core values and practices of one’s tradition. (See Berns McGown 1999.) Moreover, minorities, such as Muslims, have to articulate their needs in a host society in such a way that their demands appear acceptable for the wider society (see Toivanen 2004). In this respect, Muslims are often perceived as constituting a problem and Islam is seen as a particular challenge for the European order of things: Islam . . . is often viewed as a religion which is incompatible with the fundamental principles of European society such as democracy, secularism, human rights and above all religious freedom. (Vöcking 1999: 14; emphasis added.)

In similar fashion to the quotation above, references to Muslims often perpetuate the rhetoric of conflict from one point or another (see Zemni 2002). In itself this rhetoric of conflict can be seen as a ‘European variation’ on a larger debate regarding the incompatibility of Islam and the West (see Lewis B. 1993; Huntington 1996; Kepel

7 In this respect Muslims are very different from Jews, whose history in Europe, but also elsewhere, is marked by the experience of diaspora.

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1997). However, the problem with the discourse of conflict is the assumption that it makes regarding the separateness between Islam and the Judeo-Christian West, which is ‘as false as it is influential’ (Modood 2001; see also Cesari 2003: 269). The main problem in this discourse is that it reduces the rich and long-standing tradition of Islam and over a billion Muslims, who in one way or another identify with Islam, into a militant form of this tradition. This ‘reduction’ would hardly take place in relation to Christianity or Judaism. In similar fashion to these last-named religious traditions, ‘Islam is a diverse religion, not a homogeneous conspiracy’ (Keating 2004). Therefore, instead of conflict, there are those who employ the discourse of dialogue between Islam and the West (Fuller & Lesser 1995; Esposito 1995; see also Gubara 2003). According to this view, a dialogue across countries, faiths and cultures on a personal, local, national and international level is ‘a tall order’ especially after 11 September 2001. In other words, there is a need for bridge-building. (Modood 2001.) With regard to Muslims in Europe, the problem in the rhetoric of conflict is that it lumps together all immigrants and refugees coming from Muslim populated countries irrespective of their social, political, religious, and cultural differences. It thereby produces a totalising portrayal of all immigrant Muslims in Europe as blindly observing the principles of Islam. In the process of this portrayal, Muslims are perceived in terms of a ‘religious paradigm’ and simply ‘religionized’ (Lazreg 1988; Parekh 2000: 198; see also Sakaranaho 1998). This undifferentiated portrayal, in turn, legitimises the view of Islam merely as a threat (Cesari 2003: 252; Zemni 2002). In so doing, it makes one falsely believe that a harmonious cohabitation between Muslims and Europeans would not be possible, and ignores those Muslims who are ‘moderate’ in their religious views and actions. After all, ‘[c]ommon to all negotiations is the silence of voices of moderate Muslims’ (Zolberg & Woon 1999: 37). Consequently, one may ask, how taking into consideration this ‘silent majority’ of Muslims would change the view on the incompatibility between Muslims and European religious freedom. No doubt, this is one of the core questions of this work, dealt with in the forthcoming chapters in relation to the country-specific cases of Ireland and Finland. Thus, instead of asking ‘Do Muslims fit into European societies’—implicitly presuming that they do not (see Cesari 2003: 252)—the aim of this book is to look into the variety of ways

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in which the adaptation of heterogeneous communities of Muslims is conducted in these respective countries. In the light of Finland and Ireland, the aim of this study is to challenge the aforementioned allegation that Islam, and hence Muslims as adherents of Islam, would, inherently, constitute a problem for religious freedom as it is understood and implemented in a multicultural Europe. The Case of Finland and Ireland But why Finland and Ireland? When referring to multiculturalism, or multi-faith character of Western Europe, these two countries would hardly come to mind first. In the Republic of Ireland, the vast majority of the population (circa 90%) is known for its devout Catholicism, and in Finland, which is one of the secularised Nordic countries, the clear majority of the population (circa 85%) is registered as a member of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Finland. In such a majority position it is easy to take one’s religion for granted, unlike in countries which are multireligious and where, therefore, relations between different religious groups need to be negotiated. However, even the outwardly very homogeneous societies of Finland and Ireland have not remained untouched by migration to Europe and subsequent multicultural developments. Until now, Finland and Ireland have mainly sent off emigrants rather than received immigrants. In similar fashion to Italy and Spain, Finland and Ireland operated as reservoirs of labour for other European economies, such as Britain in the case of Ireland and Sweden in the case of Finland. Particularly in Ireland, there has been a ‘well established culture of departure’ since the middle of the nineteenth century (Faughnan and Woods 2000: 5). However, in the 1990s the tide of outgoing migration turned, and both Finland and Ireland are now receiving immigrants and refugees in a manner that neither of these countries would have anticipated some fifteen years ago. For instance, in Finland the number of foreigners grew four times from 26,255 (0,5% of the population) in 1990 to 103, 628 (circa 2% of the population) in 2002, while in Ireland the number of foreign-born residents from countries other than the EU and the United States grew from 26,100 in 1991 to 97,200 in 2002 (Statistics Finland 2003a: 7; CSO 2003: 24). Consequently, the 1990s saw the emergence of a very different Ireland (MacÉinrí 2001), but also that of

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Finland (Lepola 2000). In consequence, both countries are gradually moving away from the homogeneity and old certainties and are rapidly becoming multicultural societies (see Robinson 2001). Thus, Finland and Ireland, in addition to countries in southern Europe, such as Spain and Italy, have joined the ‘new’ immigration countries of Europe (cf. Nonneman 1997: 3). However, the reversal from emigration to immigration took place in Finland and Ireland later than, for instance, in Italy where, according to Allievi (1997: 316), a turning point was attained already in the 1970s and where immigration reached a peak in the 1980s. Understandably enough, neither Finland nor Ireland was prepared for this sudden ‘turbulence of migration’ (see Papastergiadis 2000). Instead, both countries are ‘on a steep policy learning curve’ (Geddes 2000: 9). As a part of the above-mentioned multicultural development, the Muslim populations in Finland and in Ireland have grown rapidly so that, in the beginning of the twenty-first century, there were roughly 30,000 Muslims in both of these countries. Understandably enough, there is still very little research on Muslims living in Finland and Ireland, in comparison to other European countries which, to some extent at least, have already been mapped by research projects and covered in several publications. The Untrodden Field of Inquiry Concerning the Muslim presence in contemporary Europe, there is a new but fast-growing body of literature, which sheds light in particular on the settlement of Muslims in individual European countries (see Nielsen 1995; Dassetto 1996a; Dassetto & Conrad 1996; Maréchal 2002). The research on Muslims in Europe began in the end of 1970s. In its initial state, it was mainly statistical, aiming at creating a census on the Muslim population and counting the numbers of mosques and prayer rooms, which were given in official but often partial sources. The data collection at this stage was rather irregular and unsystematic. In addition, the preliminary studies also concerned the integration of Islam into European state and society. Thus, in France, and to some extent also in Belgium and Holland, the issues concerning the integration of Islam into public institutions of the state have been prominent, whereas in Germany the question of whether Islam is an obstacle in the process of integrating

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Turkish people into German society has been vital. Moreover, in the 1980s such events as the Salman Rushdie affair in Britain and the debate on Islamic headscarfs in France have made it necessary to study the visibility of Islam in European societies, including the portrayal of Islam in the media. In addition, the integration of Islam into European state and society has been studied with regard to law and institutions, of which the former has often concerned family law and the latter education, whether that of state schools or Islamic instructions and institutions. (Dassetto 1996b: 10–12.) All in all, research on the Muslim population in Europe has very much focussed on the establishment of Muslim communities in individual European countries. In addition to bibliographical work (Dassetto & Conrad 1996) and a data base on Muslim populations in Europe (Maréchal 2002), there are at least two seminal works that aim to give a more comprehensive view on Islam in Europe, namely that of Jørgen Nielsen (1995) from the beginning of the 1990s, and that of Felice Dassetto (1996a) from the mid-1990s. In addition to these monographs, there are several collections of articles, which cover Islam in different European countries (Gerholm & Lithman 1988; Nonneman, Niblock & Szajkowski 1997; Vertovec & Peach 1997; Hunter 2002), or Muslims in the West (Haddad 2002; Haddad & Smith 2002).8 In addition to these country-specific collections, however, there are also more thematic and thereby more analytic joint publications on European Islam (Al Sayyad & Castells 2002; Maréchal, Allievi, Dassetto & Nielsen 2003), but also those linking Europe with the Middle East (Esposito & Burgat 2003). In recent research, one can also note a specific interest in the international and transnational networks constituted around Islam (Allievi & Nielsen 2003; see also Roy 2004). Moreover, studies on women in Muslim communities (Amiraux 2001; Roald 2001; Sakaranaho & Jonker 2003), as well as converts (Allievi1998; Allievi & Dasetto 1999) also offer new avenues in this research field. Furthermore, the emergence of second and third generation Muslims in Europe has no doubt made it vital to study different generations of Muslims and a variety of issues pertaining to their integration into European societies ( Jonker & Amiraux, forthcoming). Religious freedom in relation to Muslims in 8 With regard to Haddad & Smith (2002), it is refreshing to read about Muslims in countries which rarely figure in these kinds of work, such as Mexico, Australia, New Zealand, or the Caribbean.

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Europe has been dealt with both from the point of view of Muslims (Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995) and the state (Shadid & van Koningsveld 2002a; see also Smith 2002). The above-mentioned openings notwithstanding, research on Muslims in Europe is still very much in progress and much waits to be done. For instance, a comprehensive history of Islam in Europe, covering different phases from past to present times, has yet to be written. In similar fashion, the lack of such a history is unfortunately evident also in many individual European countries. Moreover, Islam and Muslims on the fringes of Europe are still a very little researched area, even though there are new studies on Muslims in the Southern European countries (see Allievi 1997; del Olmo Vicén 1997, Musselli 2002; Moreras 2002a, 2002b; Soares Loja 2002). Among the Nordic countries, the research on Muslims in Sweden and in Denmark is much ahead of Norway and Finland.9 In Finland, the research on recent immigrant Muslims began as late as the second half of the 1990s, and the first collection of articles with respect to Muslims in Finland was published in 1999 (Sakaranaho & Pesonen 1999; see also Sakaranaho 2003a; Martikainen 2004b). In comparison, however, Muslims have been a topic of scholarly interest far more in Finland than in Ireland, where research in this field is next to nothing (see Ryan 1996). It must be noted that to give a fully comprehensive account of Muslims in Ireland is also out of the scope of this study, which, instead, aims at reflecting and discussing the case of Ireland in relation to that of Finland with regard to Muslim presence in these countries. Thus, the aim of this study is to shed light on the establishment of Muslims in Finland and the Republic of Ireland,10 and, thereby, to provide a gateway to the untrodden field of inquiry regarding Muslims on the northern fringes of Europe. In this respect, this work can be seen as an example of country-specific studies on Muslims in Europe. In addition, however, this research will also employ a particular point of view by perceiving Muslims in Finland and Ireland in relation to issues For Islam in the Nordic countries, see Svensk religionshistorisk årsskrift 2004. In the following, I will simply refer to Ireland meaning Éire, the Republic of Ireland. Admittedly, the history of Southern Ireland is closely tied up with the six counties of Northern Ireland. However, the situation in the North will not be covered here. With regard to Northern Ireland, on the conflicts, see Ruane and Todd 1996, on multiculturalism, see Longley 2001, on human rights, see Livingstone 2001, and, on Muslims, see Ryan 1996. 9

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concerning religious freedom in multicultural settings. Moreover, in studying Finland and Ireland together a new method has been developed entitled cross-reading, i.e. studying a case in the light of another (see Chapter Two). Themes and Issues This book consists of three parts: the first part discusses religious freedom and multiculturalism from a conceptual point of view and mainly within the context of Western Europe, culminating in the cases of Finland and Ireland; the second part deals with the establishment of Muslim communities in Europe, in general, and in Finland and Ireland in particular; and the third part concerns Islam and education. Chapter One outlines the general framework of this study. It opens with a timely discussion on religion in the public sphere of contemporary societies, and the necessity, in sociology of religion, to reflect on the conceptualisation of religion in a secularising and pluralising West. With respect to the theoretical discussion, this chapter briefly outlines the main lines of thought, employed in this work, with respect to religions, such as Islam and Christianity. In sum, this study probes into the question as to how religious memory is constituted, preserved and transmitted in a secularising and pluralising Europe. In order to put this question into context, this chapter briefly discusses the religious landscape of Europe, as well as those of Finland and Ireland, all of which to a growing extent are characterised by diversity. Religious diversity, undoubtedly, as a matter pertaining to multiculturalism, will be conceptualised thereafter. It will be obvious throughout this book that the growing awareness regarding the significance of religion in a secularised West is closely intertwined with the awareness of growing multiculturalism in Europe and its repercussions for the policies of European states in respect of immigration and minorities in particular. More often than not, a national history is interpreted from the majority point of view, which usually is reified to such an extent that it is taken for granted. The minority viewpoints, if such were available, very reluctantly get a public platform.11 Admittedly, the situation is changing 11

Undoubtedly, it would be an interesting project to read the history of different

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somewhat with a growing awareness of multiculturalism and the consequent need to recognise diversity and combat discrimination. Consequently, minority viewpoints are sought for and there is an attempt to incorporate them into new policies of a state. But how this incorporation should be done, and on whose terms, are some thorny questions pertaining to a multicultural society gradually taking shape in Europe. Therefore, it will also be argued in this work that multiculturalism should not be perceived only as a matter pertaining to immigrant and minority issues, but should also be perceived in connection with monocultural, ‘nationalistic’ trends, which are apparent, for instance, in Finland and Ireland in the ongoing discussions on the meanings of ‘Finnishness’ or ‘Irishness’. Because of the interplay of mono- and multiculturalism, moreover, it will be argued that multiculturalism should always be seen in different national contexts in which the policies and limits of multiculturalism become drawn in different ways. As an example, the general discussion on multiculturalism is exemplified with the cases of Finland and Ireland. Chapter Two looks into the intricacies of conceptualising religious freedom in the global, national and local contexts. Growing multiculturalism and multireligiosity forces the international and national communities to find some sort of minimum criteria for religious freedom. The international communities work towards this end by drafting human rights instruments, of which the United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) is undoubtedly the founding one. The states, in turn, deal with religious freedom in their national law and legislation. In most cases the national law regarding religious freedom reflects the general principles outlined in the international instruments of human rights. Due to different historical developments, nonetheless, national variations prevail, for instance, in the relationship between the state and church, as well as in the position of different religious communities, exemplified in this work with respect to Finland and Ireland. Moreover, in Europe, one can picture the Council of Europe as a sort of a middle-man, articulating the international norms concerning human rights and religious

European countries from the point of view of different minorities residing in these countries. Most likely such a project would produce different, but perhaps also conflicting, interpretations of the same events. In general, this sort of a project would of course be similar to the rereading of history from the women’s point of view, or from that of colonised people.

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freedom in light of the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (1950). In addition, the European Union has developed its own instruments of human rights, and particularly the new constitution under way will no doubt explicate the general understanding of religious freedom in Europe. In this study, the international agreements of human rights with particular articles on religious freedom are looked at specifically with Muslims in mind and, hence, in light of the question as to what the general principles they would be seen to lay down with respect to the religious rights of Muslims in Europe. In general, one can roughly opt for two different conceptual lenses in order to study human rights. First, one can focus on the legal aspects of human rights and, hence, scrutinise agreements and applications of the human rights within national and international systems. Second, one can complement the legal perspective by placing human rights into a social context and thus inquire how the theory and practice of human rights interact or contradict with one another. Often the latter inquiry reveals serious omissions and problems in the application of human rights standards. In addition, social inquiry can reveal the necessity for creating new human rights to complement the old ones. (See Varis 1987: 13.) It is obvious that, due to its sociological nature, this work gives precedence to the social perspective at the cost of the legal one. Moreover, the presentation on the instruments of religious freedom and the discussions that went on in the process of drafting these instruments does not in any way claim to be comprehensive. Instead, the aim of the discussion in Chapter Two is rather focussed on the topics in these instruments and discussions which have a bearing on the study at hand concerning Muslims and religious freedom in a multicultural European society, and more specifically that of Finland and Ireland. Chapters Three and Four deal with the development of religious freedom in Finland and Ireland and the respective national legislation, which sets the general framework for the rights of religious communities in these countries. One of the basic needs of a religious community is to establish a sufficient religious infrastructure for the practice of religion, for the socialisation of children, and for the religious education of its members. However, these measures are matters of public concern and hence entail at least some sort of visibility. Moreover, neither the establishment of infrastructure nor education of members can be accomplished without the intervention of

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a host society. With regard to religious freedom, it is here that one can see a critical point which, however, can be dealt with differently, as the case of Finland and Ireland readily illustrates. The second part, consisting of Chapters Five, Six and Seven, inquires how Muslims in Europe have organised themselves as a religious community. With respect to this sort of institutional adaptation, it must be noted that it easily involves different meanings for the host society and for Muslims, respectively. Thus, for the host society the main question is how far Muslims, as newcomers or as an established minority, are prepared to follow the rules, norms, and values prevalent in a wider society. For the Muslims, the main issue is how well they can function as a religious minority and, notwithstanding this minority position, to what extent they are accepted as fully fledged members of the wider society. A quick glance at Finland and Ireland readily reveals that minorities in these respective countries can have a very different status in society. Therefore, it is important to study, with respect to Muslims, how different structural factors affect their vitality as a religious community. An interesting question with regard to the institutional adaptations of Muslim communities in Europe undoubtedly concerns the organisational forms that they take. Fitting into a society, which is distinctively marked by the presence of Christian churches, it has been argued that Muslim communities attempt to imitate the congregational model, with a church-like structure and a priest-like leadership, characteristic of Christianity. According to recent research in the United States, this kind of adaptation is actually taking place among immigrant religions there (see Ebaugh & Chafetz 2000; cf. Stepick 2005). Accordingly, it is further argued that in Western countries imams ‘are invested with greater authority and assume a much greater range of responsibilities than they do in Muslim countries’ and hence, as representatives of their ‘congregation’, they tend to function in roles which are similar to those of ordained priests (Naguib 2002: 165). However, this argument, largely based on the experiences of the United States, can be challenged from two points of view. First, in the light of research on Islam in Europe, one faces serious difficulties in making a straightforward comparison between Christian congregations and Muslim mosque communities due to their basic differences in the mode of organisation—unless one would simply argue that setting up multifunctional Islamic cultural centres is a sign of adaptation to some sort of a congregational model in Europe. Second,

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with respect to Islam outside Europe, it has been noted that in the connection with Islamic movements in Muslim populated countries the mosques tend to take up social functions, such as education and health-care, in addition to religious ones. Thus, conjoined with a mosque there are clinics, libraries and educational centres catering for the needs of a community. Moreover, in some countries, such as Saudi Arabia or the Gulf states, imams are hired to work as fulltime employees in a mosque in order to help a community solve its problems. (IntI 03:1.) These examples give a reason to question whether constituting Islamic cultural centres is a result of Christian influence, or rather a course of events taking place within Islam as such. This said, it is obvious that Christian institutional structures are so powerful as to constitute, explicitly or implicitly, a normative model for the organisation of a religious community in Europe. Christian churches, moreover, are well fitted into the system of representational democracy in modern European states, and it is within this system that religious communities—whether those in the majority or minority—become recognised. Thus, in similar fashion to other religious communities, Muslims are compelled to create, in one form or another, representational structures in order to be recognised within the wider European society. Finally, the third part of this book addresses the question as to how Islam has been dealt with in the European school education in general, and in that of Finland and in Ireland in particular. Thus, Chapters Eight, Nine and Ten look into the institutional facilities to transmit Islam from one generation to another, and study Muslim responses to these facilities. It is fairly easy, even in a minority position, to maintain religious traditions and values among the first generation, but to transfer these traditions and values to the next generation is one of the hardest challenges faced by contemporary Muslim communities in Europe (IntI 03:1; see also Alitolppa-Niitamo 2004a: 53). Therefore it is not surprising that socialising children in cultural and religious values of Islam was one of the fundamental incentives for starting mosques in Europe (Vertovec and Peach 1997: 22; see also Chapter Five). However, in addition to the Muslim efforts to create institutional facilities for Islamic education, one can turn a gaze to the wider society and inquire how European countries have responded to this issue, particularly, as a part of formal education, being one of the main duties of the state. After all, the educational arrangements in European democracies should be equal

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for all members of society. (Cf. Alitolppa-Niitamo 2004a: 61; 2002: 275.) For Muslims, there are three main options available with respect to school education of Islam in Europe, namely, setting up a private Islamic school, having Islamic schools supported by the state, or receiving Islamic instruction as a part of school curriculum in state-supported schools (Maréchal 2003b: 34). It has been noted that, in general, most European countries do not yet provide for the teaching of Islam, in any proper sense (Maréchal 2003b: 22). However, in Finland and Ireland, religious education has been recognised as a fundamental right of Muslims—even if within different educational systems. As will be discussed in more detail in Chapters Nine and Ten, in Ireland education is organised along ‘denominational’ lines, while in Finland schools are non-denominational but have faithspecific religious education as a part of their curriculum. Thus, in both of these countries there are legal and institutional structures, which support the religious education of Muslim children and youth. With regard to these countries, one can readily agree with the observation that the entry of Muslims into the institutional field has taken place rather smoothly, both with respect to setting up mosques and organising education in line with Islam (Dassetto 1996a: 312; Maréchal 2003b: 35). These successful ‘institutional beginnings’ notwithstanding, an inquiry into the grass-roots level of schools in Finland and Ireland reveals a considerable amount of practical difficulties faced by both Muslims and administrators of these respective countries. However, as a general framework for Finland and Ireland, Chapter Eight gives a short overview on different arrangements of religious education in Europe. Particularly within a secular state system of education, it is necessary to take a closer look at how confessional or non-confessional religious education is understood. This, in turn, is tightly linked to the role of religion—whether that of Christianity or other religious traditions—within the secular public sphere of a society. As the country examples of Europe readily reveal, the confessional and non-confessional religious education, interestingly enough, can be justified both with reference to positive and negative freedom of religion. This, in turn, has a direct bearing for the arrangements of teaching Islam in state-supported schools, but also has an indirect bearing on starting Islamic schools. With respect to religious education in general, Grace Davie maintains that ‘a persistent set of confusions lies in the attempts to articulate

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the relationship between the teaching of religious education and the acknowledgment of (1) universal or human rights, (2) distinctly European values, and (3) national identities’ (2000: 95). Indeed, these are the main threads woven into the debates about religious education, at least on the part of the wider society. Paradoxically enough, growing awareness of multiculturalism in Europe seems to coincide with strengthening a hold on Christian tradition as the main cornerstone of national culture (Davie 2000: 95). To what extent this ‘monocultural’ development, in spite of recent multicultural policies, is evident also in Finland and Ireland, is one of the main points of interest for this study.

CHAPTER ONE

RELIGION AND MULTICULTURALISM Fragmentations The religious field of Europe is becoming increasingly fragmented: ‘Religion is drifting, loosened from its traditional points of anchorage’ (Nesti 2002: 325). Undoubtedly, two parallel processes work to this effect, namely secularisation and pluralisation. In the consequent process of fragmentation, religious institutions are losing their significance as a focus of spirituality and ‘religion is becoming increasingly peripheral within contemporary European society’ (Davie 2000, 7). Moreover, it is no longer appropriate to talk about European religion in the singular, meaning Christianity, but instead one should refer to religions in Europe, thereby acknowledging that Europe has become a multi-faith and hence multicultural continent. However, it is the secular and plural European societies to which new religious minorities, such as Muslims, are endeavouring to enter. It is as if these newcomers would try to catch a moving train, to utilise a telling metaphor (see Forsander 2002: 35). One can argue that Muslims, as recent immigrants to Europe, on the one hand, further the general religious pluralisation of this continent. On the other hand, however, Muslims seek to establish what could be called European Islam and thereby strengthen the role of religion in this continent. The process of rooting Islam in Europe, therefore, offers a timely example of religion both as a public activity and a private faith and hence of the dynamism between visibility and invisibility of a religious tradition in a pluralising West. However, before going into detail on the questions pertaining to Muslims in Europe, it is necessary to explicate the understanding of this research regarding religion in general and Islam in particular. Moreover, in order to place Finland and Ireland on the religious map of Europe, it is useful to take a brief look at the recent considerations on religion with respect to social change. After all, one of the most crucial issues in recent sociology of religion concerns the effects of secularisation and globalization on religious traditions. With

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respect to sociological reflections on these processes, studying individual countries, such as Finland and Ireland, poses important methodological questions concerning the ability of universal theories to explain national cases. In any event, there is a constant tension between theory and empiria, as noted below. This, of course, concerns also the conceptualisation of multiculturalism, which will be dealt with in the second half of this chapter. Religion Reconsidered Christian Europe Religion is a fundamental element in most cultures so that there is ‘the enduring quality peculiar to religions’ (Rémond 1999: 7). Religions, as an ‘authorized memory’, outlive their founders and changes in the circumstances of their origin (see Hervieu-Léger 2000). From a historical point of view, one may argue that Europe is Christian because of its spiritual inheritance, which in addition to Greek reason and Roman justice, consists of Christian faith. (See Mikkeli 1998.) As Davie (2000: 5) points out, the religious strand in this combination is ‘self-evident’. Of all the continents, Europe is unique in the sense that it was totally Christianised (Rémond 1999: 18). In the contemporary celebration of secularisation, it is often forgotten that religion held an eminent position everywhere in Europe until the recent past. Hence religion, or Christianity, to be more precise, was an intrinsic part of the general history in Europe and also of European identity. It is therefore easy to agree with René Rémond who argues that ‘Not to take account of religion would be to prevent oneself from understanding a fundamental part of people’s preoccupations, reactions and behaviour’ (1999: 7). By and large, the basic values promoted in Europe arise from this cultural heritage and are marked by the Christian ethos, at least in a broad sense. Nobody would argue against the historical inheritance of Christianity in Europe. However, more to the point the question remains whether contemporary Western Europe can be characterised as Christian. In answer to this question one can look at the quantitative data with general figures on religious adherence in Europe (see Davie 2000: 6). A vast majority (76,7% in 2002) of Europeans, in one way or another, still identify themselves as Christians. Christianity in Europe,

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however, is far from being a unitary whole. During its history of two thousand years Christianity has been divided into several churches and denominations, which follow different doctrines and practices. An often used metaphor of Christianity is a trunk of a tree that has three main branches, namely Roman Catholicism, Orthodoxy, and Protestantism (see Walls 1997: 78). As is well known, the first divide within Christianity took place between Roman Catholicism and Greek Orthodoxy in 1054, and the second one came about in the sixteenth century between Roman Catholicism and Protestantism. Consequently, Christians were first divided into Eastern and Western Christians, and, second, Western Christians were divided into Roman Catholics and Protestants. When the main break-up of Christian Europe was completed, there were ‘several religious Europes, fighting one another with the ferocity inspired by the certainty of being the sole custodians of the truth’ (Rémond 1999: 19–20). Henceforth the fragmentation of Christianity continued within Protestantism so that very soon there emerged several denominations, of which the Anglican and Lutheran Churches are most prominent in Northern Europe. In addition, there are several smaller congregations broadly within Protestantism, such as Calvinists, Methodists, Presbyterians, and Adventists. (Walls 1997; Rémond 1999; Davie 2000.) With regard to their location in Europe, the Eastern European countries, namely Romania, Bulgaria, and most of European Russia, are mainly Orthodox, whereas Catholicism prevails in the central European countries, such as Poland, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, and former East Germany; likewise in the Southern European countries, namely Italy, Spain, and Portugal; as well as in Western European countries, namely France, Belgium, and Ireland. Among the Southern European countries, Greece is an exception since the majority of Greeks are Orthodox. Protestants are scattered around Europe with the exception of Britain, which is mainly an Anglican country, whereas Lutherans inhabit the former Western Germany and are a clear majority in the Nordic countries, namely Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, and Iceland.1

1 Rémond (1999: 20–24) refers to the first Europe as that of Catholicism, the second Europe as that of the Reformation, and the third Europe as that of Orthodoxy. Historically this order is not correct of course.

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In respect of church members, the Roman Catholic Church claims by far the largest numbers of followers in the world, and also constitutes the majority of Christians in Europe (39, 1%), with the exception of the Nordic countries of course. The Orthodox constitute the second largest church (21, 8%), and the Protestants that of the third (10,6%). The number of Lutherans (4,9%) is slightly more than that of Anglicans (3,7%).2 Historically, Eastern and Western Christianity have developed under very different social circumstances. Western Europe has undergone the Renaissance, the Reformation, the Enlightenment, and Romanticism, which have also moulded Christianity in this area. In recent centuries, industrialisation and urbanisation have rapidly modernised the Western European societies, which has also resulted in a growing secularisation. However, in Eastern Europe the reign of Communism and its collapse has left these countries in a state of turmoil. This is not helped by the religious and ethnic diversity that is characteristic of this area. In addition to difference in numbers and locations, the three major churches have also opted for different policies in their relation to the state. It has been argued that the Catholic Church in Europe has generally supported the prevailing state and government, while, to a large extent, it has kept its independence, whereas the Orthodox Church has for the most part submitted to the state authority. Moreover, The Lutheran Church, on its behalf, has been said to seek out compromise with the state, which is evident in the Nordic system of state-church. These outlines of the relations between church and state are naturally crude generalizations and need to be refined against historical, political, and social factors, which in each European country vary significantly. Finland and Ireland, that are the focus here, are illustrative examples of this. Changed research landscape Irrespective of the Christian inheritance, one can easily agree with those who argue that Europe is becoming more and more secular. 2 For the statistics of different religious groups in Europe (Russia included), see ‘Religion.’ Britannica Book of the Year, 2003, in Encyclopaedia Britannica Online, http://search.eb.com/eb/article-9389861, and for the Lutherans, see World Information. The Lutheran World Federation Statistics, 2003, http://www.lutheranworld. org/LWF_Documents/LWF-Statistics-01–2003.pdf. [Accessed October 14, 2005.]

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In fact one can go even further than this and look at the secularisation process as a particularly European phenomenon and hence something that is central to the identification of being a European (see Davie 2000: 1). Following this line of thought, one could turn secularisation theories into conceptual lenses through which one would try to understand, not the global religiosity in general as secularisation theories often claim to do, but rather the changing religiosity of Europe, and Western Europe to be more precise. Consequently, one would not need to argue the universality of the secularisation process but, instead, justifiably limit the focus on the continent from where these theories originated. In other words, one would close the hermeneutic circle and critically re-read these theories against the empirical evidence that is available in contemporary European societies. In fact, this process of re-reading is very much evident in recent sociology of religion, which views secularisation theories with a cautious and critical eye. As noted by the French sociologist of religion, Danièle Hervieu-Léger (2000: 1), ‘the entire research landscape is astonishingly changed’. The consequent reappraisal has been justified on the grounds of recent developments that have brought forth, since the 1970s, religions as publicly active and visible socio-political actors which question the autonomy of secular powers invested in a state, political organisations, and the market economy. The frequently cited examples of ‘public religions’ include the rise of liberation theology in Latin America and Africa, the strengthening of the New Christian Right in the United States, and the resurgence of Islamic movements in the Muslim world, as well as the proliferation of ‘new religious movements’ in Europe and the United States. Thus, religions in contemporary times, on the one hand, play an important part in a struggle for liberation, justice, and democracy throughout the word, but on the other hand, there are several political and ethnic conflicts in different parts of the world that find, in one way or another, their motivation in religion. (See Casanova 1994: 3; Haynes 1998: 1; cf. Bruce 2001: 89–92.) Consequently, alternative readings with new theoretical concepts have been proposed, such as ‘deprivatization’ and ‘public religion’ by José Casanova (1994), as ‘desecularization’ by Peter Berger (1999), or religion as an ‘authorized memory’ by Danièle Hervieu-Legér (2000; see also Davie 2000). What is common to these theorists is a reevaluation of the significance of religion in the contemporary world, Europe included. As a result of this reevaluation it has been

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pointed out that the former theories of secularisation do not entirely hold water. Instead, religions have stepped into the public arena with new force, and in the process of this their political and social significance has remarkably grown. As pointed out by Karel Dobbelaere (1989: 37), who advocates secularisation as a multidimensional concept: ‘Secularisation is not a mechanical process, and it allows for religious groups to react’. As a critical voice against the celebration of public religion, however, Steve Bruce (2001: 92) draws attention to some ‘thoroughly secular settings’, such as Germany, Britain, the Netherlands, and Denmark, and maintains that one cannot think of any major reversals concerning religion in these countries. No doubt but the Nordic countries, such as Finland, proves his point, and even Ireland, which until recently has been known for its devout Catholicism, seems to follow suit at a rapid pace. Concerning these differing views, an interesting question arises concerning the interaction between sociological theorising and societies as an empirical world in which these theories are tested. Is it so, one may ask, that the changes in the role of religion in the social landscape has forced the sociologists of religion to reverse their theorising, or, are the sociologists simply imposing new theories of religion on the social landscape? Another question that is relevant when studying different readings of the religious scene in Europe or elsewhere, concerns the ‘motivation’ inherent in different strands of analysis in sociology of religion (see Hervieu-Léger 2000). Without going into the personal views represented by different researchers of each other, à la Bruce of Berger (2001), one can, all the same, reflect on the aspirations that might be implicit in different interpretations. Thus, even if agreeing with the recommendation that one should not confuse ‘the evaluative and the analytic’ but instead make a distinction between secularisation as an empirically testable process and secularism as an ideology (see Hornsby-Smith and Whelan 1994: 9), the question remains as to where to draw the line between these two interests. Following the line of reasoning by Kenneth Burke (1966: 50), one could look at the terminology of ‘secularisation’ etc., not as mere explanations but rather as ideals and hence as ‘terms of endearment, matters to be pursued both as explanations and as goals’ (Gusfield 1989: 35–36). As an example of fairly persistent ‘endearment’ in sociology, one can mention theorists who welcome modernisation as a process that

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makes societies alike economically, structurally, but also culturally, to such an extent that local peculiarities converge with each other and gradually give rise to some sort of ‘world culture’ (see Tovey and Share 2000: 287). Put in ideological terms, these theorists foresee a shift from nationalism to globalism as an inevitable, but also as a recommendable course of events. However, concerning the ‘endearments’ of the sociology of religion, it should be possible, in the age of ‘reflexivity’ to develop a perspective that is neither religiously nor secularly orientated but, instead, is founded on a critical questioning of all ‘faiths’ (cf. Whelan 1994: 5). Another strategy, proposed by Dobbelare (2000), is to see secularisation, not as a predictive but simply as a descriptive hypothesis (see Bokser-Liwerant 2002: 261). Or in the words of Bruce for whom the secularisation approach ‘was an historical explanation of specific changes in the religious climate of particular societies’ (2001: 95). In general, the goal of sociological analysis is paradoxical in the sense that its aim is to reduce complexities in the developments of contemporary societies into clarities, in order to understand those very same complexities (see Burke 1966: 50). It is here that lies the main contention between different sociological theories concerning their ability, on the one hand, to make viable generalisations, and on the other hand, to address variations and, in particular, national differences. For instance, with regard to Ireland, it has been argued that ‘the specificities of Irish experience are not always easily subsumed into dominant sociological interpretations’ (Tovey and Share 2000: 283), and, therefore, ‘history must carry at least as great a weight as theory’ (Goldthorpe 1992: 414; Whelan 1994: 5). As for history, it is inseparably intertwined with time, place, and particular social actors, whereby going into the events that constitute history reveals distinctive features in the developments of a particular country. The worry expressed, for instance, in relation to Ireland by Irish sociologists concerns exactly the danger that national characteristics would be buried under an overall and homogenizing theory. One should, therefore, avoid the ‘temptation to impose a homogenising interpretative scheme’ upon different historical realities, which is reasonable, of course, because case studies are bound to transcend the theoretical and analytical framework used as an explanatory tool in research (Casanova 1994: 217). Within this line of thought, José Casanova views sociology

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chapter one as a source of theoretical concepts and analytical tools for comparative historical interpretation of social reality and for the collective selfunderstanding of the present. The aim of sociology is to understand ourselves—that is, the historical actors and the practical contexts of individual and collective action—better. (Casanova 1994: 218)

In this process of understanding, one possible stance is that of ‘scepticism’ when interpreting a national case in the light of general theories of societal development, as expressed by Christopher Whelan (1994: 4), or that of ‘empirical agnosticism’ proposed by Michael Hornsby-Smith (1994: 266). Both of these sociologists seem to agree with Dobbelaere, in that ‘we should be ready to falsify our theories on the basis of new empirical material’ (1989: 28). In other words, national studies can function as important test cases for sociological theories, which pursue the conceptualisation of general strands of social change. In itself this ‘testing’ could be called cross-reading, which is not so much a stance as it is simply a method of reading that can bring to light critical information that enables further theorymaking. (See Chapter Two.) In his conclusion to the European Value Study, Christopher Whelan maintains that the only hypothesis that remains plausible for the whole of Europe is that individual value systems in modern society tend to be fragmented. Fragmentation, on the other hand, ‘is likely to be rooted in the structure of particular societies, and [therefore] what is required is an examination of the manner in which countryspecific factors interact with the globalization of values through mobility and mass media’. In a process of studying national case studies, it is then possible to constitute ‘empirically founded partial theories’. (Whelan 1994: 6.) In rhetorical terms, these ‘partial theories’, in turn, can operate as conceptual lenses in order to evaluate generalisations concerning, for instance, religiosity in Western Europe. In the end, unique national experiences ‘have universal dimensions that may be illuminated by a broader sociological vision’ (Tovey and Share 2000: 283). Whether one focuses on partial or general theories concerning social change, the recent discussion in sociology of religion on the growing significance of religion in public is important because it pays attention to the distinctive role of religion in the contemporary world. Where else if not in sociology of religion could we wish for the emergence of new conceptual lenses that challenge the naturalisation of prevalent theories, such as those of modernisation or secularisation?

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In order to deconstruct the reification of these theories, it is important to produce alternative viewpoints, and it is here that lies the innovative value of the work by sociologists of religion, such as the above-mentioned Casanova or Hervieu-Léger. The value of these new theories, one can argue, is twofold. Not only do these new entries in sociology of religion add to our understanding of the social changes but, in so doing, they also provide a basis on upon which to justify a challenge to our existing understanding of the role of religion within the contemporary social order. As will be discussed below, there is a critical potential inherent in the new theories that challenge persisting views on religion in public. This challenge for a prevalent understanding concerning the social order in European societies is particularly relevant, not only when discussing the secularisation of European societies, but also when dealing with multicultural issues and, in particular, the position of religious minorities, such as Muslims, in Europe. All in all, the idea of religious memory nicely illuminates both the concern for the continuation of Christianity, as well as that of rooting Islam, as a religious tradition in Europe (see Hervieu-Léger 2000; Davie 2000). The continuity of religious memory As comprehensive meaning systems, historical religions such as Christianity and Islam, have been, and still are, used as a source of explanation of social reality, telling how things are, but also as an explanation for the social reality, stating how things should be. To employ the terminology of Clifford Geertz (1993: 93), religious traditions operate both as a ‘model of ’ and as a ‘model for’ social order. In so doing, moreover, religious traditions are used as a powerful frame of reference for legitimation when a justification is sought for social actions and practises. These legitimations give explanations for such questions as why things are, or should be, the way they are, or why things should be done in a certain way. In sum, religions operate as descriptive and normative meaning systems which legitimise a social order for a group. (Berger 1967: 29ff.; McGuire 1992: 27–9). It must be noted, nonetheless, that even if religious traditions would operate as comprehensive meaning systems they are not systems in the sense that they would be clear-cut, observable entities. Neither do religions, in this age of individualisation, carry authority as a unifying matrix for belief and behaviour, as they might once have done.

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On the contrary, religious traditions are being constituted anew in the constant process of signification, which highlights one side of the religious tradition and disregards another. In other words, religious traditions are socially sustained, reproduced and transmitted.3 With respect to these processes, one can identify similarities in the cause of Islam and Christianity in so far as they are constituted as religious traditions in contemporary Europe. From the sociological point of view, one can understand both the effort of, for instance, the Catholic Church to preserve its moral vision in spite of changes in today’s world and the aspiration of Muslims to constitute an Islamic moral order in Europe, as a way to manage religious memory in an increasingly diversified world. Moreover, the ‘management of truth’ has become a challenge for historical religions, such as Christianity and Islam, for the simple reason that their authority is no longer taken for granted (in Europe) in a religious field with an ever increasing number of competitors. The main worry concerning Christianity in contemporary Europe is the gradual extinction of Christian tradition from the collective memory of Europeans. As the discussion on secularisation readily illustrates, expressions of believing are less and less characteristic of the European mode of life, whereby the chains of religious memory are weakening because of growing ignorance in religious matters, but also due to the lack of religious specialists. For instance, the latter is acutely felt in Ireland where, during recent decades, the numbers of religious personnel in the Catholic Church have dropped drastically. In consequence, Christian sources as an authorised version of religious memory are not known so widely any more and neither do they function as main points of reference when values, beliefs, and actions are discussed and evaluated. Regarding Christianity in contemporary Europe, we are therefore witnessing serious discontinuities in the chains of religious memory, which might vary from one country to another but, nonetheless, are characteristic of religiosity in Europe. In itself, this might explain why Christian churches, on the one hand, adamantly aim at reinforcing their status as public actors on the prevailing social order created, for instance,

3 Therefore, the main question here does not concern what Islam really is, but rather concerns what the meanings that Islam, along different lines of reasoning, becomes invested with. The same, of course, concerns Christianity as well.

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by the European Union, and, on the other hand, find new religious groupings, regardless of their small size, as a threat. Christianity, especially in the form of institutional memory, is in a precarious situation. (See Hervieu-Léger 2000: 113; Davie 2000.) Even if in a different manner, the fight for survival is also acute for those religious traditions which aim at rooting themselves in Europe, such as Islam. Drastic measures such as genocide notwithstanding, one can hardly imagine a disruption in religious memory more total then that caused by migration. In the process of migration, one leaves behind a social setting in which life lived in a certain way is marked by certainties which are, to a large extent, commonly shared. However, living as a newcomer in an unfamiliar society leads to a situation in which almost nothing can be taken for granted. Indeed, it is a hard and often painful learning process to adapt oneself to a new social and cultural milieu. In consequence, facing the new experience of living in a minority position encourages, or even forces one, to actively reflect on the religious tradition that one was brought up in but which, in the new environment, is alien and unknown. In a sense, it therefore does not come as a surprise that such reflection might result in opting for a more active religious identity in ‘diaspora’ than ‘at home’ (see Ebaugh and Chafetz 2000: 328–330). After all, when everything in the environment is changing, religion as a point of reference can offer a source of continuity even if it would be interpreted in a novel fashion in the process of adaptation to a new society. In addition to this reinforcement of an individual chain of religious memory in ‘diaspora’, the establishment of religious communities, and hence creating some continuity in the institutional memory of a religious tradition, requires work and effort, as the discussion on rooting Islam in Europe in Chapter Five readily illustrates. Moreover, in European societies, the administrative culture might force the creation of new institutional forms for the expression of faith, which might not have been necessary in the country of origin. For instance, the necessity for Muslims to organise as registered religious communities in Finland but as beneficiary societies in Ireland, dealt with in Chapters Six and Seven, nicely illustrate this point. As a religion, Islam, in spite of some basic differences, features a strong resemblance to Christianity, in the sense that it is more or less an organised religion that is fundamentally based on scriptural tradition. Moreover, Islamic rituals are to a great extent centred on

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mosques as a particular place of worship, and there are also religious specialists in Islam, even if their authority, unlike that of the Christian clergy, would be achieved rather than ascribed. (See Dassetto 1999.) In the European context, these resemblances are important from the point of view of religious freedom. Because of these resemblances, Islam is readily accepted as a religion in Europe and hence Muslims do not need to justify their beliefs and practises as religious, as do some other new religious groupings in Europe. (See Chapter Two.) Moreover, both of these religious traditions entail private and public religiosity, which get precedence depending on time, context, or social actor. Therefore, it is important to take into consideration the particular arrangement that prevails in a state and society concerning the role of religion in the public sphere. To sum up, one may conclude with respect to the continuity of religious memory that, in order to materialise religious freedom in a society, it is necessary for religious communities to live in such circumstances which enable them to constitute, preserve, and transmit their particular religious tradition, whether within one generation, or from one generation to the next. Therefore, the viability of a religious community requires for the transmission of its tradition sufficient institutional and educational facilities, provided by the state. For a religious minority, in particular, religious freedom, understood as a continuation of religious memory, is a question of survival (cf. Alwall 1998: 11). Religious Landscapes of Finland and Ireland Outlining religious affiliations The (re)enforcement of religious memory is, of necessity, intertwined with the historical development of a society and regulated by the state legislation governing that society. The development and legislation of religious freedom in Finland and Ireland will be dealt with in Chapters Three and Four, which offer a historical background for the contemporary religious landscape of these countries respectively. Therefore, this chapter will simply outline in a concise manner the contemporary situation with respect to the different religious communities of Finland and Ireland. In general, Finland and Ireland are very similar in the sense that their religious landscape is dominated by one, even if different, Christian Church, and, consequently, the other religious communi-

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ties are rather small in comparison. With respect to numbers, however, the statistics concerning religious adherence in these countries are produced very differently. In Ireland, the numbers of religious communities are collected individually by a Census of Population and its results published by the Central Statistics Office, Dublin (CSO). (See Courtney 1995; Tovey & Share 2000: 25 ff.) The 2002 Census form lists the following religions: Roman Catholic, Church of Ireland (Anglican), Presbyterian, Methodist, and Islam. Where none of these is appropriate, one is asked to specify one’s religion, or choose the option of ‘no religion’. (CSO 2003: Appendix 1.) In the census figures, the religious affiliations other than those listed above are lumped together as ‘other stated religions’, and, therefore, there is no breakdown of figures with respect to this group. The ‘other stated religions’ are simply listed in Table 33 of the Principle Demographic Results (CSO 2003: 82). In Finland, information concerning religious adherence is not collected individually but from religious communities, which are obliged to keep a record of their members and to inform the National Patent and Register Board of any changes in their population. It is only after Finnish independence (1917) that all religious communities in Finland had a right to be registered officially (see Chapter Three). These different modes of collecting information regarding religion have a decisive practical consequence when trying to determine the exact number of religious minorities in these respective countries. Particularly with respect to Muslims, the Finnish system is non-functional because Muslims very reluctantly acquire a membership in any of the Islamic communities officially registered in Finland. Therefore, the number of Muslims in the Finnish statistics constitutes only some ten percent of the Muslim population in the country as a whole (see Chapter Six). The Irish Census, relying on individual identification, possibly gives a more reliable picture of the Muslim population in the country (see Chapter Seven). However, the problem concerning the Irish system is to get everyone to specify their religious affiliation in the set categories of the census. Certainly, there are several reasons why people would fail to do so. For instance, some might simply find the question of religious affiliation as ‘intrusive on their personal life and freedom’ (see Acheson 1997: 255). Moreover, for heterogeneous religious groups, such as Muslims, what identification as a Muslim (in Europe) actually indicates is far from being straightforward (see Chapter Five). The same, of course, concerns also large national churches, such as the Catholic Church in

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Ireland and the Lutheran Church in Finland. (See McVeigh 1995: 637–9; 646–7; Kääriäinen, Niemelä & Ketola 2003a.) However, whatever the advantages and disadvantages of the different systems for collecting demographic information in Finland and Ireland may be, the quantitative information helps to draw some sort of outline regarding the religious fields of these countries. In general, one can observe that the recent immigration to Finland and Ireland has, rightly enough, changed the religious landscape of these countries, but not, perhaps, in the way one might think. In respect of the effects of immigration on religious memberships, it is obvious that it is Christianity which is the main winner. This fact is easily forgotten when public attention is directed only towards the growth of non-Christian traditions, such as Islam. (See Martikainen 2004a.) In any event, research is needed in Finland and Ireland concerning religious pluralisation of these countries. In this respect, however, Finland, having four chairs of comparative religion in three universities, is somewhat ahead of Ireland, where, to date, no such chair exists and, hence, academic research particularly on nonChristian religions is very scarce, with the single exception of studies on Jews. (See Keogh 1998; Rivlin 2003.) The growing body of literature on multiculturalism and racism in Ireland, makes some occasional references to Protestants (see Garner 2004) and Jews (see Lentin 2002; Goldstone 2002), but no systematic study of religious minorities is available in this field either. Finland: ‘Believing in belonging’ With respect to the degree of religious adherence, Finland is one of the most Lutheran countries in the world. In 2001, 4,4 million Finns were members of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Finland, equalling 85% of the population (5,2 million in total). This high percentage notwithstanding, it must be noted that the members of the Lutheran Church are far from being a homogeneous group. First, the Lutheran Church has been strongly influenced by the revivalist movements which have, since the nineteenth century, renewed the church from within (Huotari 1981; Heino 1997: 42–63; Ketola 2003a: 36–39). Second, members of different religious movements4 do not necessarily give up their membership in the 4 Unfortunately, a comprehensive and accurate account of the religious movements in Finland is still lacking (Ketola 2003b: 81). However, see Heino 1997.

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Lutheran Church. Third, the membership of the Lutheran Church does not, in most cases, imply believing in what the church teaches, nor does it involve regular attendance of church services. Instead of public attendance, Finnish religiosity is distinctively a private matter (Kääriäinen, Niemelä & Ketola 2003b: 255). In similar fashion to other Nordic countries, church membership in Finland concerns ‘belonging’ rather than ‘believing’ (cf. Davie 2000: 3) to such an extent that one can describe it as ‘believing in belonging’ (Niemelä 2003a: 128). Fourth, members of the Lutheran Church also include a small group of people who are alienated from the church. Thus, members of the Lutheran Church show all levels of religious adherence from those who are very active to those who are completely indifferent.5 (Niemelä 2003a: 128; 136; Kääriäinen, Niemelä & Ketola 2003a: 12–14; Kääriäinen, Niemelä & Ketola 2003b.) Since belonging to the Lutheran Church in Finland involves paying a church tax directly deducted from one’s salary, one could call it a Finnish peculiarity that the majority of Finns happily pay taxes for services which they use very little, if at all. In comparison with other Nordic countries, in Finland belonging to the church is considered to be important for the national identity.6 However, Finns more than other Nordic people emphasise that the membership of the Lutheran Church distinguishes them as ‘indigenous’ people from the newcomers, such as immigrants. Thus, the membership of the Lutheran Church operates for the Finns as one of the important banners of identity. Consequently, Finnish people fairly reluctantly change or give up their religion even though their religiosity might undergo a drastic change. (Niemelä 2003a: 128; cf. Inglis 2005: 63.) Admittedly, Finland is not alone in this: a growing multiculturalism seems to lead to the re-assertion of the national Christian heritage also in other European countries (see Otterbeck 1999: 162; MacNeill 2000; Allievi 2003c: 371; Chapter Eight). The second largest religious community in Finland after the Finnish Lutheran Church is the Orthodox Church, which, for historical reasons, is recognised as the second national church of Finland. In

5 According to the World Values 2000, only 14% of the members of the Lutheran Church in Finland were active in the church. The corresponding number among the Catholics in Ireland was 64%. See Kääriäinen, Niememä & Ketola 2003b: 289. 6 For a study on the commitment of the Nordic people to the Lutheran Church, see Sundback (2000).

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addition to the Lutheran Church, it is the only single religious community which has the right to collect church tax among its members. (See Chapter Three.) For centuries, the Orthodox congregations of Karelia were part of the Russian Orthodox Church. Therefore, the position of the Orthodox Church in Finland was strengthened in the nineteenth century after the country was made a Grand Duchy of Russia. However, in the independent Finland (since 1917), the Orthodox Church broke its ties with the Patriarchate of Moscow and in 1923 gained autonomy under the Patriarchate of Constantinople. In the following decades, the church was ‘finnicised’ very fast with respect to the laity and clergy, and the numbers of Orthodox parishioners rose to 77,000 at the highest. However, after the Second World War the church lost most of its property and all of its monasteries. Due to the war, the Orthodox people were compelled to flee from Karelia and settle down in different parts of Finland. Consequently, altogether 70% of the Karelian Orthodox left their native villages (Hyry 1995: 95). The destruction did not, nonetheless, defeat the Orthodox. With the help of the Finnish state, a vigorous reconstruction of the religious infrastructure was commenced after the war so that today there are around eighty Orthodox churches and prayer rooms in Finland.7 At the same time, however, the number of Orthodox started to fall because children of mixed Lutheran and Orthodox marriages were in most cases baptised as Lutherans. For the past three decades, the number of Orthodox by percentage of the total population has stabilised to 1,1%, amounting to 56,184 in 2001. Recent decades have witnessed an interesting phenomenon when the number of Lutherans converting to the Orthodox religion has surpassed those who leave the Orthodox Church, in order to join the Lutheran Church. All in all, the Orthodox Church today is an essential part of Finnish society. (See Heino 1997: 64–66; Hyry 1995: 84–99; Kilpeläinen 2000.) The other Christian denominations functioning in Finland are rather small. The Free Church of Finland, having 13,445 members (2001) is the third largest Christian denomination in Finland. The

7 The main cathedral of the Orthodox Church of Finland, namely the Uspenski Cathedral, is one of the most significant Orthodox church buildings in Western Europe. The Orthodox Church also runs two monasteries, one in Valamo for men and the other in Heinävesi for women, of which especially the former is a busy centre of tourism. (Heino 1997: 65).

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Catholic Church of Finland has around seven and a half thousand members, which is 0.1% of the total population. After the Reformation in the sixteenth century the Catholic Church became extinct in Finland until it started, in the end of the eighteenth century, a gradual return to the country. It was registered, after the independence, in 1929, and Helsinki gained the chair of the bishop in 1955. The Anglicans constitute a very small and heterogeneous group; the Anglican Church of Finland has around a hundred members mostly living in the metropolitan area of Helsinki. (See Heino 1997: 73–74.) The most significant non-Christian groups in Finland, both with respect to history and size, are the Jews and Muslims.8 The Jews have resided in the area that is today known as Finland already since the eighteenth century, coming originally from Sweden. The contemporary Jews in Finland, however, are, on the main, descendants of the soldiers, who in the nineteenth century served in the Czarist army. After finishing their military service, which could take up to twenty years, they stayed in this country and were allowed to engage in trade. For reasons discussed in more detail in Chapter Three, Jews had very little legal protection in this country until the independence of Finland. Hence, they gained civil rights in 1918, which meant that they could get Finnish citizenship and, thereby, could work in the full range of occupations. Still in the 1940s, most of the Jews took part in trade, but in contemporary Finland they work in various professions. Along with gaining civil rights in 1918, the Jews also started a primary school in Helsinki that same year. The school functioned in the Swedish language until the 1930s, when the language of the school was changed to Finnish. With respect to this language change, the Jewish community, no doubt, reacted to the general nationalistic climate of the country. Opting for the (dominant) Finnish language has been seen as a means for the Jews to gain acceptance and recognition in post-independent Finnish society: ‘Favourable relations with the new Finnish-speaking power elite was a question of survival for the Jews’ (Pentikäinen & Anttonen 1995: 165). Presently, there are around 1,500 Jews in Finland but their numbers are threatened by aging, migration and intermarriage. Jewish

8 In Finland, there are also small numbers of Hindus and Buddhists, as well as followers of the Western off-shoots of these religions. (See Ketola 2004.)

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congregations operate in three cities of Southern Finland but the operation of synagogues is somewhat hampered by the lack of sufficient numbers of male adults. All in all, for the Finnish Jews, being a Jew in most cases concerns respect for cultural traditions rather than religious affiliation in any strict sense; Jews in Finland are rather ‘secularised’. (See Pentikäinen & Anttonen 1995; Harviainen 1998: 291–304.) Some 13% of Finnish people do not belong to any religious community, and their number is steadily growing. However, it must be noted that this group also includes people who are members of nonregistered religious communities, such as around 50,000 adherents of the Pentecostal movement.9 In any event, taking into consideration that only one percent of the Finns belong to the Orthodox Church and more or less one in every hundred to the other registered religious communities, one can conclude that the majority position of the Lutheran Church is not challenged by any other religious community, but rather by the increase of non-religiosity. (Niemelä 2003a: 125.) In this respect, it is the process of secularisation rather than that of religious pluralisation which would seem to characterise the changes taking place in the religious landscape of Finland. Ireland: ‘Pilgrimage towards plurality’ It has often been argued that, until recently, religion constituted a pervasive force in Irish society and that the Irish identity was intertwined with the Catholic faith to the extent that being Irish was equated with being Catholic (see Boyle & Sheen 1997: 344). Due to the strong influence of Catholicism on people’s everyday life, Ireland has been perceived as ‘a particularly religious country’, and the Irish people somehow as being ‘naturally religious’ (see Inglis 1998a: 2; Tovey & Share 2000: 310–11). Thus, it has been concluded that, during the last two centuries in particular, Ireland has been ‘one of the most religiously sensitised nations in the Western world’ (Akenson 1988: 16), but also continues to be so (Greeley & Ward 2000: 582, 584; Cassidy 2002). In addition to this general religiosity, Ireland is also different in comparison to other European countries with respect to the public role that religion holds in Irish society (O’Toole 1998: 9 In 2000, a small number of Pentecostals were registered as a Pentecostal Church (see Partala 2002: 267). See also Heino 1997: 83–7; Ketola 2003b: 72–3.

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66). Today, the ‘religious sensitivity’, and the respect paid to religion in Ireland, is greeted with enthusiasm by the representatives of the Muslim community, who compare Ireland to countries such as Britain, which have a more ‘secular atmosphere’ (Boyle & Sheen 1997: 348; see Chapter Seven). However, one can equally argue that religiosity in Ireland has undergone many fundamental changes, which cannot be easily pinned down. For instance, the clerical and puritanical Catholicism that Ireland is nowadays largely identified with is a fairly modern phenomenon that emerged in the late nineteenth century (see Nic Ghiolla Phádraig 1995: 595). The heyday of the Catholic Church in Irish life, and hence the peak of its influence in Irish society, is generally situated somewhere between the 1930s and the 1960s. This ‘Age of Innocence’, as it is termed by Brian Fallon (1999), came to an end for a variety of reasons. In the 1960s, there was a drastic change within the Catholic Church, inaugurated by the new policies of the Second Vatican Council. Moreover, during this decade, economic growth, increase in international business in Ireland, as well as the emerging influence of the media had a decisive impact on Irish society in general. (Tovey & Share 2000: 313.) Consequently, the process of secularisation was already well underway in Ireland by the 1970s (Donnelly 2000: 12), and, since the beginning of the 1980s, there has been a noticeable ‘shift across generations from stronger to weaker acceptance of orthodox beliefs and practice and of the authority of the Church’ (Whelan 1994: 7). In contemporary Ireland, Catholicism, both as an institution and as a personal identity, is undergoing a fundamental change. In addition to the general process of secularisation, this change has been accelerated by dramatic events in the course of the 1990s, resulting in what could be called ‘religious disillusionment’. Clerical scandals and disclosures of child abuse committed by the religious orders in Ireland severely rocked both the church and society. These revelations, widely covered by the media, altered the trust and respect people once might have felt for the Catholic Church. In the process, the Catholic Church lost much of its power and authority over people’s lives, especially in matters concerning sexual morality (see Inglis 1998b). Thus, the change in the role of Catholicism not only stuck at the institutional roots of religion but also touched personal identity and the way Irish people led their lives. (See Inglis 1998a; Flannery 1999; Tovey & Share 2000: 326 ff.; Brennan 2001; Donnelly

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2002.) As a result of this ‘disillusionment’, being a Catholic no longer involves the mindset of ‘an automatic, unquestioned way of thinking and being’ as once might have been the case (cf. Inglis 2005: 68). On the contrary, the Irish need to think anew about what it means to be a Catholic, but not only this, since Catholicism has been so closely intertwined with the Irish identity, the Irish also need to look into the definition of Ireland, as a political, cultural and moral entity, and ‘choose from among possible Catholicisms and possible Irelands’, as noted by Lawrence Taylor (1995: 247–8). With respect to numbers, however, the latest census (2002)10 reveals that the vast majority of Irish people still identify themselves as Roman Catholics. The number of Roman Catholics increased by 7% from 1991 to 2002. With respect to total population, however, the number of Catholics fell from 91, 6% in 1991 to 88,4% in 2002. A peculiarity (from a Finnish perspective) in the Irish census are the ‘lapsed Catholics’ whose numbers decreased from 3,749 in 1991 to 590 in 2002, the percentage change being 84,3%. One might surmise that those who in 1991 still felt fairly comfortable in identifying themselves as ‘lapsed Catholics’, in the aftermath of the general secularisation of the Irish society, and particularly after the ecclesiastic scandals of the 1990s, put themselves down in the recent census in the categories of ‘other stated religion’ or ‘no religion’, both of which doubled since 1991. (See CSO 2003: 29; 82.) These changes notwithstanding, recent surveys11 on religiosity in Ireland do not show any drastic change across different age groups in the basic beliefs of the Irish (Greeley & Ward 2000: 583, cf. Inglis 1998a: 208). With respect to religious practice, however, these surveys reveal that, even though the Irish score high in church attendance in comparison to other Europeans, Mass attendance rates continue to decline particularly among urban adolescents and young adults. This decline, nonetheless, does not concern the importance placed on church services with respect to birth, marriage and death. In similar fashion to other European countries, these rites of passage are still, to a large extent, celebrated with Christian rites. At the same 10 The census of 2002 was conducted on 28 April 2002. All tables from the population census are available on the Central Statistics Office web site (www.cso.ie). 11 These surveys are the International Social Survey Programme from 1991 and 1998 (Greeley & Ward 2000; Barber 2002; Cassidy 2002), and the European Value Study from 1981, 1990 and 1999 (Whelan 1994; Cassidy 2002). See also the Irish Marketing Survey from 1997 (Donnelly 2002: 282 ff.; Brennan 2001: 75 ff.).

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time, a clear drift away from the church teaching on sexual behaviour and from the belief in clerical authority is taking place. (Whelan 1994; Inglis 1998a; Greeley & Ward 2000; Cassidy 2002.) In consequence, it has been noted that ‘Irish Catholics are becoming more Protestant and probably more secular’ (Inglis 1998a: 244). Yet again, the Irish people, young ones among them, continue to identify themselves as Catholics. They have a sense of belonging which is associated with the Catholic Church, especially on the local level. Ita Daly writes in The Irish Tribune in December 2000 that ‘denying your religion is no longer in fashion. Not accepting the rules of the church no longer means leaving: one just ignores the rules but continues to call oneself a Catholic.’ With the economic boost of the ‘Celtic tiger’, Ireland has become an affluent society with a substantial middle class, which is willing to incorporate Catholicism into its way of life (Daly 2000; cf. Greeley & Ward 2000; Thurston 2000). Whatever the case may be, it seems that this sort of à la carte Catholicism in Ireland is becoming more and more the order of the day (see Tovey & Share 2000: 330). The changes in Irish society have had their effects also on church personnel: the downward spiral, which began at the end of the 1960s in the numbers of priests, brothers and nuns, continues at a steady pace. In the words of Donnelly (2002: 285): ‘across the entire spectrum of its personnel the Irish Catholic Church is in dire straits. The present is bleak and the future even darker.’ In consequence of its diminishing personnel, the church is no longer in a position to staff schools, hospitals and other public services, which for decades constituted its main mandates of influence in Irish civil society. Therefore, the church is compelled to limit its institutional control to the management of schools and hospitals, and in so doing, it needs to rely more and more on the laity in running these institutions. The diminishing political role of the Catholic Church is also evidenced in the legal changes concerning divorce, contraception and abortion (Hogan 2003; Hannon 2003). All in all, the Catholic Church, in the words of Tom Inglis, ‘has lost its sacredness and has become another interest group in civil society which is open to the same inspection as any other’ (1998a: 217). Perhaps, these changes notwithstanding, one could conclude with Mary Kenny (2000: 322), regarding the ‘Catholic Ireland’, that, ‘the Church has been rocked; society is more secularised; prosperity is altering culture; Catholic power has receded. But the faith goes on.’

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The Church of Ireland constitutes the second largest religious community in Ireland. By and large, the members of the Church of Ireland have been perceived as ‘a small and privileged colonial minority’ (Inglis 2005: 63; see also McVeigh 1995: 633). As will be discussed in more detail in Chapter Four, the Church of Ireland was, until its disestablishment in 1869, the state church of the country for over three hundred years, exerting significant economic, social and political power. However, its position changed drastically, first in the Irish Free State and then in the Republic of Ireland, where the Irish language and Roman Catholicism became the main markers of identity. Thus, particularly during the first decades of independent Ireland, ‘the members of the Church of Ireland felt themselves to be living in a society governed by precepts that were in many respects alien, even repugnant, to them’ (Milne 2002: 224; cf. Inglis 1998b: 47–8). In independent Ireland, the Church of Ireland was marginalised and withdrew from public life. Beginning from the second decade of the twentieth century, moreover, the Church of Ireland population experienced a rapid decline. While in 1911 its members constituted around 8% (264,264) of the Irish population, in 1991 this figure had dropped to 2,5% (89,187) (see CSO 2004a: 9).12 Due to declining numbers, many church buildings had to be closed down, and they were subsequently converted to serve secular purposes, such as dancing or even boxing. The reasons for this decline were, for the most part, emigration and intermarriage. In cases of mixed marriages, the Constitution, in principle, gave equal rights to both parents in respect of the upbringing of their children. The Catholic Church, however, obliged non-Catholics to give a written permission that the children born as a result of a marriage between a Catholic and a Protestant would be brought up as Catholics.13 In order to protect itself, the Church of Ireland community therefore clung to some sort of ‘self-

12

It must be noted that the numbers concerning the members of the Church of Ireland are not necessarily accurate for several reasons, discussed in more detail by Acheson (1997: 254–55). 13 For more on this ante-nuptial agreement, and the famous Tilson case in the 1950s, see Whyte 1980: 169–71 and Casey 2000: 651–52. The adoption laws also prevented the orphan children of a mixed marriage from being adopted, and they also prevented married couples of mixed marriages from adopting (see White 1980: 397).

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imposed apartheid’ (Milne 2003: 68), and lived ‘in something of a cultural ghetto’ (Clarke 1999: 37). Despite this withdrawal from public life, members of the church stress that, in historical terms, the Church of Ireland is ‘nevertheless an entirely Irish church, fully entitled to its title’ (Clarke 1999: 29). In time, ‘the Church of Ireland population in the Republic has become culturally and politically integrated into the state while preserving its denominational identity’ (Acheson 1997: 260). Undoubtedly, the preservation of its identity has largely been helped by the segregated (denominational) system of education, which has allowed the Church of Ireland to run its own schools and also to provide its own teacher training (see Milne 2003: 71–2). Moreover, the efforts of the Irish government, during the past decade, to build ‘a more inclusive society’, has been warmly welcomed by this community. In the 1990s, the Church of Ireland, with its ‘new-found confidence’, began again to promote its general interests in Irish society, particularly with respect to education. In terms echoing the European Convention on Human Rights, it defended its fundamental right to have children educated within their own tradition and ethos. Moreover, recent immigration has also reversed the long-term decline in the size of the Church of Ireland population, which increased from 89,187 in 1991 to 115,611 in 2002 (CSO 2003:29).14 Accordingly, the Church of Ireland community perceives itself in today’s Ireland as ‘a confident minority well understood and well accepted’ (Acheson 1997: 260–1). In addition to the Church of Ireland, other Christian denominations operating in Ireland are fairly small. However, their growth in membership seem to follow the same pattern: In similar fashion to the Church of Ireland, the numbers of the smaller Protestant groups,15 such as Presbyterians and Methodists, were in decline until the beginning of the 1990s, when, mainly due to immigration, their memberships started gradually to grow. Thus, during this decade, the number of Presbyterians grew by seven and half thousand, increasing from 13,200 in 1991 to 20,600 in 2002, whereas the numbers

14 Admittedly, this increase can also be explained by the ‘questionnaire effect’ but the main reason for it, all the same, is immigration (see CSO 2003: 29). 15 Not all members of the Church of Ireland perceive themselves as Protestants (see McGarry 2004a). However, in the census, this category is presented by including Protestants (CSO 2003: 29).

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of Methodists doubled, increasing from five thousand in 1991 to ten thousand in 2002. (CSO 2003: 29.) Both of these communities have, in similar fashion to the Church of Ireland, laid a great importance on education. (See Dunlop J. 1999; Holmes 2002; Levistone Cooney 2001.) In a sense, these smaller Protestant communities have always been a ‘minority within a minority’, and, therefore, they have also been more vulnerable. However, in similar fashion to the Church of Ireland, ‘a more inclusive Ireland’ also has an influence these groups: ‘As the social and religious climate in Ireland undergoes a hasty metamorphosis, it is anticipated that intolerance of smaller entities will begin to wane’. Thus, ‘[i]n Ireland, the pilgrimage towards plurality opens the way for frank discourse on the place of minorities in our changing society’. (Dunlop R. 1999: 51, 53.) With respect to Christianity, the ‘minorities within a minority’ also include those of the Orthodox (10,437), Evangelical (3,780), Pentecostal (3,152), Lutheran (3,068), Baptist (2,265), and Quaker (859) (CSO 2003: 82.) As mentioned above, all of these groups experienced, from 1991 to 2002, some or considerable growth of their memberships, but none as high as the Orthodox Christians, whose numbers, mainly due to immigration from eastern European countries, increased from 358 to 10,437 during this same period. (CSO 2003: 29.) Among the non-Christian religions in Ireland, in addition to Muslims dealt with in more detail in Chapter Seven, there are small numbers of Jews (1,581), Buddhists (986), Hindus (953) and Baha’is (430).16 (CSO 2003: 82: see also Ryan 1996.) However, in comparison with the latter groups, it must be noted that the Jewish community has a history in Ireland going back over more than a hundred years. The Jewish population in Ireland started to grow after the Russian pogroms at the end of the nineteenth century: while in 1881 there were 394 Jews in the country, by 1901 their number had reached over three thousand. The peak in the numbers of Jews was recorded In his book Another Ireland, Ryan (1996) lists, in addition to the aforementioned groups, also the Sikhs and the Chinese. According to Ryan, in the middle of the 1990s there were around 250 Sikhs in the Republic, most of them immigrant doctors and business people (1996: 139). The Chinese Ryan deals with are Christians (1996: 94). The Sikhs and the Chinese do not, however, figure in the results of Census 2002. For a study, written already twenty years ago on ‘religious cults’, see Coulter (1984), who deals with Hare Krishnas, Moonies, born-again Christians, Opus Dei, and so forth. 16

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in 1946 when their population reached nearly four thousand (3,907). Since the 1950s, the number of Jews started to decline rather rapidly, hitting an all-time low at 1,581 in 1991. However, during the past decade, this decline was reversed and their numbers have grown slightly, reaching 1,790 in 2002. (CSO 2004a: 9.) There are several reasons, such as aging and migration, for the fluctuation of the Jewish population in Ireland, studied in detail elsewhere (see Keogh 1998). Regardless of the declining numbers, the Jews have been prominent in Irish business, politics, and arts (Lentin 2002: 155; Ryan 1996: 3–5). In similar fashion to the Christian denominations, they also run their own schools from kindergarten to secondary level. The academic success of these schools notwithstanding, many Jewish parents prefer to send their children to mainstream schools. The reason for this choice is a desire to achieve ‘the balance of good Irishman/traditional Jew’ through contacts with other Irish children. (Ryan 1996: 17.) In addition to education, the Jews in Ireland, as a whole, are very well organised with respect to religion and culture (see Ryan 1996: 1–32; see also Keogh 1998; Harris 2002; Rivlin 2003). In reading Irish history, one can observe some sort of ambivalence towards the Jews (see Goldstone 2002: 175). Particularly in the post-war decades, some anti-Semitic feeling lingered in Ireland, and fairly persistent prejudices against Jews were recorded during this period.17 At the same time, the community enjoyed, during the 1930s and later, good relations with the Prime Minister, Eamonnn de Valera. (See Keogh 1998; cf. Goldstone 2002: 171.) At present, ‘the position of the Jewish community in contemporary Ireland is one of quiet co-existence with the majority Irish society, despite occasional antisemitic media discourses’ (Lentin 2002: 163).18 This peaceful 17 I find it difficult to agree with Lentin’s argument that ‘Jews are the archetypal Others of Ireland’s national Catholicism’ (2002: 157). With respect to Irish history, it is obvious that it has been the Protestants not the Jews who have held this place. I would be more inclined to broaden Lentin’s idea and say that, perhaps, Jews are the ‘archetypal Other’ not so much of Catholics alone but of Christians in general. The Catholics just happen to have the position of power in contemporary Ireland and, therefore, their views have more bearing on the dominant images of Irishness (cf. Goldstone 2002: 171). 18 In March 2005, the Irish Times reported on a recent rise in anti-Semitic graffiti outside Jewish community buildings and also on anti-Semitic emails received by the Jewish Representative Council of Ireland. These incidents were commented on by the Garda Racial and Intercultural Office, which confirmed that they were investigated by the police. (See O’Brien 2005.)

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co-existence is also reflected in the opinion of the Jewish community that they have met very little overt prejudice against them on the part of the Irish. Perhaps the wealth of some Jews and their share in commerce, which does not threaten the established business, is one reason for the tolerant attitude towards them. In any event, the recognition of growing pluralism in Irish society gives new impetus to critically examine the attitudes of the Irish civil society towards minorities—but, perhaps, also to critically assess the history of anti-Semitism in Ireland. (See Keogh 1998: 237; Lentin 2002: 154; see also Goldstone 2002.) It has been observed that, in spite of their small and declining numbers, Jews, as ‘the smallest ethnic minority’ in Ireland, have received ‘disproportionate attention’ from researchers and from the media (Lentin 2002: 155). It is, of course, debatable as to what kind of value one would want to give to this attention. However, one could certainly argue that the way Jews have been publicly recognised in Ireland is important for the way in which new religious minorities, such as Muslims, might benefit from similar recognition. As a recent sign of the public recognition of religious minorities, one can mention the National Day of Commemoration in July 2005, which was attended, in addition to the Christian churches, also by the leaders of the Jewish and Muslim communities in Ireland. In this respect, Ireland offers an interesting case. As a consequence of the strong position of the Catholic Church, which has been challenged only in recent decades, Ireland manifests a legacy of public religion, which one hardly encounters in any other European country. Consequently, one may reasonably inquire about the consequences of this Catholic legacy for the new religious minorities, such as Muslims, who are in the process of settling down in Ireland (see Sakaranaho 2003b). In addition to the growth of different religious communities, the latest census also reveals a considerable increase in the number of those who have ‘no religion’. In the last decade their number doubled, rising from 66,270 in 1991 to 138,264 in 2002. Moreover, there has been an increase in the numbers of those who identify themselves as agnostics, from 823 in 1991 to 1,028 in 2002, and as atheists, from 320 in 1991 to 500 in 2002. (CSO 2003: 82.) Altogether these three groups account for around 140,000, which is roughly 4% of the Irish population. Thus, their numbers exceed those of the Church of Ireland (115,611) but not, as argued by some, those of

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the Protestants in general, whose sum total was around 160,000 in 2002.19 (See McGarry 2004b.) Nonetheless, this observation does not diminish the fact that the section of the Irish population which does not identify themselves with any religion is steadily growing. The increase in number of the non-religious will add pressure on the Irish system of education to recognise not only the educational right of religious communities but also of those who do not wish to educate their children in schools with a religious ethos (see Chapter Four and Chapter Ten). Particularly those who oversee multi-denominational schools in Ireland are unhappy with the present system of education, and ask for the state to react accordingly (McGarry 2004b). In other words, they are exerting their positive right to negative religious freedom (see Chapter Two). In general, one can see the growing numbers of different religious and non-religious groups as a part of a pluralising Ireland, which needs to decide on its multicultural policies. The same, of course, concerns Finland as well. Multiculturalism: Identity and Equality Contradictory assessments Multiculturalism attracts contradictory assessments. On the one hand, it is said to have gained a form of a hegemonic stance as ‘the true paradigm for a postmodern global age’ (see Samad 1997: 240), while, on the other hand, it is accused of being ‘a much used, and abused, concept, despite the fact that it is an imprecise concept that raises a number of theoretical questions’ (see Wahlbeck 1999: 15). In this study, multiculturalism is understood simply as cultural diversity, which, admittedly, can and has been approached very differently. The amount of literature produced on multiculturalism during four decades or so is so abundant that it is quite impossible to give a coherent account of its contents. A much more economical approach

19 Of course, it depends what is included in the category ‘Protestants’. Usually in Ireland, Protestants are identified with the members of the Church of Ireland, Presbyterians and Methodists (in total around 146,000). However, in a broad sense, Protestants also include Lutherans, Quakers, Evangelicals, Baptists and Pentecostals, which in total add up to around 160,000. As was discussed previously in this Chapter, the Orthodox, as an eastern Church, is outside the division between Catholics and Protestants of western Christianity.

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will be adopted here and, hence, the aim in the following discussion is simply to name some basic conceptual lenses which help to pin down different meanings invested in multiculturalism. What is important to note is that the usages of multiculturalism vary according to context, and these contexts can roughly be divided into global, national, and local frameworks (Samad 1997: 240–1). However, it is also argued here that, in each of these contexts, multiculturalism can be approached from a descriptive, normative, and critical point of view, which entail particular rhetorics of identification, justification, or criticism respectively. In the following discussion on multiculturalism, the main emphasis will be on the national context in general and those of Finland and Ireland in particular. Descriptive approach In everyday language multiculturalism is mainly used in a descriptive sense to refer to the cultural pluralism that prevails in a country because its geographical area is shared by people speaking different languages or having different ethnic and cultural backgrounds (cf. Samad 1997: 241; Goldberg 1995: 1). It is not an exaggeration to say that nearly all societies have been and are, at least to some extent, multicultural (see Nielsen 1995: 152; Wahlbeck 1999: 16; Sakaranaho 2000). However, it is only in recent decades that the multiculturalism of different societies has been acknowledged and new terminology developed for an inquiry of this phenomenon. Thus, one can argue that multiculturalism in descriptive sense aims to identify the existence of cultural pluralism in a society. Moreover, it is obvious that the identification process can be directed differently depending on what are seen as the main sites of pluralisation and therefore conceived as important objects of research. First, the description of a multicultural situation is often evidenced by the use of statistics that demonstrate the growing number of foreigners in a country as a result of inward migration. In both Finland and Ireland the number of foreigners has more or less quadrupled in the 1990s. Thus, in Finland the growth of foreign nationals in the country grew from 26,255 in 1990 to 103,628 in 2002,20 while

20 The report of the Finnish government’s anti-discrimination programme estimates that, in 2000, there were in Finland around 90,000 foreign nationals, in addition to around 90,000 naturalised foreign-born citizens, including their children,

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in Ireland ‘the number of foreign-born usual residents from countries other than the EU and the USA’ has grown from 26,100 in 1991 to 97,200 in 2002. (Statistics Finland 2003a: 7; CSO 2003: 24.) Consequently, both countries have experienced a sudden change from the position of a country largely perceived as homogeneous to that of a country inhabited with people of different cultures, languages and religions. This present study on Muslims in these two respective countries is, in a sense, an outcome of this change and the subsequent need to map this change. Second, one can also argue that it is not only inward migration which fosters multiculturalism. Until recently, both Finland and Ireland have been perceived as countries of emigration rather than immigration. Therefore, the study on migration in these two countries has naturally centred on movement of people out of these countries, and on their lives in different parts of the world. Thus, over the past 130 years nearly 1.3 million Finns have emigrated to neighbouring Sweden, or further afield, namely to the United States, Canada and Australia (see Koivukangas 2002). The numbers involved in Finnish emigration, however, are rather small compared to those of Ireland: it is estimated that until the beginning of the twentieth century altogether seven million Irish people had left Ireland as emigrants.21 Not without cause has Ireland been called an ‘emigrant nursery’ (Mac Laughlin 1994; Tovey & Share 2000: 109). As a consequence of these flows of migration, both the Finns and the Irish have long-established contacts abroad. These contacts made them aware of the world outside their home countries but also, to some extent at least, fashioned their lives at home. (See Virtanen 1994: 59.) However, another question that can be asked is how much the emigration experiences of the Finns and Irish have been utilised, especially when these respective societies are trying to come to terms

and around 50,000 members of the traditional minorities now resident in Finland. Thus, it was concluded that the ethnic minorities in Finland constituted around 4,5% of the total population (Kohti etnistä yhdenvertaisuutta 2001: 5). 21 With respect to Irish emigrants, there is a rather comprehensive series of books entitled ‘The Irish World Wide: History, Heritage, Identity’, edited by Patrick O’Sullivan, and published by Leicester University Press (London and New York). See also MacLaughlin (1997) and Bielenberg (2000). For religion in the migration of the Irish, see O’Sullivan (1996). Moreover, one should not forget the ‘forced migrants’, namely the convicts who in the eighteenth century constituted the nucleus of Australia’s Irish population (see Reece 2001).

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with recent immigration to Finland and Ireland. In the light of recent research on Finnish and Irish attitudes towards newcomers, the answer is, not very much.22 In this respect, the collective memory of both peoples seems to be very short. However, in addition to emigration for economic reasons, one should not forget that ‘multicultural influences’ have seeped into these countries also through the agency of religion. For instance, one can mention the young Catholic men who travelled from Ireland to the Continent in order to study for the priesthood during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Culligan & Cherici 2000: 115 ff.; see also Chapter Four). In addition, different religious Catholic orders operate internationally, educating and recruiting members in various countries. Thus, some Irish members of these would have been educated abroad, while other foreign members would have come to Ireland to live and work in Irish religious houses. For over a century, moreover, Christian missions have taken a considerable number of people abroad. Irish Catholics have been active in creating their ‘spiritual empire’ around the world (see Flanagan 2002; Hogan 1990); likewise, the Finns, already since the beginning of the nineteenth century, have engaged in missionary work in both Africa and Asia (see Helander 2001). Thus, returning missionaries, or their letters home (see Pesonen 2002), have surely constituted one of the earliest educators in multicultural encounters for people who perhaps never stepped outside of their own villages or towns, not to mention their native land. However, these sorts of religious influences on the development of multiculturalism in these respective countries is as yet largely unexplored.23 Third, it seems that the identification of cultural pluralism in a country also leads to novel ways of categorising people, speaking

22 Usually Irish people are conceived, due to their history, as a colonised people. However, Akenson (1997) offers an interesting exception to this portrayal in his study If the Irish ran the world, dealing with the Irish colonisers on the Caribbean island of Montserrat (1630–1730). In his book, Akenson debunks the myth that the Irish, because of their experiences of oppression in Ireland, would have been more ‘feeling’ colonisers than the English or Scottish. 23 Hogan maintains that ‘there has been a marked reluctance among historians to regard the missionary movement as an important historical phenomenon’ (1990: 8). Perhaps, one could equally argue that, in like manner, missionary work undertaken in the name of any religion has not been recognised as a relevant issue in multicultural studies. Admittedly, religion, in any case, figures very little in these studies (see Taylor 1995).

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different languages or having different ethnic and cultural backgrounds. For instance in Finland, a division is made between ‘the indigenous older cultural minorities’, also referred to as ‘traditional minorities’, and the newer cultural minorities.24 Moreover, the third group consists of returning émigrées, who, in addition to Finnish emigrants, also includes the Ingrians, living in Russia. The minorities in Finland with respect to language and ethnicity include the Swedish-Finns (around 300,000), the Sami people (around 6,000), the Romanies (around 7,000), the Russians (around 30,000), the Jews (around 1,300), and the Tatars (around 800). (See Ekholm 1994; Pentikäinen & Hiltunen 1995; Koivukangas 2002: 25.) Thus, the Swedish speakers, consisting of around six percent of the Finnish population, is the largest of these minority groups. In spite of its minority position, the Swedish language is formally equal in legal status with the Finnish language: according to the Finnish constitution, ‘the national languages of Finland are Finnish and Swedish’ (Section 17). This no doubt is due to historical reasons. As will be discussed in more detail in Chapter Three, Finland was part of the Swedish empire until 1809, and even though the country thereafter was annexed to Russia until its independence (1917), the Swedish language remained in a dominant position until the latter half of the nineteenth century (see Briody 1997). In independent Finland, the Swedish-Finns have enjoyed strong institutional support, and presently their socio-economic status is more or less equivalent with that of the majority.25 The Finnish state provides Swedishmedium education for Swedish speakers from primary school to university level, and there is also a separate Swedish language unit within the Finnish Broadcasting Corporation. In respect of religion, there are separate Swedish-speaking parishes within the Lutheran Church, which are united under an independent Swedish bishopric. Swedish speakers constitute their own communities also within other religious groups, such as the free churches. (Liebkind, Broo & Finnäs 1995.)26 In comparison with the Swedish speakers, the other groups— 24 For the Finnish discussion on the concept of a minority, see Dahlgren et al. 1996; Toivanen 2001; 2004; Scheinin & Toivanen 2004. 25 Socially and geographically, the Swedish-Finns consistitute a fairly heterogeneous population. Irrespective of this heterogeneity, there is a very persistent stereotype of the Swedish-speaking Finns as members of an upper class (see Liebkind, Broo & Finnäs 1995: 49–50). 26 Thus, one can observe that, while in Ireland the historical divisions seem to

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with the exception of the growing number of Russian speakers— constitute rather ‘minuscule minorities’, which suffer from declining numbers and face the threat of assimilation. (See Tolvanen 1994: 67.) In Ireland, studies on multicultural issues make a distinction between ‘indigenous and foreign minority groups’ (MacLachlan & O’Connell 2000: 11). The ‘foreign’ minority groups consist of recent immigrants and refugees, such as Africans, Bosnians, Romanians and Arabs, whereas an ‘indigenous’ ethnic minority consists of the Travellers (see Curry 2000).27 Due to their long presence in Ireland, stretching back over a hundred years, the Jews can be seen as a ‘traditional minority’ in Ireland, in similar fashion to that of the Protestants, such as the Church of Ireland community, discussed in more detail above. With respect to the Travellers, a question concerning their membership was included, for the first time, in the Irish Census in 2002. Hence, according to Census 2002, there are 24,000 Travellers in Ireland, representing 0.6% of the total population (CSO 2003: 30, 84–5). The discrimination experienced by the Traveller community is quite extensively documented in recent research on racism in Ireland (see Mac Laughlin 1995; MacLachlan & O’Connell 2000; Lentin & McVeigh 2002). It suffices to note here that, even if the Travellers are quite distinct from Romanies,28 the Travellers in Ireland have, in similar fashion to the Romanies in Finland, suffered from the prioritisation of a settled way of life over the nomadic lifestyle, and, in contemporary times, both of these groups seem to have similar problems while living at the margins of these respective societies (see Mac Laughlin 1995; Grönfors 1995). Admittedly, the Jews and Tatars, who previously earned their living as pedlars in Finland, also suffered from similar prejudice (see Chapter Six). follow denominational lines of the Catholics and Protestants, in Finland language seems to be an additional dividing factor within the majority Lutheran Church. It seems that in Ireland the Catholic Church has emphasised its religious unity at the cost of the Irish language. However, the language politics of the Catholic Church in Ireland awaits comprehensive study. (See Ó Huallacháin 1994.) 27 The 2002 Census gives the numbers of non-nationals in Ireland with respect to five main regions of origin. These are the UK and other EU nationals (3,4% of the total population), Asians (0,6%), Africans (0,5%), non EU Europeans (0,6%) and the United States (0,3%). (CSO 2003: 24; see also the Planning for Diversity 2005: 50.) 28 While the Romanies are ‘outsiders’, the Travellers are ethnically ‘Irish’: in the nineteenth century, the ‘settled Irish’ began to discriminate against the ‘travelling Irish’ (MacLaughlin 1995:15).

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What we can learn from the above observations is that different minorities can vary a great deal regarding their status in society. For instance, the Swedish speakers in Finland and the Church of Ireland community in Ireland are historically well-established, institutionally supported, and, to some extent at least, also wealthy minorities, who, therefore, are well-positioned to defend their rights in these respective countries. To a large extent, the same could be said also about the Jewish communities in Finland and Ireland, as well as the Tatar Muslim community in Finland (see Chapter Six). With respect to linguistic minorities in Ireland, one can observe a curious situation, whereby the Irish language is recognised as the first official language of the state, but, nonetheless, only a small minority of the Irish speak it as a mother tongue. It seems that the state’s recognition of the Irish language has worked not for but against the preservation of the Irish language, because it glosses over the particular needs that native Irish speakers as a linguistic minority, inhabiting the Irishspeaking Gaeltacht areas, might actually have. Cross-reading Finland and Ireland one can note that, even if there is, with respect to the law, an equivalence between Swedish speakers in Finland and Irish speakers in Ireland, in practice, Irish speakers seem to suffer the same fate of social and geographic marginalisation as the Sami people in Finland. Perhaps the official recognition of the Irish language is also the reason why the Irish-speaking minority is literally nonexistent in studies on multicultural and racial issues in Ireland, where one would imagine it would naturally belong. In conclusion, one can observe that the identification of multiculturalism in a country is far from being an objective process. On the contrary, it entails a heavy historical load and carries strong political undercurrents. Therefore, multiculturalism in a descriptive sense is not enough. Instead, one also needs to look into the entanglement of multiculturalism with the state and the power structure of a society. Normative approach Pluralism is usually seen as a feature of civil society, which consists of different interest groups and associations. Concerning the state, however, pluralism can be evaluated differently depending on the political culture of a country. In consequence, there are different national variations of multiculturalism (see Soysal 1994; Modood and

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Werbner 1997; MacÉinrí 2002). This is understandable because, for all practical purposes, it is necessary for a state to define what is meant by multiculturalism in its political usage and as a social policy. In other words, a state needs some sort of normative definition of multiculturalism that it can work with. In some countries, this normative approach has been written down in explicit terms as in the multicultural programmes of Sweden, Canada, and Australia (see Sander 1997). In others, it is implicit in policies concerning immigrants and minorities. Whatever the case may be, multiculturalism in its normative sense entails argumentation that aims to give reasons for the necessity of cultural encounter and hence to justify multiculturalism in a society. The national aims concerning multiculturalism in Finland and Ireland are most clearly articulated in different programmes and action plans with respect to immigrants, refugees and minorities drawn up in these respective countries. In both of these countries, the term which encapsulates the normative stand of the state towards multiculturalism is ‘integration’. In Finland in 1997, the Ministry of the Interior introduced the first governmental report on immigration and refugee policy. In this report, integration entails the recognition of the legitimate place that refugees and immigrants have in Finnish society, involving the right to keep their own language and culture. In 2004, the working group set up by the Ministry of Labour prepared a working paper on the second immigration-policy programme for the government. (Ehdotus maahanmuuttopoliittiseksi ohjelmaksi 2004.) In this programme the main aim is to address the problems concerning the availability of labour, and to outline the measures in order to overcome this problem. However, in addition to work-related labour, the aim of this programme is also to make the steering system of the integration of immigrants more effective, and to improve ethnic relations between different groups. In line with the international human rights conventions, it is acknowledged that the legal position of the immigrants should be as close as possible to that of the ‘indigenous’ Finns (kantasuomalaiset). With respect to fundamental rights, it is stated in this draft that the values of immigrant-policy are those of the wider society as a whole, including the principle of actual equality.29 In the

29

One further theme in this draft concerns the control of the threats involved

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light of this principle, the aim is to develop Finland as a better place to live and work in, where nobody has to suffer from discrimination or racism.30 (Ehdotus maahanmuuttopoliittiseksi ohjelmaksi 2004: 5–8.) In other words, the aim in Finland is to build a pluralistic and a multicultural society, which is based on a relationship of reciprocity between different cultures and religions. Regarding religion, the working paper sets as one of its goals to inquire how religious communities run by immigrants could be supported. However, it also expresses the limits for cultural understanding. Hence, the right for one’s culture does not, for instance, include illegal practices, such as coercive marriage, the circumcision of girls, or murder and violence inflicted on women in the name of family honour. On the other hand, cultural rights do involve the development of cultural identity so that, for instance, bilingualism is encouraged in school education where immigrant pupils are taught, in addition to Finnish, also their own mother tongue. Last but not least, the working paper reiterates the understanding of ‘integration’ (kotouttaminen) as a two-way process of adaptation, involving both the immigrants and the wider society (Ehdotus maahanmuuttopoliittiseksi ohjelmaksi 2004: 20–4, 30). In similar fashion, the governmental action plan on ethnic discrimination and racism emphasises the constitutional right of different ethnic groups in Finland to maintain and develop their own language and culture. In order to meet this end, the government report says that it is important to respect the international and European recommendations for the protection of human rights also on the national level. Therefore, the protection of human rights is an elementary part of the national process of adaptation in a multicultural society. This adaptation process consists of positive interaction, involving the active participation of the members of different ethnic minorities, which have both rights and obligations vis-à-vis the state and society. In the process of interaction, a key role is given to communities and organisations of both old and new ethnic minorities, including also those of different religions. It is interesting to note,

in immigration. This theme, however, is not elaborated much further. (See Ehdotus maahanmuuttopoliittiseksi ohjelmaksi 2004: vi.) 30 Interestingly enough, it is noted in this paper that, notwithstanding some occasional clashes between the ‘indigenous’ Finns and the immigrants, the relations between different populations in Finland are, in the light of international comparison, fairly good (ibid.: 20).

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the report surmises that, as a result of immigration and the consequent pluralisation of Finnish society, especially the questions pertaining to religions and world views will become more and more important. It is also stated in the report that since religion, on the one hand, is often used as a tool in political conflicts, but, on the other hand, is also easily turned into a source of discrimination in society and employment, religious communities have an important role to play in the improvement of ethnic relations. Moreover, the obligation of the Ministry of Education is to see to it that issues pertaining to ethnicity, multiculturalism, religions and world views are duly attended to in education and particularly in the textbooks used in schools. The ultimate aim of all these measures in Finnish society is to foster the acceptance of diversity and to work towards the realisation of ethnic equality. In sum, multiculturalism in this governmental report is understood as the equal coexistence of different cultures. (Kohti etnistä yhdenvertaisuutta 2001.) In Ireland in 1991, the Department of Justice, Equality and Law Reform published a strategy proposal entitled Integration: A Two Way Process. This strategy for the integration of refugees states that the responsibility of the government, but also that of each Irish citizen, is to welcome refugees and to embrace diversity, and thereby contribute to the development of a tolerant society. Thereby, ‘integration’ involves a ‘two way process which places certain duties and obligations on refugees and on the host society at both the national and community level in order to create an environment in the host society which welcomes refugees as people who have something to contribute to society’. Consequently, the ‘emphasis of integration policy should be on supporting initiatives which enable the preservation of the ethnic, cultural and religious identity of the individual’. From this starting point, the following definition of integration was adopted: ‘Integration means the ability to participate to the extent that a person needs and wishes in all of the major components of society, without having to relinquish his or her own cultural identity.’ (Integration 1999: 9.) The first national action plan on racism in Ireland was published in 2005.31 The aim of the strategy proposal, entitled Planning for 31 Prior to this action plan, there was a three-year anti-racism awareness programme, which is outlined in its final report published in 2003 (see Know Racism 2003).

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Diversity, is ‘to protect minorities against racism, accommodate diversity in health and education services and allow all minority groups to participate fully in society’ (O’Brien 2005). In his foreword, Michael McDowell, Minister for Justice, Equality and Law Reform, proudly refers to the reputation of the Irish ‘for warmth and generosity as a people’, and to the international image of Ireland as ‘one of the most desirable places in which to live and work’ (Planning for Diversity 2005: 11).32 This generous welcome is also reflected throughout the above-mentioned action plan for diversity. In similar fashion to the former strategy related to the integration of refugees, ‘integration’ in this action plan is understood to be ‘a two way process that places duties and obligations on both cultural and ethnic minorities and the State to create a more inclusive society.’ Therefore, in the context of this plan: ‘“integration” simply means a range of targeted strategies for the inclusion of groups such as Travellers, refugees and migrants as part of the overall aim of developing a more inclusive and intercultural society’, which ‘is essentially about the conditions for interaction, understanding, equality of opportunity and respect’. (Planning for Diversity 2005: 38–9, 42.) With respect to religion, the plan notes that: There has always been religious diversity in Ireland, most notably in respect of the two largest Christian religious traditions in Ireland. Religious diversity has significantly expanded in recent years, mainly as a consequence of inward migration, and [religion] is an important dimension to many people’s ethnic and cultural identity. There has been a long established Jewish community in Ireland dating back to the nineteenth century and the more recently established Muslim community in Ireland dates back to the 1950s. Between 1991 and 2002, the number of Muslims in Ireland quadrupled to 19,000 due to inward migration. Over the same period, the number of Orthodox Christians in Ireland grew from 400 to over 10,000 mainly reflecting inward migration from non-EU European countries. This increasing religious diversity is to be welcomed and raises important issues that require sensitive and considered policy responses. (Planning for Diversity 2005: 51)

32 As one of the strong rationales for the work against racism, this action plan lists ‘the reputation case’, i.e. the international reputation of Ireland as a promoter of human rights and as a warm and welcoming place to visit and to live (Planning for Diversity 2005: 41; see also p. 56).

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Hence, the Irish strategy acknowledges the importance that religion can have for one’s cultural identity and explicitly welcomes religious diversity, including the fast-growing Muslim community. Thereby, on the level of policy papers, Ireland certainly shows sensitivity to religion as a multicultural issue. Moreover, this action plan is also more explicit about racism with respect to religion in the sense that it lists as a form of racism anti-semitism and Islamophobia. (Planning for Diversity 2005: 29, 56.) Unfortunately, the paper does not elaborate these observations further. The above-mentioned action plan also aims, in accordance with the recommendations of the Department of Education and Science Report Promoting Anti Racism and Interculturalism in Education (2002), at the ‘reasonable’ accommodation of cultural diversity by implementing a national intercultural education strategy at all levels of the Irish education system (Planning for Diversity 2005: 106). Admittedly, this goal follows the ethos of the Education Act (1998) which aims to ensure that the education system ‘respects the diversity of values, beliefs, languages and traditions in Irish society’ (see also Promoting Anti Racism 2002). Most recently, the aim to ‘normalise difference’ was expressed in the recent guidelines for primary schools, which were published by the Department of Education and Science in May 2005, entitled Intercultural Education in the Primary School (see Holland 2005). In this report, ‘intercultural education’ is understood as ‘education that respects, celebrates, and recognises the normality of diversity in all aspect of human life’ (Intercultural Education 2005: 169). With respect to terminology, it is also stated in the introduction of this report that ‘multiculturalism’ is sometimes used to describe a society in which different cultures live side by side without much interaction, [whereas] the term ‘interculturalism’ expresses a belief that we all become personally enriched by coming in contact with and experiencing other cultures, and that people of different cultures can and should be able to engage with each other and learn from each other. (Intercultural education 2005: 3)

This definition of terms nicely encapsulates the distinction made in this study between multiculturalism in the descriptive and the normative sense.33 In Ireland, the report (2005: 3) further notes, the 33 Similar conceptual clarity is not, however, apparent in the definitions of ‘intercultural education’ and ‘multicultural education’, both of which ‘celebrate difference’ (Intercultural education 2005: 169).

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approach to cultural diversity is one of interculturalism rather than that of multiculturalism. The problem, however, is that a traditional view of Irishness, not recognising the cultural and ethnic diversity within Ireland, makes many Irish people from minority groups feel excluded. (Intercultural education 2005: 13). As was noted in the Introduction, this was the exact experience of the young Muslim cited in the beginning of this book (see Millar 2005). Thus, the aim of intercultural education is, implicitly, also to change the definition of Irishness towards a more inclusive term. According to these guidelines, the intercultural education is meant for all children (Intercultural Education 2005: 21), irrespective of whether they attend ‘ethnically-diverse schools or one that is wholly white, Irish and Catholic’ (Holland 2005). In addition to listing strategies for dealing with racism in school, these guidelines also include putting up multilingual signs and ensuring that teachers and pupils can pronounce each other’s names properly. In respect of the first language of a child from an ethnic minority joining a school, teachers are encouraged to find out key phrases in that language, such as ‘please’ or ‘well done’. (Intercultural Education 2005: 38 ff.). Moreover, in order to help the cultural adaptation of the children from ethnic minorities in Irish schools, there are also plans to improve the teaching of English as a second language (Intercultural Education 2005: 112; 162 ff.). To date, in addition to learning English as their second language, the discussion on the need of children from ethnic minorities to learn their first language has hardly even begun in Ireland (see O’Loingsigh 2001: 118). In this respect, it seems that there is more cultural awareness in Finland than in Ireland. Perhaps, the reason for greater sensitivity with respect to language in Finland is the fairly recently acquired status of Finnish as a dominant language of the country, and also the fact that Finnish is so scarcely spoken worldwide. For all practical purposes, Finns simply cannot afford not to know other languages than Finnish. However, it is a completely different matter with the English language, which is the dominant language in Ireland, and is rapidly gaining dominance also worldwide. Admittedly, the Irish language is taught in most Irish schools as a second language, in similar fashion to Swedish in Finnish schools. However, in addition to these ‘compulsory’ languages, there is a fundamental difference in the multicultural policies regarding language education in Finland and Ireland. With respect to religion, a recent report on education and antiracism in Ireland pointed out that the Irish system of education is

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failing to address the needs of families who are not Catholics. The present situation, where most of the schools are under the ownerships and management of the Catholic Church, and where, therefore, only one percent of the schools are multi-denominational, leaves very little choice for parents with respect to their children’s education. Previously, multi-denominational schools were seen mainly as an issue concerning non-religious or non-practising Catholics. The growing pluralisation, however, has widened this issue to concern also Muslims, Hindus and other religions in Ireland. (Cullen 2005.) As noted by Philip Watt, the director of the National Consultative Council on Racism and Interculturalism: You have, for instance, Muslim children in Catholic schools who are sitting at the back of the class or playing in the corridor while the rest are being taught religion. That’s hardly acceptable in the long run. (Cullen 2005)

Accordingly, this is a problem acknowledged in Ireland also by the Muslims themselves (see Chapter Ten). However, as will be discussed in more detail in Chapters Eight and Nine, this matter in Finland has been dealt with in recent legislation concerning religious freedom and religious education in schools. No doubt, legislation, dealt with in Chapters Three and Four, is the main agency in dealing with the religious rights granted by these respective countries to people of different religions. It is obvious from the above that the policies of multiculturalism in both Finland and Ireland, on the one hand, emphasise the right of their society members to an individual cultural identity, and, on the other hand, irrespective of one’s cultural identity, encourage their full participation in the host society. In other words, these programmes do not propose two different standards for the old and new members of these societies (cf. Hannikainen 1996: 54): all of them are to be treated equally and offered equal opportunities in society (see Forsander 2001: 46). It is against this background that one should also look at the position of Muslims in these respective countries. In the light of these equality-based multicultural norms, it should be possible for a Muslim, living in Finland or Ireland, to be a full-fledged member of these societies, while adhering to Islam as a fundamental part of her or his identity. As was noted already in the beginning of this book, this, however, is easier said than done. The general attitudes of the wider society do not always coincide

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with the national programmes and action plan to combat discrimination and racism; often the attitudes towards ethnic minorities are exclusive rather than inclusive. Therefore, in addition to international obligations, the racist and discriminatory attitudes on the home ground are, of course, another strong justification for the state to enforce multicultural policies and, in particular, to encourage intercultural education in school. Research on the attitudes of the wider society towards minorities, immigrants and refugees in Finland and Ireland, and on the experiences of these groups in these respective countries, constitutes a fast-growing body of research literature. However, it is not possible here to go into great detail on these studies and, therefore, some general observations have to suffice. Both Finland and Ireland show similarities with respect to attitudes towards foreigners in the sense that, the more different people look or behave, the harder it is for the ‘native’ Finns and Irish to accept them. Moreover, newcomers from Western European countries score much higher than people from Eastern Europe—not to mention the Middle East, Africa or Asia—in the list of those with whom Finns and Irish want to have close contact. Hence, one can conclude that Muslims, who for the most part come from outside Europe, are among those people who most easily raise suspicions among the Finns and the Irish. This generalisation should not, however, gloss over the fact that Muslims, as a very heterogeneous group, also attract very different attitudes toward them, as will be discussed in more detail in Chapters Six and Seven. One can, however, observe an interesting difference between Finland and Ireland in the expectations concerning the behaviour of foreigners, and the way foreigners themselves should aim to overcome the divide between themselves and the wider society. As was mentioned above, the Irish have a reputation of being a warm and friendly people, and it is this reputation that the governmental multicultural policies want to underscore. This reputation notwithstanding, the ‘seductive charm of the Irish culture no longer seems to work in quite the old way’: the Irish greeting céad míle fáilte [a hundred thousand welcomes], so often used in the tourist industry, is no longer extended to all new arrivals. (Kiberd 2001: 45.) On the contrary, it has been argued that, as a result of recent racist attacks in Ireland directed towards newly arrived Africans and Europeans, the image of ‘Ireland of the welcomes’ has been irrevocably tarnished (Rolston & Shannon 2002: 2). At the same time, it has been

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noted that one should not underestimate ‘the historical ability of the Irish to assimilate waves of incomers’. Kiberd gives the example of the Normans who became ‘more Irish than the Irish themselves’, and asks (with tongue in cheek no doubt): ‘Who is to say that the latest group of arriving Nigerians might not know the same destiny. If there is no zeal like the zeal of the convert, there may be no Irishness quite like that of the recent recruit.’ (Kiberd 2001: 45.) Whether newcomers to Ireland will be turned into ‘converts’ to Irishness or not is another matter, but a recent study on the experiences of international students in Ireland would partly seem to support the view that Irish society in general seeks to assimilate foreigners. A study, conducted at three separate universities in Ireland in the autumn of 1997, showed that the international students interviewed for the study perceived the acculturation attitude of the Irish as involving both ‘friendliness and insularity’. With respect to these attitudes, they saw, as the dominant feature of the Irish society, cultural insularity, which in their view led to somewhat contradictory approaches of both Irish friendliness and discrimination towards nonnationals and ethnic minorities. Thus, Irish friendliness markedly increased towards those students who adopted to Irish cultural values, beliefs and social norms, such as the tacit rules for conversation, privacy and sites for socialising involved in everyday interactions. Those students who expressed Irish values, beliefs and norms were socially included by Irish people into the local community. However, those students who did not express these values, beliefs or norms tended to be excluded by Irish social groups in the community, a result which many of the students interpreted as a type of discrimination. (Boucher 2000: 244)

These observations somewhat support the idea that the main attitude of the wider Irish society towards newcomers is inclusive in terms of ‘assimilation’. However, the above-mentioned international students also pointed out the contradiction of multicultural and discriminatory treatment of non-nationals by the Irish state, which ‘mixes internal inclusion for Irish citizens and certain categories of migrants with the external exclusion from Ireland of specific groups of nonEU migrants’. In conclusion, one can note a contradictory mixture of inclusion and exclusion in the acculturation approach of both the state and wider society in Ireland. (Boucher 2000: 244–5.) Perhaps, therefore, the Irish approach to multiculturalism could best be characterised as constituting a paradox of ‘friendly discrimination’.

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Similar observations concerning inclusion and exclusion of different immigrant groups have also been made in Finland: ‘People coming from other European countries, or those referred to as westerners, with historical and cultural similarities, are evidently considered more or less like us. No conceptual problem seems to arise in their case’ (Suurpää 2002: 118). The ‘problem’ concerns those who score high in the hierarchy of difference. The above-mentioned study on international students in Ireland portray them as different types of cultural and social actors, of whom some do adapt to Irish society and some do not (Boucher 2000). Against the backdrop of this study in Ireland, it is interesting to read about a study based on interviews conducted in the winter of 1997 about the attitudes of young people in Helsinki towards immigrants. These young people, who presented themselves as ‘liberal’, tended to make a clear distinction between a ‘good vs. bad immigrant’ on the basis of the immigrants’ societal roles and positions as ‘suitable and acceptable vs. doubtful and rejected’. In their views, a ‘good immigrant’ fits into the role of ‘tame victims’, who do not challenge Finland’s supposed political continuity, nor the country’s dominant cultural traditions. They are supposed to remain as observers regardless of what their real position is, both in socio-cultural and in legal terms. They are politically silent with a certain willingness to display a minimum of more or less externally demanded loyalty towards social practices and cultural values described as “common” and “dominant”, whether Finnish or Western. (Suurpää 2002: 118–9)

The attitudes displayed above are dissimilar to the Irish in the sense that one cannot find there any of the Irish ‘friendliness’, or any willingness to welcome newcomers, in whatever terms, to a local cultural community. An additional factor that comes up in the Finnish study is the question of language: Finnish language, or the lack of it, seems to be a particular threshold to cross over to ‘Finnishness’. Admittedly, with English the language barrier is not necessarily so overwhelming as with Finnish. As was noted above, English is spoken worldwide, unlike Finnish which, even if the dominant language of Finland, is minuscule on on international scale. Most of the young people, interviewed for the above-mentioned study, agreed that ‘a common culture presupposes a common language’, and therefore those who hold a public role in Finnish society should be fluent in Finnish. In other words, language is used as an important boundary marker, which separates Finns from foreigners. In sum, immigrants

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in Finland are accepted if they submit to the often invisible social and cultural borders outlined for them; they are accepted ‘as a more or less controlled community’, regardless of whether their cultural habits are understood or rejected by the wider society. Foreigners are welcomed to make Finland into a more colourful place—but only on Finnish conditions, involving a restricted space and predictable ways. Consequently, there seems to be a huge gap between the supposedly recognised cultural rights of minorities in recent Finnish immigrant policy statements and concrete encounters in everyday life where these rights should materialise. (Suurpää 2002: 119–20.) The above-mentioned studies provide only a glimpse into the multicultural field in Finland and Ireland, which of course cannot be generalised outright in respect of the whole society. This reservation notwithstanding, one could note, tentatively, that in both Finland and Ireland newcomers are, to some extent, welcomed but only on terms set by the Finns or the Irish respectively. However, there is also a difference between these two countries in so far as in Ireland newcomers gain a decree of acceptance if they participate in the local community, whereas in Finland the newcomers seem to gain acceptance mainly as harmless and silent observers. Whatever the case may be, it is obvious that in both of these countries it is rather easy to justify the need for intercultural education and the multicultural policies promoted by the state. At the same time, the divide between the theory of policy-makers and the practise of everyday encounters in society accentuate the fact that there is more to multiculturalism than the descriptive and normative sense of this term. This will be discussed in more detail below with respect to multiculturalism from a critical point of view. Critical approach Multiculturalism as a political concept can be loaded with positive connotation (Wahlbeck 1999: 16); however, it can also easily turn into a weapon of criticism (see Goldberg 1995; Samad 1997: 245). Multicultural situations in different countries might be different but, nonetheless, they have a feature in common, namely the question of social actors and the power and authority vested in them. In any society there is a group of people who are in a position to define what is meant by a common national culture, but it is often the same people who also lay down the parameters of multicultural poli-

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cies in a country. Multiculturalism is therefore intrinsically linked to ‘power struggles and collective negotiations of cultural, ethnic and racial differences’ (Modood and Werbner 1997: vii). Consequently, multiculturalism is not simply a neutral description of a situation, but rather an ideology that is used by social actors in order to promote certain social and political ends in a society (see Büchi 1997). The concept of multiculturalism can therefore be furnished with a critical meaning, which also sheds a new light on the descriptive identifications of multiculturalism and its normative justifications. From a critical point of view, multiculturalism almost inevitably becomes an ideological issue to be defended or opposed. One can therefore conclude that identification with multiculturalism always entails divisions, which are inherent in the term cultural pluralism. (See Büchi 1997.) Hence, a question arises as to how these divisions may be defined with regard to the cultural encounter between the wider society and those in the minority position. For example, one might mention the opinion expressed by the chairman of the committee preparing the minority and refugee policy in Finland, IlkkaChristian Björklund (1997), who pointed out that the main question concerning this policy is how to adjust the cultural habits of the newcomers to ‘Finnish ways’. According to Björklund, polygamy and the circumcision of girls, for instance, are examples of traditions that are in conflict with the ‘Finnish sense of justice’ and hence unacceptable on any account. Moreover, he argues that problems also occur in respect of Muslim women who insist on wearing a scarf for a passport photo. On these issues, he is not willing to compromise and therefore he insists that demands of this sort should not be conceded in Finland. However, approaching cultural differences by simply saying ‘This is how we do things here’ is criticised by Charles Taylor (1995: 96) as ‘awkward’, or even ‘crude’ and ‘insensitive’. Nevertheless, even in his politics of recognition there are situations in which this kind of reply is necessary. Taylor refers to the ‘Rushdie affair’, which he, strangely enough, identifies with ‘mainstream Islam’. (See Modood 1997b: 3–4.) Thus, in similar fashion to Björklund, it is Islam which seems to provoke Taylor to name the limits for acceptance of cultural differences (cf. Zemni 2002). Taking Islam as an example of unacceptable cultural differences would indicate that the discourse of Islam as a problem is repeated also in discussions on multiculturalism, which is actually what Tariq Modood (1997b: 2–4) argues with reference to the politics of multiculturalism.

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In itself, this is both surprising and worrisome. It is surprising in the sense that one would expect experts of multiculturalism to know more than to simply identify Islam with problems, and it is worrisome because it reproduces the one-sided negative image imposed on Islam in the ‘West’. Moreover, it must be noted that it is a religious tradition which is being used here as a limit to the liberal vision of multiculturalism. In agreement with Modood (1997a; 1997b), it is argued in this work that, instead of disregarding them, religion in general and Muslims in particular should indeed be included in the conception of multiculturalism. (See Baumann 1999.) In general, the above discussions on the limits of multiculturalism serve as an example of negotiations that are inevitable in a multicultural society. In this negotiation one can elicit the conditions that are preset for the cultural encounter between the newcomers and the host society. For Björklund these conditions are defined against the backcloth of a common Finnish culture that is identified with such terms as ‘Finnish ways’ and ‘Finnish sense of justice’. However, all Finns do not draw the line between Finns and newcomers in the same way. In his writing, Björklund is also critical of Finns who object to the rights given to foreigners in Finland and who therefore are opposed to him and the committee that he is chairing. As such, the critical comments by Björklund show that there are different ways to understand what being ‘Finnish’ actually involves. Moreover, it nicely illustrated how discussion on multiculturalism does not only concern the relations between the wider society and foreigners, but culminates in contested views on the national culture, which is set as a norm for newcomers. Thus, in respect of multiculturalism as social argument, there is a particular kind of dynamism between the rhetoric of cultural pluralism and that of the common national culture. In order to understand this dynamism, it is necessary to study multiculturalism in relation to actual social and historical contexts, and from both the descriptive and normative viewpoints. The history of a country can be constructed very differently if one merely concentrates on the development of the national culture and its main symbols, instead of also recognising the cultural heterogeneity of people or the existence of certain indigenous elements that have hitherto been classed as not belonging to wider society. Take, for example, Finland, which is considered to be, culturally speaking, a very homogenous country where the vast majority of the people speak Finnish as their mother tongue and belong to the Evangelical Lutheran Church. Officially recognised exceptions to this

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homogeneity are the aforementioned Swedish speakers and those belonging to the Orthodox Church. However, there are other native ethnic minorities in Finland such as the Sami and the Romany people. Until recently, both these populations have been marginalised— either geographically or socially—and consequently, for the most part, have remained culturally invisible. (See Pentikäinen & Hiltunen 1995.) In similar fashion to Finland, one of the dearly cherished myths in Ireland has been that all the Irish share a common culture, fashioned to a large extent by Catholicism, even though there are a number of traditional minorities in this country, such as Protestants, Jews, and the Travellers, who have lived in this country for centuries (see MacÉinrí 2002). In contrast to Finland and Ireland, the United States, however, is often used as the example of a melting pot of different cultures and hence is seen as the multicultural country par excellence. Nevertheless, in the official policies of the USA one can detect a certain ideology of ‘Americanism’ that necessitates being white, middle class, and Christian (Goldberg 1995; see also Kymlicka 1995b: 10). Undoubtedly, one manifestation of this ideology is the American civil religion (see Bellah 1970; Albanese 1992; McGuire 1992: 179; Ketola et al. 1997). In sum, one can conclude that in an ostensibly homogeneous country there exists cultural pluralism, even though it may go unnoticed, and that in an outwardly multicultural country there is a core of common national culture, even if it would not be articulated as such. What we can conclude from the above examples is twofold. First, it is obvious that multiculturalism is context-bound and should be perceived as such. Second, multiculturalism should always be seen together with its counterpart, monoculturalism. In order to avoid reifying either of these, it is important to remember that both monoculturalism and multiculturalism have a history. Moreover, irrespective of their differences, both of them are, as institutional ideologies, modern inventions: the development of monoculturalism dates back to the end of the nineteenth century and was enforced along with the building of the nation-state, whereas multiculturalism, as a challenge to monoculturalism, is in its contemporary form only a few decades old. (Goldberg 1995.) Thus, in a sense, mono- and multiculturalism are two sides of the same coin, and hence should be treated as such. A multicultural liberal society is ridden with contradictory demands when, on the one hand, it aims in principle at treating all cultural groupings equally, while, on the other hand, it seeks to maintain its

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identity as a society with a specific character and history. This, as pointed out by Bhikhu Parekh, ‘raises the question as to whether and how the legitimate demands of both equality and identity can be reconciled’ (1997: 16). Therefore, one can conclude that the development of a multicultural society almost inevitably involves some sort of conflict (Forsander 2001: 47). For instance, it involves the interplay between justifications of monoculturalism and multiculturalism—or that of unity and diversity, or that of sameness and difference. Without a doubt, striking a balance in a multicultural society between identity and equality is a crucial topic in need of negotiation: ‘The challenge is to foster an open and honest national debate in which the options are clearly defined and discussed’ (MacÉinrí 2002: 2; cf. Forsander 2001: 47). From the critical point of view, multiculturalism cannot be taken for granted, because both its identification and especially its justification are seen as ideological expressions of opinion which aim at reinforcing, in most cases, the prevailing social order (see Zemni 2002: 172).34 With regard to social order, in turn, critical questions of multiculturalism concern the incorporation of different cultural groupings into the wider society and, in particular, their access to the public domain (see Samad 1997: 241). Historically, classical studies on pluralism focussed on colonial and post-colonial societies, which were institutionally divided along ethnic lines and where the political power in the public domain was held by a small elite (Wahlbeck 1999: 16; Samad 1997: 242). A similar kind of power structure was also characteristic of the multiethnic imperia ruled by Muslims, who, as a ruling elite, were tolerant towards Christians and Jews, giving them considerable autonomy within their own religious communities. This toleration notwithstanding, Muslims were in a privileged position and Islam enjoyed special protection compared to other religious traditions. All in all, these former societies, marked by some sort of ‘conservative multiculturalism’ (McLaren 1995: 47), were generally characterised by forms of collective segregation and institutional discrimination, which were often justified in benevolent terms, and were generally taken for granted. However, contemporary multiculturalism in Europe, is ‘qualitatively different from the diversity of personal lifestyles and cultural 34 The term ‘repressive tolerance’ nicely encapsulates a system where plurality is officially accepted but only in terms of the wider society (see Zemni 2002: 172).

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differences of historic, territorially based minorities that already characterise some western European countries’ (Modood 1997a: 1). In modern liberal democracies, moreover, the idea is that all members of society should have an equal access to the public domain. It is also argued that in order to enhance equal treatment of cultural and religious groupings the public domain should be neutral, while cultural and religious differences are restricted to the private domain (Bruce 2001: 92). According to John Rex, to put it simply, an ideal multicultural society is organised so that the public domain, i.e. law, politics, and the economy, is unitary, whereas the private domain, i.e. family, morality, and religion, is marked by diversity (Rex 1996: 15; Wahlbeck 1999: 16). In other words, multiculturalism would be characteristic of the private but not the public domain. Consequently, in this model, which resembles the ‘civic assimilationist view’ in Parekh (2000: 200), the public domain is marked by universal principles of unity so that the differences in the private domain would have no structural consequences. However, in reality this is not the case because some groups usually have a greater access to the public domain than others (Samad 1997: 243). In fairly homogeneous cultures, such as those of Finland and Ireland, this group is bound to consist of the members belonging to the majority, i.e. the native Finns and Irish.35 In conceptualisations of multiculturalism, therefore, the separation between the public and private domains should be problematised and attention payed to ‘areas of society, like education, which intrude into both domains’. These are ‘the areas where conflicts might occur and where some kinds of compromise have to be found’ (Wahlbeck 1999: 16). In addition to education, one may note also that religion defies in many ways the private-public distinction (Parekh 2000: 203). Therefore, religion is among those areas in which conflicts could and do indeed occur, and where compromises need to be found. This is

35 In both of these countries, there is a growing body of research literature which draws attention to critical issues concerning cultural and ethnic pluralisation. For instance, for Finland, see Forsander, Ekholm & Saleh 1994; Dahlgren et al. 1996; Lepola 2000; Forsander et al. 2001; Suurpää 2002, Jasinskaja-Lahti, Liebkind & Vesala 2002; Puuronen et al. 2004, and, for Ireland, see MacLaughlin 1995; MacLachlan & O’Connell 2000; Lentin & McVeigh 2002; Garner 2004. With respect to the most recent literature on immigrants and refugees, it seems that the Finnish research focusses on issues concerning education and employment, whereas the Irish literature very much deals with personal experiences of racism.

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the task of multicultural policies, which, instead of reinforcing divisions and inequalities in society, should find ways for integration as a mutual process of accommodation in which both the wider society and minorities aim at an agreement on basic principles and practises acceptable in the society they share. (Wahlbeck 1999: 17; Berns McGown 1999: 54–58.) However, the enforcement of such mutual integration should not focus only on individuals and their ability to adapt, but rather produce changes in the social structure and in institutions because only in this way can collective norms be altered. (Soysal 1994: 5; Samad 1997: 241.) Religion and multiculturalism To date, religion is very much an unstudied area in research on multiculturalism. However, approaching multiculturalism only in ‘secular’ terms leaves out an array of important questions, relating not only to immigrants and religious minorities but also to the role of religion in the wider society in general. Even in the liberal democracies of Western Europe, the public domain is not so free of religion as it is at times portrayed to be and this, in turn, leads one to critically ask if, instead of being mono-religious, the public sphere could be multi-religious, and if so, what would it mean in practise. Without a doubt, our conception of multiculturalism is clearly inadequate if it sees religious pluralism only as a matter of private concern, and hence it is necessary to inquire what the role of religion is, first, in the wider society, and second, in the incorporation of religious minorities within a host society. Naturally enough, these questions receive different answers according to the respective country involved, as the examples of both Finland and Ireland readily indicate. What the above discussion amounts to is the question as to whether multiculturalism should be ‘secular’ or whether it should also include religion. Both of these approaches have their benefits and drawbacks. In respect of the former, a secular view easily leads to multiculturalism that is ‘religion-blind’ (Modood 1997b: 10), whereas a religious view is threatened with ‘religionization’ (Parekh 2000: 198). In terms of secular multiculturalism, it is, for instance, hard to explain why Muslims and Jews would support the establishment of a Christian church, as has happened in the constitutional debate on the privileged position of the Church of England in the British state (Modood

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1997b). With regard to different readings of the current situation in Britain, it is obvious that for groups holding to a minority faith, the established position of a majority church is seen as an important gateway to the public domain, and hence the establishment does not only represent the advantage of this church but the interests of religious groups in general. For religious communities, such as Jews and Muslims, it is important to maintain the link between church and state and thereby keep religion on the public agenda (see Rothschild 1997; Rosser-Owen 1997). Thus, from the religious point of view, establishment of a majority church is not necessarily seen as violating principles of equality in a plural society; on the contrary, the secularists are accused of using minority religions as a justification for their own secularist project (Rothschild 1997: 55). As this example indicates, it is important not to reify the secular liberal view of a religion-free public domain in a multicultural society but, instead, one should be open to religious perspectives, which can and at times do contest the secular view. (See Chapter Three.) Moreover, a multiculturalism which is ‘religion-blind’ does not recognise religious actors, whether those belonging to the majority or those in the minority. However, it is much easier to be ‘religionblind’ with those representing the religion which is most prevalent in society. In such situations, the threshold between private and public becomes practically invisible because time and the physical environment are fashioned both in public and private life according to the same religious tradition. Thus, in Europe, one follows a calendar which is structured according to the Christian faith and lives in a symbolic environment which is marked by Christianity. Hence, celebrating Christmas or resting on Sundays are important markers in European social life, even if in practise they would no longer hold distinctive religious value. However, following a calendar of another religious tradition sets oneself automatically against the grain. For instance, fasting in the month of Ramadan, celebrating Eid al-Fitr or Eid al-Adha, and attending collective prayer on Friday, are not, in the European context, a natural part of social life; instead, they are issues which need to be negotiated. In consequence, crossing the threshold between private and public is closely connected with a history and position that a religious community holds in a society. Most of all, negotiations on the right to follow religious tradition different from the major form of Christianity make the division between private and public visible.

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The practises related to Islam are, of course, only one example of matters that contest the division between private and public. A particular way to dress, such as traditional costumes worn by Romany women, turbans worn by Sikhs, or scarfs worn by Muslim women, are visible markers of another ethnic or religious tradition, which violate the monocultural realm of public life. So are, for instance, the purpose-built mosques, which have been hard to conceive of as a part of the European symbolic environment (see Chapter Five). In addition to visible signs, the audible signs, such as calls to prayer, are equally hard to accept. In Europe, for the most part, church buildings and church bells are hence seen as a natural part of our visible and audible environment, whereas mosques and calls to prayer are often thought to be a disturbance. In respect of the above discussion, one can conclude that the private-public distinction seems to be crucial where multiculturalism is regarded as ‘religion-blind’. Moreover, there is no doubt that religion is an important factor to examine concerning a study on multicultural conditions. However, the importance of religion notwithstanding, there are limits to which extent religion should be used as a conceptual lens in explaining multicultural issues. In similar fashion to culture, religion can be essentialised, and members of religious minorities seen as being more religious than they actually are. For social actors, religion can mean many things from individual conviction, to cultural heritage, or to being simply a social bond. Moreover, the role of religion often varies in the course of one’s life. Therefore, it is important to be sensitive, not to religion as such, but rather to the variations in religiosity, attached to a particular time, place, and social actor (cf. Parekh 2000: 198). The inability, or unwillingness, to recognise heterogeneity within one religious tradition easily leads to stereotypes of religious communities, which are problematic when constituting policies for the integration of people of a different faith and culture. As an example, one can mention conceptions of certain ethnic or cultural minorities who, for one reason or another, are seen as unfit for integration. In the United States these people used to constitute black population; in Europe it is the Muslims who are often seen as a problem in this regard (Goldberg 1995: 5; Vöcking 1999). With respect to the latter, Modood (1997a: 4) therefore speaks of a form of cultural racism whereby Muslims are identified in terms of their non-European descent—which no doubt can easily be couched in religious terms

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as well. Unfortunately, a monolithic picture of religion, greatly reinforced by the media, is especially prevalent where Islam is concerned, which is often felt by Muslims living in Europe, irrespective of their religious orientation. With regard to religious communities in a minority position, a danger in Europe is that a model of religiosity based on Christianity is imposed on them and hence they are expected to have an explicit creed and structure, regardless of their own tradition in this matter (see Jonker 2002: 41). Of course, some form of adaptation to the prevailing social order is bound to occur for religions in diaspora, but to what extent this is and can be demanded of them by a wider society is a matter of multicultural negotiations, and hence a topic of inquiry. A crucial question here concerns the terms which minorities can use in order to legitimise their demands (see Toivanen 2004). As pointed out by Parekh (2000: 198), the refusal to accommodate the legitimate cultural demands of minorities can lead to justifying these demands in terms of ethnicity or religion. For Parekh, ‘religionization’ of cultural demands is a pitfall that should be avoided because it tends to politicise cultural differences, and give them more importance then they deserve (2000: 198–9, see also Samad 1997: 244). Without a doubt, one can easily agree with the argument that, for all practical purposes, it would be useful to speak of matters using their proper names. However, what these proper names are, and what they signify, is not always so easily defined. This is obvious with regard to the conceptualisation of religious freedom, which will be discussed in more detail in Chapter Two.

CHAPTER TWO

THE RHETORIC OF RELIGIOUS FREEDOM Contested ‘Good Things’ Religious freedom is ridden with paradoxes. In the contemporary international community, there is no disagreement, in principle, on the importance of religious freedom as a fundamental human right, but, in practice, however, religious freedom seems to be one of those rights which effectively evades common agreement concerning its scope and content. To date, no human rights treaty has defined religion or belief (Evans 2001: 51). Admittedly, this is understandable since ‘No universal definition can readily embrace today’s religious heterogenous world’ and, therefore, ‘Charlatanism is a necessary price of religious freedom’ (Witte 1996: xxiii). Perhaps the definitional problems concerning religion also constitute the reason for a situation where human rights related to religion and belief are among the ‘first’ protected rights, but no global obligatory treaty has been concluded by the United Nations in this sensitive area (Lerner 1996: 79; see also Evans 2001: 37). Without a doubt, religious freedom is a sensitive area due to the difference of opinion regarding how religion should be defined and what the freedoms are that should be granted with respect to religion. Religious freedom is and remains a highly contested issue on the international scenes in particular, and is becoming more and more so on the national scenes when European countries are, to a growing degree, facing the challenge of multiculturalism and religious plurality. Perhaps, nonetheless, one can agree with the claim that any enlightened society regards both religious freedom and religious pluralism as obviously good things (Robert Bellah, cited in Alwall 1998: 15). However, one can equally claim that both of these ‘good things’ are very much contested issues in contemporary Europe. Therefore, both religious freedom and multiculturalism are topics of social argument. In this sense, they are a matter of rhetoric; rhetoric not understood as something devious but, instead, as a pervasive feature of the way people interact and arrive at understanding (Billig 1990: 51). In study-

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ing religious freedom it is therefore necessary to take up the contested nature of these issues and, for the purpose of research, to conceptualise them as such. In this respect, the so-called new rhetoric can offer useful tools. The rhetorical approach, opted for in this study, informs the general theoretical understanding of this work, and culminates in a method of cross-reading, developed as a working tool of the analysis.1 The Rhetorical Approach Social arguments One could say that people basically have argumentative minds and therefore rhetoric is inherent to their way of thinking. This is exactly how the social psychologist, Michael Billig (1996), sees it. According to him, rhetoric is a pervasive feature of the way people interact and arrive at an understanding. He therefore suggests that ‘the processes of thinking are modelled upon those of argumentation: when we think we conduct internal arguments, which would not be possible were there no public arguments between people’ (Billig 1990: 51). This connection between the individual and the social is already present in the ambiguity of the word ‘argument’ itself: The word [argument] has both an ‘individual’ and ‘social’ meaning. The individual meaning refers to any piece of reasoned discourse. As one articulates a point of view, one can be said to be developing an argument. Rhetoric, in this sense, aims to help the individual thinker to develop a chain of reasoning, in order to build up a convincing case. In addition, there is the social meaning of ‘argument’. Here the word does not refer to an individual’s chain of reasoning, but to a dispute between people. Opinions, or individual chains of reasoning, clash in the context of social argument. (Billig 1996: 74.)

Undoubtedly, Islam, attracting strong and often contradictory arguments for and against it, constitutes at present one of the most heated social arguments worldwide. However, Islam as a social argument

1 I have worked extensively on the rhetorical approach in many of my previous publications, most of which are in Finnish (see Sakaranaho 1997; 1998; 2000; 2001; 2003b). Here I will limit myself only to the rhetorical definition of the main concepts of this study.

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does not only culminate in questions concerning world politics but is also a pressing issue on the international and national level in western Europe. Consequently, the fast growing body of research literature on Muslims in Europe is one important forum where the issue of Islam is dealt with and different lines of reasoning put forward in order to make sense of the challenge that Islam poses on the European order of things. In so doing, this research literature involves signifying practices which do not only describe the phenomenon but also, and perhaps more importantly, try to make it understandable (e.g. see Mral 2004). In any event, the question as to how these signifying practices are constituted and used in a study depends on the methodological approach, be it that of semiotics, discourse analysis, or the new rhetoric (see Hall 1997; Sakaranaho 1998: 41). One of the main theorist of the new rhetoric, Kenneth Burke (1897–1994) provided in his writing a means to understand the role of rhetoric in human action related to social controversies, and hence his insights are also useful when taking a theoretical look into debates, which concern such timely issues as Islam, religious freedom and multiculturalism. Burke maintained that in a situation of perfect unity there is no need for rhetoric; neither is there any place for rhetoric in a situation of pure separation or isolation. Rhetoric is therefore a phenomenon that occurs in factious situations between people or groups of people and it thereby always entails, implicitly or explicitly, partiality and a will for power.2 (Burke 1950: 22–25.) In his theory of rhetoric, Burke draws attention to the process of naming things, and how it limits, selects, and constructs reality. He maintains that one seeks vocabularies that would function as faithful reflections of reality. However, to this end, one needs to develop vocabularies that are selections of reality, and any selection of reality, for its part, functions as a deflection of that reality. The aim to reduce complexity to clarity in the selection of vocabulary, therefore, leads to what Burke calls terministic screens. We must use terministic screens, since we can’t say anything without the use of terms; whatever terms we use, they necessarily constitute a corresponding kind of screen; and any such screen necessarily directs

2

In general, Burke is classified as a critical theorist. See Gusfield 1989.

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the attention to one field rather than another. (Burke 1966: 50; italics original.)

Consequently, ‘every way of seeing is also a way of not seeing’ (Gusfield 1989: 34). In order to clarify his idea of terministic screens, Burke takes as his example the use of different lenses in the process of taking photographs; when using different lenses the object is the same but pictures of it are different (Burke 1966: 45). What we can learn from the concept of terministic screens, invented by Burke, is that all terms and concepts are always partial. Nonetheless, it is through some sort of conceptual lenses that we need to look into matters pertaining to social reality, and in the process try to order the abundance of social factors in order to gain some clarity. In the analytical work of sociology, one can make use of the Burkean concept of terministic screens, or conceptual lenses, as it is used here. According to Burke, terministic screens are based on godterms which, like the concept of God in theology, are used as the ultimate source of explanations, beyond which one does not need to go. According to Burke, one of the main god-terms of our time is money. (Burke 1969: 108 ff.) However, there are many other concepts central to western liberal thinking that can be perceived as such terms. As an example, one can mention, for instance, equality or human rights—not to mention religious freedom and multiculturalism, which are the central concepts of this work. Concerning social arguments, it is interesting to see who uses what key terms, and how they use them. It must be noted that god-terms usually are attached to certain types of conceptual lenses. Thus, we readily assume that ‘equality’ is a part of liberal thinking, whereas ‘money’ is a term of the market economy. However, there are several examples of situations in which this pattern is broken. For instance, the term ‘ecological balance’ is launched by the Greens as a part of their set of conceptual lenses. Nowadays, however, not only are many political parties ‘greening’, in one way or another, but also industrial enterprises make use of the ecological terminology in their self-presentation. One can argue, however, that ‘ecological balance’ becomes invested with a very different meaning whether it is used in the programme of environmentalism or in the advertisement campaigns of profit-making enterprises. Thus, change in the conceptual lens also alters the meaning inherent in the line of argumentation.

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In the field of political debate, moreover, a question arises as to who ‘owns’ particular god-terms, and which are the ‘proper’ conceptual lenses within which these terms are to be used, and which, on the other hand, are not. For instance, from the environmentalist point of view, industrial enterprises can be seen as the thieving crows who steal the eggs from their own dearly cherished nest. In the subsequent rhetorical analysis, the key terms used in argumentation can be elicited in the process of identification, which has a double meaning in the sense that it can refer to the identification of one phenomenon as another, or the identification of one person with another person, group or some larger unit (see Sakaranaho 2001: 14; Burke 1950: 19 ff.) Especially in social controversies, identification is the key rhetorical process by means of which people attempt to persuade others. In the selective use of identification there are implicit, and sometimes explicit, appeals to others to agree with or oppose the interpretations or identities which are proffered. It is in situations in which identification, and its counterpart, division, occurs side by side that rhetoric takes place: In pure identification there would be no strife. Likewise, there would be no strife in absolute separateness, since opponents can join battle only through a mediatory ground that makes their communication possible, thus providing the first condition necessary for their interchange of blows. But put identification and division ambiguously together, so that you cannot know for certain just where one ends and the other begins, and you have the characteristic invitation to rhetoric. Here is the reason why rhetoric, according to Aristotle, “proves opposites”. (Burke 1950: 25.)

As such, identifications are an important means by which to create and maintain social order (Gusfield 1989). In the quotation above Burke is rather graphic in his description of social controversies as battles in which people throw punches at one another. Even if one would not necessarily ‘identify’ with such violent metaphors, his remarks on the basic requirements for rhetoric, and especially of the power of identification and division, are very helpful in understanding, for instance, the lines drawn between Islam and the West, which were discussed in the Introduction. From the western point of view, Islam is often identified with violence and warfare, which implicitly carries a strong discourse of division in respect of Islam. However, from the Islamic point of view, Islam is identified with peace and compassion, and the discourse of division

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is employed when criticising the western (mis)conceptions of Islam. Thus, Islam is invested with contradictory meanings, depending on the cultural lenses that are employed in different discourses of identification and division. Consequently, one can refer to different rhetorics of Islam, which accentuates the fact that one is not posing any arguments on the authenticity of Islam, claiming to offer the right understanding of it, but rather looks into different ways of approaching Islam as a part of social discussions that, for instance, concern Muslims in Europe. It is within this latter framework that Islam in this work is understood (see Chapter One). In similar fashion to Burke, who employs identification and division as counterparts, Michael Billig draws attention to justification and criticism as the twin pair of argumentation, which are used as basic strategies in constituting persuasive lines of reasoning. In his view, these two are, furthermore, rhetorically related so that every justification presupposes the existence or eventuality of an unfavourable evaluation of what is being justified, and thus a quest for justification usually arises only in a situation that has given rise to some criticism. One should therefore examine how statements are opposed by counterstatements, arguments by counter-arguments, and discourse with counter-discourse. (Billig 1996: 123 ff.) However, not all argumentation consists of explicit lines of reasoning, as pointed out by Jonathan Potter. Instead of explicit argumentation, Potter elicits implicit argumentation as reifying and ironising rhetoric. Thus, reifying rhetoric refers to procedures that construct versions of the world as solid and factual to such an extent that they are taken for granted. In other words, it refers to the naturalisation of certain states of affairs. (Potter 1996: 106.) For instance, in Ireland it was taken for granted for decades that priests held an authoritative position in society because of their office in the Catholic Church. This authority was a reified fact and naturalized to such an extent that the majority of Irish Catholics would never question it. In contemporary Ireland, however, there is a growing criticism against the Catholic Church as an outcome of disillusionment concerning the sexual conduct of some Catholic priests. Thus, nowadays, it is justified to entertain ‘church-bashing’ and hence engage in what Potter would call ironising rhetoric, i.e. an undermining discourse, which calls into question a naturalised state of affairs. Thereby, ironising rhetoric treats discourse not as something literal, but as a product of interest or strategy and hence undermines the literal descriptiveness of a

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particular account. In sum, ironising rhetoric challenges the prevailing views or states of affairs. It is hence important to show or to reveal the employment of rhetoric in contexts where one would not readily expect it to occur. This is particularly the case in situations where certain conceptual lenses have become so fully reified that nobody comes to question them. In the process of reification, the fact that all conceptual lenses are originally embedded in a particular time, place and with reference to specific social actors has been obscured. (See Sakaranaho 2001: 17.) An excellent example of the employment of rhetoric is the research on radical Islam in Germany by Werner Schiffauer in Die Gottesmänner, where he examines radical Islam in light of the previous leftist radicalism in Germany. The moment of surprise in Schiffauer’s analysis is his criticism of the usual conceptualisations of radical Islam in western research and the introduction of a new point of view with regard to this phenomenon (2000: 315 ff.). In other words, he criticises the prevailing explanations in order to justify another. However, from the rhetorical point of view he does much more than this. First of all, with such criticism Schiffauer ironises the taken-for-granted idea of radical Islam as something fundamentally alien to the European order of things, and in so doing he disregards the conceptual lenses that accentuate the separateness of Islam from the West. Consequently, he resists using the common discourse of division with regard to Islam. Instead, he utilises the discourse of identification and draws attention to similarities that one can pinpoint between radical Islam and the previous student radicalism that was prevalent in Germany in previous decades (see also Modood 2001). With this rhetorical move, he introduces another conceptual lens that forces one to reconsider former arguments concerning radical Islam and, depending on one’s point of view, to agree with Schiffauer, and hence to engage in justifying his argument, or to disagree with him, and hence to produce a counter-argument. Regardless of the responses, this example from Schiffauer’s research nicely illustrates how radical Islam can be conceptualised differently, depending on the conceptual lenses that we choose and the discourse we employ. Moreover, one can use the interpretation of radical Islam by Schiffauer as an example of the process of analysis which actively constitutes alternative conceptual lenses, in order to shed a new light on a phenomenon. This is characteristic with regard to the method of cross-reading, as will be discussed below.

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Cross-reading Concerning the rhetorical approach, one may note the double focus that is apparent in the dynamism between discourses of identification and division, justification and criticism, as well as between reifying and ironising rhetoric. These discourses can be seen as different kinds of signifying processes, which help to constitute a line of reasoning and thereby engage one in argumentation. Moreover, in constituting argumentation one needs to employ some key terms which, in a sense, encapsulate the main line of reasoning. It is only with the help of these terms, which crystallise argumentation, that a relative coherence can be obtained in social argument.3 However, what is at stake here is how to interpret social arguments, which are often very complex, and which change according to the time, place, and social actors involved. Towards such an end, a method of analysis, termed as cross-reading, will be developed in this study. In short, cross-reading refers to a method of analysis where a case is interpreted in the light of another. As such, dealing with different cases in parallel might give the impression that cross-reading involves some kind of comparison. It does, to a certain extent, but not in the sense that comparison is generally understood in sociological studies. In the process of comparison, one defines variables that can be found in all of the cases dealt with in the investigation, whereby these variables have to contain enough similar features in order to be equitable. In other words, there needs to be enough correspondence between them. The surveys on religiosity in Europe, or in the world at large, are an illustrative example of data that is produced for the purpose of comparison between different countries. With the help of these surveys, it is possible to map variations in the numbers of people attending church services, or believing in God, sin, or life ever after, and based on these variations to make comparisons between different countries or religious traditions. (See Davie 2000.) Relative to comparison, international surveys produce information that facilitates making generalisations. These generalisations, for their part, are invaluable material for sociological theory-making. In order to constitute a more general picture of the religious scene in Europe, or in Finland and Ireland, the results of different surveys will also 3 As an example of a systematic analysis of these rhetorical processes in the case of the headscarf issue in Turkey, see Sakaranaho 1999a.

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be utilized to some extent in this research. However, they are more in use as a means to an end than as an end in itself. Moreover, one can use surveys as a springboard for new questions that can then be answered from a more qualitative point of view, which probes into the meaning of things. In other words, one can crossread quantitative and qualitative data. Another strategy of comparative study, which comes close to the method of cross-reading, is usual for research that looks into different strands of development in society. This kind of approach is necessarily informed by the type of theory that articulates the nature and direction of social change. For instance, the process of modernisation, or even secularisation, are classical examples of explanatory frameworks, which assume a basic universality and generality in the course of events irrespective of social context. In the light of these evolutionary models, it is possible to compare different countries and assess their place in the process. Admittedly, as was discussed in Chapter One, there has been a lot of criticism concerning assumptions of the uniformity upon which these processes are based in each country. In this criticism, it has been pointed out that there are breaks, discontinuities, and exceptions to the norm, which inevitably undermine the generalising power of these explanatory frameworks. However, as with surveys, one does not need to disregard altogether these theories and the ideas inherent in them. Instead, they can be harnessed for analytical purposes. If cross-reading does not involve comparing quantitative variables or evolutionary processes, how is it then constituted? The key to this question lies in the reference to the above-mentioned rhetorical approach. From the rhetorical point of view, cross-reading, as an interpretation of a case in the light of another, is a method which constantly aims at creating new conceptual lenses as the research moves forward. Therefore, a research utilising cross–reading need not be committed to any other approach from beginning to end, except the rhetorical one. Instead, the data can be used as a springboard for the formulation of new questions, and these questions will in turn operate as conceptual lenses for the next stage of analysis. Thus, irrespective of their particular discursive field, an interaction will be created between theories and cases, between geographical locations, and also between religious traditions and social actors, which otherwise would not share the same scene.

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One example of cross-reading—even though it is not articulated as such—can be found in an article by Aristide R. Zolberg and Lon Litt Woon (1999), who inquire why debates on immigrants focus on religion in Europe and on language in the United States. They argue that European identity is still deeply embedded in Christianity and therefore Muslims with a visibly different religious tradition are used as a mirror in identifying main tenets of European culture. Islam is the European ‘Other’. However, in the United States, it is English language which operates as a common marker for cultural identification and hence Spanish is the American ‘Other’. Thus, the authors conclude that ‘Spanish in the United States bears a family resemblance to Islam in Europe’ (1999: 7). What we can learn from this example is that, instead of confining the analysis to comparing the same variables in different contexts, such as religion and language, one can instead focus on resemblances in the dynamism of different kinds of signification processes and thereby come up with interesting findings in the way certain matters are argued about. In other words, the line of argumentation can be fashioned in a similar manner while the topic of argumentation is different. Moreover, to take a step further, one can go behind the ‘family resemblances’ (Zolberg and Woon 1999: 27) and inquire what the contextual factors might be which produce certain arguments and on which topics. This kind of an inquiry helps to deepen one’s understanding concerning specific situations, which pertain, for instance, to a particular country, but also on general modes of signification which might reveal something of the way, for instance, collective identities are constituted. The main point in cross-reading is to keep one’s mind open to family resemblances between different phenomena and, with respect to these family resemblances, to get a methodological hold of the underlying processes which are at work in particular contexts. With respect to the identification of ‘family resemblances’ in this study, the first incentive to focus on Muslims in Finland and Ireland was the observation, discussed in the Introduction, that both of these countries experienced a rapid change in the 1990s from homogeneous to multicultural societies, and that, in both of these countries, Muslims, constituting numerically more or less the same size of a population, seem to attract a particular public attention with respect to pluralisation. However, in the process of analysis, the method of cross-reading will be utilised for reading the contexts of Finland and

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Ireland side by side in order to observe, in addition to similarities, also differences between these two countries. It goes without saying that in a particular national context certain issues and viewpoints become dominant while others in consequence remain unrecognised. However, cross-reading these two national cases it is possible to reflect them in the light of each other and, in the process of this reflection, to observe the otherwise unrecognised areas. Finally, the method of cross-reading helps to create a text with an ‘argumentative plot’, where every chapter can be read as an argument which in turn creates an argumentative lens for the following chapters. Hence, the line of reasoning constituted in this work is both successive and cumulative. In sum, the method of cross-reading brings together different sides as a part of the same story, which creates a kind of narrative tension for the changing scenes. At its best, the process of analysis informed by cross-reading becomes a dynamic line of reasoning that can offer novel insights into matters at hand. Nevertheless, crossreading, as any line of reasoning, necessitates the choice of key terms for defining the core of a study. In this research, one of the key terms is, obviously enough, religious freedom. In order to gain some clarity in the definitional swamp around religious freedom, this concept will be given a heuristic definition in the theoretical discussion below, which aims at naming the conceptual lenses that are, or should be, employed when this concept is being used. Religious Freedom as a Rhetorical Act In the light of international developments concerning religious freedom as a human right, and taking into consideration the multicultural reality of contemporary Europe, one’s approach to religious freedom needs to be redefined. Here this redefinition will be done by perceiving religious freedom as a rhetorical act taking place in different contexts ranging between global, national and local frameworks, as illustrated in the following Diagram 1. This diagram is a heuristic device, which helps to outline different contexts in which religious freedom is discussed, and it also helps to deal systematically with the issues that are at stake in each context. It goes without saying that in practice these different contexts tend to overlap but for analytical purposes it is useful to explicate them separately.

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Diagram 1: Religious freedom as a rhetorical act SCENE / AGENT

/ AGENCY

/ PURPOSE

1. International

Supra-/Transnational

Universal identifications

United Nations: General Assembly

International conventions Religious freedom as a and treaties human right

2. Regional

Area specific

European identifications

European Union: European Court of Justice, Luxemburg

Charter of Fundamental Rights

Religious freedom as a European right

Council of Europe: Court of Human Rights, Strasbourg

European Convention on Human Rights

I. GLOBAL SCENE

II. NATIONAL SCENE 3. National

Nation-state

National identifications

Nation-states

Constitution Religious Freedom Act

Religious freedom as a legal right

4. Social

Civil society

Social identifications

Civil Society

Freedom of association Political culture

Religious freedom as social recognition

5. Communal

Communities

Communal identifications

Religious communities

Intra-community rules and regulations

Religious freedom as a horizontal right

6. Individual Social actors

Social actors Forum internum

Individual identifications Religious freedom as an individual right

III. LOCAL SCENE

Personal codes of behaviour

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What informs this diagram, in general, is a rhetorical understanding of social action, which is conceptualised here with the help of Kenneth Burke and his analytical pentad, which consists of (1) a scene, i.e. the situation or setting in which an act is accomplished, (2) an agent, i.e. the actor who accomplishes such an act, (3) an act, i.e. that which is accomplished by the actor, (4) an agency, i.e. how the agents carry out their acts, and (5) a purpose, i.e. why an act is performed. (1968, 445–52). According to Burke (1966: 446), however, it is the act which serves as the ‘terministic centre’ to which all other factors in the pentad are related; hence the focus here on religious freedom as a rhetorical act. What Burke, moreover, emphasises is the ‘compelling correspondence’, or ‘ratios’, as he calls them, between the factors of the pentad. Thus, a change, for instance, in an actor or a scene will inevitably change the act, or agency, and so forth. Consequently, one should pay attention to the analytical pentad with respect to these ratios when explicating religious freedom as a rhetorical act. However, if one would take into consideration all the possible ratios in relation to the analytical pentad, then the discussion would get so complicated as to defeat the purpose of gaining some clarity into the conceptualisation of such a highly contested issue as religious freedom. Therefore, the following theoretical discussion on religious freedom will be limited to the ratios emanating from the act, and other ratios will be brought up only when they are relevant for the theoretical formulation of religious freedom at hand. Burke’s idea of ratios is sophisticated in the sense that it draws attention to how favouring one factor of the pentad over another escalates an interpretation in a certain direction. For instance, a focus on an actor in respect of multiculturalism places the emphasis on minorities and their motivation to adapt to a wider society. Thus, one can create a correspondence between agent and purpose and in so doing disregard the agent-scene ratio, which would draw attention to structural factors affecting cultural adaptations. However, integration as a two-way process, discussed in Chapter One, cannot be conceptualised solely in terms of an agent-purpose ratio but should always be perceived in correspondence with a scene. Moreover, one should not forget agency, which draws attention to processes at work with respect to integration. In other words, the more one utilises different ratios in a given explanation the fuller the picture one is going to get. In addition to multiculturalism, the same naturally concerns the conceptualisation of religious freedom as well. Studying

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religious freedom from the point of view of the ratios, proposed by Burke, readily illustrates the observation made by Jonas Alwall concerning religious freedom as ‘a matter of relations between different levels’ (1998: 19). First, the act-scene ratio concerns the localisation of an act, and hence it directs the attention to different contextual factors, which make certain kinds of action relevant for a particular situation. It should have become clear from the former discussion that when dealing with religion as a multicultural issue, it is necessary to keep in mind global, national and local contexts, even though these contexts in many ways are intertwined with each other. Moreover, within these general contexts one can separate certain sub-contexts, such as those in the above diagram. However, it must be noted that these sub-contexts could be termed differently, depending on the focus of a study. Since the main interest of this research lies in Europe, the global scene is divided here into those of international and European. Admittedly enough, this division could also have been made in many other ways, as will be discussed below in relation to the International scenes. Whatever the case may be, each context reveals different but also partly overlapping forms of protection for freedom of religion, which, in turn, consist of a particular set of rights and mechanisms (see Evans 2001: 2). Second, the act-agent ratio concerns the nature of an act in the sense that different social actors hold particular roles, which in turn are attached to individual scenes. Thus, there is an inevitable correspondence between scene and agent as well. Again, one could designate the social actors differently in relation to the individual scenes, but in order to limit the scope of an analysis the choice has been narrowed down to those in Diagram 1. With regard to the international scene, there hardly exists disagreement on the role of the United Nations as the main actor when formulations of human rights and hence religious freedom on the international scale are concerned. Moreover, in Europe, the main actor in respect of core issues, such as human rights, is presently the European Union and the Council of Europe. Moreover, the national scene in respect of religious freedom is appropriately divided into nation-state and civil society, even if it remains a bit unclear concerning how civil society can be perceived as an agent. Nation-states, on their behalf, are often portrayed as actors which keep up a collective national memory, however imaginative it might be. Nonetheless, it is important to balance the

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picture by placing civil society between the nation-state and religious communities (see Rémond 1999: 5–6). The local scene, in turn, is divided into religious communities and religious actors. It is obvious that irrespective of possible international links, religious communities for the most part are locally embedded. Religious communities, furthermore, consist of individuals who generally are attached to a certain place, however transitory it might be: ‘nobody is at home everywhere’ (Caws 1995: 386). Moreover, the European countries have a representational democracy which invites religious communities to act as agents on national scenes. This in turn puts pressure on the religious actors to organise themselves in a manner not necessarily in conformity with their religious tradition, as the case of Muslims in Europe illustrates. Thus, one can see the effect of a particular scene on agents but also on the agency. Third, with regard to agency on the global scene, it is important to discuss international conventions and treaties concerning human rights and religious freedom, whereas agency on the national scene, including national legislation explicated in the constitution, has a key role in defining the rights of citizens. However, the rights of religious minorities can also be dealt with in other legislation, as for example concerning issues of equality in Ireland (see Chapter Four). With respect to civil society, the laws concerning the freedom of association provide an important framework for organising religious activity in public. Moreover, one can look into political cultures prevalent in a state concerning general modes of organising collective action and representing one’s interests as a part of civil society. No doubt, national variations of political culture have an effect on what means can be employed in order to act in public. Therefore, the act-agency ratio concerns different modes of action, whereas the scene-agency ratio is about conditions that limit the choice of agency. As will be discussed below with respect to the international scenes, these limitations usually concern actions rather than personal views that one might harbour in his or her mind. Fourth, a purpose, as employed in the preceding diagram, also plays a decisive role in selecting agency for a specific act. Hence the act-purpose ratio concerns the motivation to reach particular goals, which in turn affect the choice of suitable means in order to meet these ends. It is obvious that religious freedom is usually explicated in terms of rights which, however, can be identified differently depend-

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ing on the scene. Therefore, one can claim that religion as a human right is a universal identification, even if this universality as such has been and is contested. On the national scene, religion is identified as a legal right granted by a nation-state, in addition to group rights in civil society, which have been addressed by multicultural theorists such as Will Kymlicka (1995a). Without a doubt, group rights are very much under debate, but it is particularly for this reason that the national scene is an important locus for new formulations of religious freedom. As was discussed in Chapter One in relation to religion and multiculturalism, these formulations concern the controversy over the public-private distinction in relation to national and social identifications. Needless to say, the discussion on different national and social identifications is also relevant on the local scene in respect of communal identifications. Important questions concerning communal identities involve, of course, how religious communities are constituted and run, and how much autonomy they are given in their internal matters. Often religious minorities are very heterogeneous in respect of their members and this poses a special challenge when they negotiate on the right forms of belief and action. Hence, a much contested issue among diasporic religious communities is the authority to say what is the true form of a religious tradition (see Roy 2004). As such, the question as to how much autonomy a religious community should have vis-à-vis its membership, is related to the question of religious freedom as a horizontal right within individual religious communities. After all, each religious community is always a part of some national scene and therefore they are required, for instance, to abide by the law. Whether religious minorities should follow the national law in all matters, or have laws of their own, is an issue which has been under consideration in some European countries with respect to Islamic family law (see Foblets 2003). In Finland and Ireland, however, this has not been a topic of public discussion and therefore it will not be dealt with in this work. Religious minority communities, irrespective of their small numbers, are often very heterogeneous where their members are concerned. Thus, there are many linguistic, ethnic, and cultural differences to deal with within a single religious community, which is well illustrated regarding Muslims living in Europe in general and in Finland and Ireland in particular. Moreover, in diaspora there are also those who, in spite of their upbringing, do not seek to belong to any community.

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This is particularly so with Muslims who show a great variation in their identification with Islam. In consequence, one may ask what religious freedom is as an individual right. This question is particularly important with respect to those who do not have or use public power in a religious community, such as women and children. Taking individual differences of religious belief and behaviour into consideration sheds an additional light on the discussion concerning the private-public distinction. It certainly shows that there are many ways to position oneself in respect of these two domains and also to cross the line between these two. Thus, in studying religious minorities, it is important neither to ironise, nor to reify this distinction. In itself, this is one example of how perceiving religious freedom against the analytic schema summarised in the above diagram helps to tease out the themes and tensions that prevail around such an internationally and cross-culturally important issue as religious freedom. International Scenes It goes without saying that global scenes of religious freedom are as varied and complicated as different geographic areas, individual countries and different religious traditions, constituting these scenes. Yet again, it is equally true that, irrespective of this cacophony of differences there are constant efforts to bridge the different parts and agents of this world. The United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights is probably one of the most significant crystallisations of these unifying efforts to reach a consensus on matters of utmost importance for the survival of humankind. At the same time, what is interesting is that universal human rights are not articulated as the rights of geographic areas, individual countries or different religious traditions, but as the rights of individuals, irrespective of the area or country they inhabit or religions they adhere to. It is truly tempting to ask why this is so, and if it could be otherwise. Unavoidably, the answer to this question depends on the agent and agency operating in different contexts. Thus, as with human rights in general, the problem is universal but the responses are only partial. Together, however, these partial responses help to create a comprehensive view of religious freedom as a whole.

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Religious freedom as a universal human right The United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) was outlined some fifty years ago when Europe was still recovering from the Second World War, and especially from the horrors of the Holocaust. With regard to the historical background of human rights, it has been noted that this declaration was the first charter to detail an international scheme for the protection of human rights, including freedom of religion (Evans 2001: 34–35). The impact of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights has been manifold. It has greatly influenced the development of the legal and political philosophy of recent decades, and most of its contents has since made its way into extant customary international law. Moreover, its impact was also clearly reflected in the Covenants on Human Rights, drafted twenty years later. Not without cause is the Universal Declaration of Human Rights characterised as ‘the most important single document of our time’. (Lerner 1996: 88.) In similar fashion to human rights in general, the international declarations of human rights and human rights agreements regard freedom of thought, consciousness and religion as the basic right of human beings all over the world (Scheinin 1998a: 37). Accordingly, Jack Donnelly defends the moral universality of human rights on the grounds that every human being is entitled to certain rights. Moreover, human rights regulate political culture and surpass any other claims, made in the name of politics, morality, or law. (Donnelly 1989: 1.) Undoubtedly one could, on the same grounds, also defend the moral universality of religious freedom. Often religious freedom is mentioned conceptually and chronologically as preeminent among human rights. In contrast, however, it has been noted that, in comparison to other basic freedoms, religious rights were long neglected by the world community and in actual fact came last and not first. This ‘delay’ has been ascribed to two leading factors: in principle, freedom of religion is ridden with disagreements as to its scope and content, and, in practice, different religious freedoms have been hard to implement. All in all, religion and hence religious freedom has been, and continues to be, a very delicate issue within the world community. (See Tierney 1996; Lerner 1996: 79; Alwall 1998: 14; Evans 2001: 18.) This is important to keep in mind when looking at religious freedom as a universal identification. What complicates the situation further is that, on the

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one hand, the variations of religions and other forms of belief are limitless, and, on the other hand, great variations prevail in relationships between state and religions, just to name Iran and Turkey at two ends of a continuum among Muslim populated countries (see Evans 2001: 19). The Universal Declaration refers to religion in four of its Articles, of which Articles 2 and 16 list religion as one of those matters which should not be discriminated against in the enjoyment of human rights. Thus, Article 2 states that religion, among other things, should not curtail one’s rights and freedoms set forth in the Universal Declaration, and Article 16 declares the right of any man or woman to marry and have a family, irrespective of their religion. Article 26, in turn, reads that education should ‘promote understanding, tolerance and friendship among all nations, racial and religious groups’, and thereby enhance the role of the United Nations for the maintenance of peace. (Evans 2001: 35.) It is interesting to note how differently these articles approach religion. The first two articles declare the necessity to protect people of different faith groups from religious discrimination, whereas the last one implies religion itself as a source of division and conflict. Undoubtedly, one may ask to what extent this kind of double-edged identification of religion, on the one hand, as a subject of protection or, on the other hand, as a source of a problem, is apparent also in other instruments of human rights. Religion certainly exerts a double edge as a subject of discrimination; it can be both the victim and the oppressor, depending on the context. The side that gets precedence is very much dependent on the political climate of the time. After the Second World War and particularly during the Cold War, totalitarian systems were seen to endanger the religious rights of an individual. Therefore, the individual citizen had to be protected from the indoctrination of the state. Without a doubt, in Europe the individual in question was in most cases a Christian. In recent times, the picture has gone around full circle, and now it is the states which need to be protected from the effects of religious indoctrination, usually referred to as religious fundamentalism. The expanding literature on religion and terrorism in recent decades highlights the problem attached to this type of religiosity (see Lincoln 2003; Peste 2003). Admittedly, religion can be used as a vehicle for terror and violence, hence threatening the security of people and societies. In itself this scene of religion and violence is of course nothing new. As noted by one observer, ‘religion and religious intoler-

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ance were, and still are, one of the main causes of conflict in the history of humankind’ (Lerner 1996: 83–84; see also Kymlicka 1995a: 3; Marty 1996; Tierney 1996: 17; Evans 2001: 1). What is important in light of this study is that, particularly after 11 September 2001, religious fundamentalism and terrorism has been closely identified with Islam. One can only ask how this kind of powerful identification of Islam with terrorism, and the consequent need to protect the ‘West’ from Islam, reflects on the work for human rights in Europe. It is Article 18 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights which most explicitly deals with protection of religious freedom,4 listing the core issues, as follows: Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.

In general, the rights concerning religious freedom include freedom for both religious and non-religious convictions. (See Scheinin 1998b: 37.) With regard to these two ‘freedoms’, a distinction is at times made between the positive freedom of religion, including the right to believe and act according to one’s faith, and the negative freedom of religion, including the right not to be religious, or take part in religious activities. (Cf. Alwall 1998: 29.) The positive and negative freedom of religion can furthermore be implemented both as a positive and negative right. As a positive right, the protection of religious freedom involves an active participation of a state, whereas a negative right is something the state neglects, or worse: barely refrains from its violation. (Saarni 2002: 13.) Article 18 of the Universal Declaration clearly explicates both of the above-mentioned freedoms. In practice, however, the protection of the positive religious freedom of one group can lead to a conflict in which the protection of the negative religious freedom of another group is in question (Saarni 2002: 14). These sorts of conflicts are undoubtedly at the heart of a multicultural and multireligious society, which has to decide how to balance the rights of different majority and minority religions.5

4 Some other provisions, such as the rights concerning freedom of expression or freedom of assembly and so forth also have a bearing on freedom of religion. However, these will be not discussed here. 5 As mentioned before, I will focus on the positive and negative freedom of

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Another distinction that is often made in respect of religious freedom is the division between individual and collective rights (see Alwall 1998: 57). In the international human rights documents one central idea is the freedom of choice granted to individuals. However, there is a clear notion in this Article of religion as a collective matter, which, as such, can be taught and hence transmitted from one person to another. The words ‘in community’ do not explicitly refer to religious bodies and institutions, but all the same, the Declaration in Lerner’s view ‘makes a mild concession to group rights’ (1996: 88). With respect to the previously discussed private–public distinction, this Article treats religion as both a private and public matter. It thereby explicates the right to private belief but also the right to public practice and belonging. It goes without saying that one’s beliefs, thoughts and conscience are beyond restrictions, and therefore only manifestations of religion and belief can be subject to limitations.6 (Evans 2001: 35; Lerner 1996: 92.) The law, in general, is more concerned with how we act than what we think, for the simple reason that thoughts are not amenable to legal controls and, hence, private thoughts are not relevant to the law unless they become public in action or expression. In sum, the law is reluctant to get involved with the privacy of human personality. (See Clarke 1993–5: 121–2.) Therefore, as pointed out by Lerner, ‘No one can be compelled to reveal his thoughts or adherence to a religion or belief ’ (1996: 95). The limitations for the manifestation of religion and belief are articulated in the second paragraph of Article 29, which states that: everyone shall be subject only to such limitations as are determined by law solely for the purpose of securing due recognition and respect for the rights and freedoms of others and of meeting the just requirements of morality, public order and the general welfare in a democratic society.

During the drafting of Article 18, a major controversy erupted in relation to two issues, the first concerning the right to change one’s religion and the second concerning the wording of appropriate lim-

religion with respect to religious communities. Hence the questions concerning irreligion are left outside this discussion. 6 This however is not as simple as it may sound. Clarke (1993–5: 122) reflects on the ways that the modern states in many ways aim at influencing the thoughts of citizens, and this influence is enforced by law.

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itations on the freedom of religious practice. Of these two the first one, not surprisingly, concerned Islam. A number of Middle Eastern countries opposed the right to change one’s religion mainly for two reasons: First, these countries expressed a fear that such a right would leave the field open for missionaries, whom they identified with former colonisers of developing states. Second, it was pointed out that Islamic law did not allow for a Muslim to convert from Islam to another religion. (Evans 2001: 35–36.) In practice, apostasy (riddah) is heavily sanctioned in some of the Muslim populated countries (see Saeed & Saeed 2004). All in all, issues such as apostasy, missionary activities, coercion and enticement, proselytism and its limits provoke strong reactions from individual states. Against this background, for instance, conversion can designate a right of an individual, or it can equally be seen as an outcome of unlawful manipulation. (See Lerner 1996: 87–88, 96.) Again, the interpretation varies according to a particular context, or whether one emphasises actors or agency. In addition to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the United Nations has developed the freedom of religion in a number of other international instruments. Hence, the Universal Declaration was complemented in the 1960s by the International Covenants on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights as well as the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (1966), which together are at times referred to as the International Bill of Rights (Alwall 1998: 19). However, it is the latter Covenant which has played a far more important role than the former one with respect to religious freedom, and therefore the following discussion will take the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights as a primary focus. This focus is furthermore justified by the observation that it ‘is the only global human rights treaty dealing with religion that contains measures of implementation’ (Lerner 1996: 98). The Covenant on Civil and Political Rights begins with a wording similar to that of the Universal Declaration concerning freedom of religion and belief, but is more explicit concerning the limitations of these rights. Article 18 of the Covenant states that: 1. Everyone shall have the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion. This right shall include freedom to have or to adopt a religion or belief of his choice, and freedom either individually or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in worship, observance, practice and teaching. 2. No one shall be subject to coercion which would impair his freedom to have or to adopt a religion or belief of his choice.

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It is obvious from the first paragraph that this Covenant addresses the controversial issues of changing one’s religion more carefully than the Universal Declaration, which to date is the only United Nations instrument explicitly recognising this right (Evans 2001: 35). Hence the Covenant uses ‘a milder language’ and simply implies this possibility with reference to the right to choose one’s own religion. This freedom of choice is further protected in the second paragraph on ‘coercion’, interpreted as ranging from the use of force or threats to moral pressure and material enticement. (See Lerner 1996: 91.) The third paragraph deals with the limitations for the manifestation of one’s religion. With regard to this paragraph, a General Comment No. 22 on Article 18, delivered in 1993 by the Human Rights Committee, is very illuminating. Concerning this paragraph, the Committee pursued listing a ‘broad range of acts’, which would fall under the freedom to manifest one’s religion and belief. (See Lerner 1996: 96–97.)7 Reading this list of acts in the light of Islam, the manifestations, among others, would include the freedom to build places of worship (mosques), to display religious symbols (the name of Allah), to observe holidays and days of rest (Eid al-Fitr, Eid alAdha), the observance of dietary regulations (Ramadan), to wear distinctive clothing or head coverings (veil), to follow rituals associated with certain stages of life (circumcision of boys), to use a particular language (Arabic), to choose religious leaders (imams), to establish seminaries or religious schools (Muslim schools and universities), and to prepare and distribute religious texts and publications (copies of the Qur’an, hadits etc.). It is breathtaking to note that these partic-

7 See http://www.ohchr.org/english/bodies/hrc/comments.htm. It is obvious that Natan Lerner (1996) in his article seems to read the United Nations documents on religious freedom somewhat through similar lenses as I do, even if the religion in question might be different. Perhaps one could call this lens a minority point of view.

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ular freedoms, listed above, coincide with the main issues concerning Muslims in Europe (see Shahid and van Koningsveld 1995).8 The fourth paragraph, in turn, states the rights of parents to educate their children in accordance with their religious and moral convictions, hence explicating the important interaction between religion and education. This interaction is further dealt with in conventions on education and children’s right. The Committee in charge of implementing the Covenant on Civil and Political Rights also clarified this paragraph with respect to religious education in state-supported schools; the schools are allowed to teach general history of religion and ethics in a neutral and objective manner. However, if these schools choose to include in their curriculum map the education of a particular religion, this is against the Covenant unless it is accompanied with necessary exemptions and alternatives to guarantee the rights of parents and guardians to educate their children in conformity with their own religious and moral convictions. According to Lerner, ‘an interesting complaint’ was submitted to the Human Rights Committee in 1978 by the Federation of Freethinkers in Finland concerning the teaching of religion in state supported schools. The Committee took the view that the instruction, which was given in a ‘neutral and objective way’ and which respected the conviction of parents and guardians, who believed in no religion whatsoever, did not violate Article 18. (Lerner 1996: 91–93, 96.) Finally, the ‘General Comment’ by the committee in charge of implementing the Covenant on Civil and Political Rights is important concerning Muslims as a religious minority in Europe. In this General Comment, the committee rejects the discrimination against any religion for the simple reason that is it newly established or representative of a minority in a society. According to Lerner (1996: 95–96), this statement reflects the will of the Committee to avoid situations where old and well-established religious groups would enjoy a broader legal recognition and protection than the newly established ones. He further specifies this stand, as follows:

8 With regard to problems faced by Muslims in Europe, one could rightly enough also draw attention to prohibitions recommended by the international human rights instruments against the incitement of national, racial, or religious hatred, particularly with regard to the media. However, this issue is outside the scope of this study.

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chapter two The fact that a religion is recognized as a state religion, or is considered as official or traditional, or is the religion of the majority of the population, should not result in any impairment of the enjoyment of any of the rights under Covenant, or in discrimination against adherents of other religions or non-believers, and privileges for the members of the predominant religion should be regarded as discriminatory.9 (Lerner 1996: 97.)

Without a doubt, this is one of the core issues with respect to religious freedom and multiculturalism on the national scenes, and hence will be addressed in more detail in that context. In order to sum up, however, one can note that the above discussion reveals three issues which are of special interest for this study, namely, the freedoms regarding public manifestations of religion, the interaction between religion and education, as well as the position of minority religions in relation to the predominant religion of the wider society.10 In accordance with the method of cross-reading, these issues will inform the following reading on the instruments designed for the protection of religious freedom. After the two above-mentioned Covenants, the General Assembly of the United Nations proclaimed in November 1981 the Declaration on the Elimination of All Forms of Intolerance and Discrimination Based on Religion or Belief. It is by far the most important and comprehensive global instrument concerning religious freedom. As noted by Evans, the United Nations has not concluded any specific treaty regarding freedom of religion and belief due to constant and far-reaching disagreements on the content of such a treaty (2001: 37). Similar difficulties also complicated the preparation of the abovementioned declaration on religious intolerance and discrimination so that, in the end, it took two decades to complete this instrument. These difficulties culminated in the problem of deciding what the term ‘religion’ designated, brought up particularly by the Communist

9 The issue of blasphemy is very interesting in this respect. No doubt, the Salman Rushdie affair comes immediately to mind, and the decision by the British parliament to limit the reference to God in the Constitution only to that of the Christian God, hence ruling out the possibility of Muslims to appeal in this matter. (See Lerner 1996: 97.) 10 One reservation here regarding (religious) minorities is necessary to highlight. Minority rights admittedly enough are dealt with in special instruments, but the main interest in this study, however, is not the rights granted to minorities as such, but rather the way their position is articulated with respect to religious freedom on the international and national level.

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delegates. This problem was solved by opting for the wording of ‘religion or whatever belief ’. Another issue concerned the previously mentioned matter of changing one’s religion, which was heavily opposed by the Muslim delegates. This problem was circumvented by a double compromise, whereby Article 1 does not make any explicit reference to conversion, while a new Article 8 reads to the effect that the declaration on religious intolerance and discrimination cannot be interpreted in such a manner as to derogate or restrict the rights defined in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights or the covenants on human rights. (Lerner 1996: 114–116.)11 The rights and freedoms listed in the Declaration on the Elimination of All Forms of Intolerance and Discrimination Based on Religion or Belief more or less correspond with the former international instruments on freedom of religion and belief, which can be regarded ‘as the universally minimum standard in the area of human rights’ (Lerner 1996: 117). However, it is more explicit concerning discrimination based on religion, the rights of parents for their children’s education, as well as freedoms included in the right to religion. Article 2 states that ‘no one shall be subject to discrimination by any State, institution, group of persons, or person on the grounds of religion or other belief ’, and thereupon proceeds to define the meaning of religious discrimination as follows: the expression “intolerance and discrimination based on religion or belief ” means any distinction, exclusion, restriction or preference based on religion or belief and having as its purpose or as its effect nullification or impairment of the recognition, enjoyment or exercise of human rights and fundamental freedoms on an equal basis.

Article 4 further lists the areas where states should ‘take effective measures’ in order to prevent religious discrimination. These areas are ‘all fields of civil, economic, political, social and cultural life’. Reading the above-definition of religious discrimination in light of the recognition enjoyed by the old and well-established religious groups and the newly established ones, it is clear that a state or an institution, such as schools, should not favour one group over the other but, instead, all these groups should enjoy religious rights on equal bases.

11 For the other problems in the drafting process of this declaration, see Lerner 1996: 116–117, 119–120.

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However, in practice, not every preference based on religion is regarded as discriminatory, and hence prohibited (see Lerner 1996: 120–121). As an example, one can mention holidays, which, in Europe, usually follow the Christian calendar. It is hard to see that this and similar kinds of Christian traditions, deeply embedded in European culture, would be discarded in the face of growing multiculturalism in Europe. At the same time the principle of equality would suggest that the holidays of religious minorities should, in all fairness, also be protected. Another example that one can mention is the formal relationship between state and church, which as a rule is also fixed within a national legislation and has definite consequences on taxation and so forth. However, there is no simple answer to the question as to when and where a preference becomes discriminatory, or cannot be regarded as such. As succinctly summarised by Lerner, ‘[s]ocial facts and realities, and above all common sense, play a role in this respect’ (1996: 121). Whatever the case may be, the above-mentioned issues, among other things, lie at the heart of negative religious freedom, which in a multicultural society cannot be brushed aside. The bottom line, with respect to the principle of negative religious freedom, is that no one is obliged to participate in the practice of religion against one’s will and conscience. However, the question remains as to what actually religion is, or what can be considered merely as a cultural and historical tradition. As will be discussed in Chapter Nine concerning some established traditions in Finnish schools, the distinction between culture and religion can be used for the justification of a preference in a Christian tradition. It goes without saying that, depending on the context, the line between culture and religion is drawn differently. Even so, in order to guarantee the freedom of negative freedom in a society this line needs to be explicated in one way or another. This in turn, demands an open discussion on values prevalent in a European society, and, rather than merely referring to a common European tradition, a more convincing line of argument for these values is needed. All in all, one can argue that the more multicultural a society becomes the more pressing an issue will be its sensitivity to the experiences of minorities with respect to the majority and its power, and the message conveyed by the state and society with respect to these experiences. (See Scheinin 1998b; Saarni 2002: 20–1, 127, 131.)

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Article 5, in turn, deals with the rights of the child as well as the rights of parents or guardians to give their children the moral education of their choice at home. The Article states that: Every child shall enjoy the right to have access to education in the matter of religion or belief in accordance with the wishes of his parents or, as the case may be, legal guardians, and shall not be compelled to receive teaching on religion or belief against the wishes of his parents or legal guardians, the best interest of the child being the guiding principle.

This Article is hence very clear regarding the rights of parents to decide on their children’s religious education both at home and in school. However, it does not give any clues as to how the ‘wishes’ of parents should be expressed, or where the state can ‘read’ them. In Finland, it is argued that the parents express their wishes concerning the religious education of their children via membership in a registered religious community (Seppo 2001: 519). However, a problem may arise, for instance, if the morals and values taught explicitly or implicitly at school do not correspond with those of the pupil’s parents and family. What are the rights of parents in this case? This question is most acute for many Muslim parents in Europe and is treated differently depending on a particular country. (See Chapter Eight.) Moreover, one can argue that the expression ‘in the best interest of the child’ surely stands in an uneasy relation vis-à-vis the rights of the parents; in which circumstances might the religious rights of a child be abridged—whether by parents, schools, or a society at large? Indeed, it is here if anywhere that the interaction between religion and education becomes the issue. Religion was, and still to a certain extent is, one of the main means for forming the child’s mind in accordance with certain morals and values, represented by parents but also schools and the society at large (see Chapter Eight). It therefore comes as no surprise that, during the drafting process of the Declaration, this article was one of the most controversial ones (Lerner 1996: 122). Along with the first paragraph of Article 1, Article 6 deals with the freedoms regarding the public manifestation of religion, including individual and collective rights as well as rights which can be exercised only by a group. In addition to the ones already mentioned with respect to the ‘General Comment’ on the Covenant on

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Civil and Political Rights, the following freedoms are listed in the Declaration on Religious Discrimination: to establish and maintain appropriate charitable or humanitarian institutions; to solicit and receive voluntary financial and other contributions from individuals and institutions; to establish and maintain communications with individuals and communities in matters of religion and belief at the national and international levels.12 It is clear that Muslims in Europe make use of these rights extensively in connection with different transnational networks, which have also become a topic of inquiry in recent research (see Allievi & Nielsen 2003). Finally, Article 7 lays responsibility on national legislation and hence on the state to set forth the rights and freedoms of this Declaration so that they will be available to everyone, hence ‘protecting nationals and aliens, permanent and non-permanent residents’ alike (Lerner 1996: 118). Universal identifications In order to gain a comprehensive view of religious freedom on the global scene, one should also look at the other international treaties in addition to those of the United Nations. Undoubtedly, there are several human rights instruments developed in different areas of the world. Thus, in addition to the European Convention on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms, which will be discussed in more detail below, there are a number of other regional treaties dealing with religious freedom, including Article 12 in the American Convention on Human Rights (1969), Article 8 in the African Charter of Human and People’s Rights (1981), Chapter 6.3 in the Asian Human Rights Charter (1998), and Article 27 in the Arab Charter on Human Rights (adopted in 1994). Together these regional treaties give expression to a global will to protect human rights and religious freedom. (See Harris, O’Boyle & Warbrick 1995: 3; Evans 2001: 37.) With regard to the global scene of religious freedom, one could also, rightly enough, deal with the religious declarations of human rights, produced, for instance, among Christians and Muslims. After all, there is a growing interest in human rights among world religions (see Rouner 1988; Witte and van der Vyer 1996; Runzo, Martin and Sharma 2003).13 Very often religion is exploited for different 12

For the list of rights which were left out of this list, see Lerner 1996: 119. Cf. Evans (2001: 25–28), who to my mind somewhat ironises the religious arguments concerning religious freedom. 13

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political purposes and, in the process, made into a source or an instrument of conflict. Therefore it is important that those people who actively adhere to some religion bring up religion as a means for cooperation, harmony and reconciliation (Boyle & Sheen 1997: 259). Thus, in order to have a comprehensive discussion on religious freedom as a universal identification, it would be necessary to scrutinise these varied regional and religious points of view to religious freedom on the global scene. Only in that way would it be possible to understand the terms in which one can, on the whole, speak of universal identification with respect to different ‘universes of discourse’, relating religion to race, ethnicity, tribe, gender, class, culture, or national experience (Marty 1996: 7). However, the inquiry into the body of regional and religious human rights declarations is outside the scope of this study. Universal identifications are as powerful as they are controversial, of which the regional and religious declarations of human rights are a clear example. With regard to these declarations, one might argue that they in themselves stand in contrast to stated universal claims. As such, international human rights involve some kind of ideal of common humanity in which there are no differences nor divisions. These rights are ‘universal’ in the same manner as humanity itself. However, the universality of international human rights comes into question if one studies the process of their formulation, i.e. how they came about and who the agents behind them were. After all, the United Nations operates in the West, and the philosophical sources of the Universal Declaration are clearly rooted in the European Enlightenment, with its emphasis on human rationality. Given the origins of the United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights, it is not surprising that there would be some criticism against its ‘universality’. Hence, the regional human rights declarations question the geographical (and political) identification of human rights with the West, and the religious human rights declarations, in turn, object to the philosophical identification of human rights with human rationality, devoid of any transcendence. The reservations notwithstanding, these very same declarations nonetheless subscribe to and even reinforce the basic ideal of universal human rights.14

14 Rarely does one find a more conspicuous example of rhetoric, where criticism and justification go hand in hand in order to create new conceptual lenses (regional, religious) for the same ‘god-term’ (universal human rights).

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A telling example of the problems concerning universal identifications is that there is not, and nor will there likely ever be, a universally accepted definition of religion that the international human rights bodies could work with.15 The same problem concerns the more restricted areas, such as Europe, discussed in more detail below. Religious freedom as a European right It goes without saying that finding a common definition of religion is much harder on the international than on the national scene. Where the international community is compelled to operate with a rather wide and hence fairly vague definition of religion, individual countries can work with a more focussed definition, reflecting the national characteristics of the country. (See Seppo 2003: 12.) However, Europe, aiming at the united political community, is very concretely wedged between both international and national interests. This poses a particular challenge for the European Court of Human Rights in its decisions concerning religion and religious freedom. To begin with, it must be noted that the title of this sub-chapter no doubt is somewhat misleading. Even if this section deals with the European instruments of human rights and religious freedom, the rights in these instruments are not inherently ‘European’, but universal human rights, simply articulated within a particular regional context. This is so irrespective of the historical link between the work by the United Nations and the development of religious freedom in Europe. (See Evans 2001: 34.) No doubt, there is a close link between the international and European human rights agreements, even though the specific regional context of Europe might be more pronounced with respect to the European Christian inheritance, effecting a particular view of religion and its place in society (Saarni 2002: 27). It is, nonetheless, appropriate to cast a keen eye on Europe and to inquire what the European human rights instruments have to say regarding the variety of people residing in Europe. In other words, to inquire how the European treaties on religious freedom read against the multicultural backdrop, consisting of people with different religions and beliefs. The main human rights instruments in Europe were prepared after the Second World War, during which time Europe had witnessed serious human rights violations. In order to unify post-war Europe, 15

For a critical view on this, see Evans 2001: 59–62.

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the Council of Europe was set up, and it was under this Council that the European Convention on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (1950) was drafted. At that time, the emphasis was on the civil and political rights, whereas the economic, social and cultural rights were included some ten years later in the European Social Charter (1961). (See Harris, O’Boyle & Warbrick 1995: 1–5.) Over thirty years thereafter, the rights of minorities in Europe were set forth in the Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities (1995). (See Evans 2001: 7.) Recently, the European Union, originally designed for economic purposes, has rapidly developed its own dimension for the protection of human rights. In December 2000, the Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union entered into force. It must be noted that the term ‘fundamental rights’ most often refers to the rights protected by the national legislation and most importantly by the constitution of a state, whereas the term ‘human rights’ is usually used for the rights protected by the international treaties. However, in the 1990s the reference to ‘fundamental rights’ has come to be used also with respect to the European Union. (See Puro 1999: 7.) With respect to religion, this Charter reads in Article 22 that ‘The Union shall respect cultural, religious and linguistic diversity’. All in all, the European Union has been very cautious with respect to religion. For instance, the Treaty of Amsterdam (1997) mentions religion briefly only in one of the declarations adopted by the conference.16 Hence, religion in the European Union is perceived mainly as a matter concerning the internal affairs of the individual states of the Union. In line with this approach, Article 10 in the Charter of Fundamental Rights states: 1. Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion. This includes freedom to change religion or belief and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or in private, to manifest religion or belief, in worship, teaching, practice and observance. 2. The right to conscientious objection is recognised, in accordance with the national law governing the exercise of this right.

Moreover, Article 14 of the Charter of Fundamental Rights regarding the right to education states that:

16 See Declaration on the status of churches and non-confessional organisations (Treaty of Amsterdam 1997).

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chapter two The freedom to found educational establishments with due respect for democratic principles and the rights of parents to ensure the education and teaching of their children in conformity with their religious, philosophical and pedagogical convictions shall be respected, in accordance with the national laws governing the exercise of such freedom and right.

These measures notwithstanding, the protection of human rights in general and the religious freedom in the European Union in particular is very much constituted on the operation of the Council of Europe. One of the main cornerstones in the work for human rights by the Council of Europe is the above-mentioned European Convention on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms, which presents the rights of people living under the jurisdiction of the contracting states and sets forth the mechanisms for the protection of these rights. Until 1998, the enforcement mechanism of the Convention consisted of the European Commission of Human Rights (established in 1954) and the Court of Human Rights (established in 1959). However, at present the main body to decide if the Convention has been infringed is the reconstituted European Court of Human Rights, located in Strasbourg, along with the headquarters of the Council of Europe. Since the Convention has a very strong enforcement mechanism, and provides both for state and individual applications,17 it is often said to be by far the most effective of the international treaties for the protection of human rights.18 (See Harris, O’Boyle & Warbrick 1995: 5; Evans 2001: 2, 8–15; Puro 1999: 16.) At the same time, however, it has been noted that the Convention has become ‘a victim of its own success’ (Evans 2001: 10). The workload of the Court has grown extensively over time and will most likely continue to do so with the addition of the new member states from Central and Eastern Europe. The future of the Convention, thereby, is closely tied up with that of the new Europe, where it will have an important role to play in the process of European integration. (Evans 2001: 15–16; Harris, O’Boyle & Warbrick 1995: 35.) However, religious 17 In addition to individuals, the Court receives petitions also from groups of individuals, or non-governmental organisations. However, in most cases churches or other religious bodies have had no standing before the Commission, even if this in some cases would have been advisable in order to strengthen the position of vulnerable groups (see Evans 2001: 12–15). 18 The member states of the European Commission have to sign this treaty within one year’s time after joining the Commission.

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freedom as a complex and controversial issue is not, and will not be, one of the easiest ones on its agenda. The European Convention is of special interest for this study not only for the reason that it articulates the meaning of religious freedom within the European context but also for the reason that the bodies dealing with the matters under the Convention have developed an extensive case law around the Articles on the freedom of religion and belief. In this respect, it is, however, intriguing to read the criticism of Carolyn Evans who says that the bodies responsible for protecting freedom of religion under the Convention have generally, in their interpretations, favoured states at the cost of giving little thought to those individuals whose rights have been denied and, in general, at the cost of developing pluralistic and tolerant democracies. (See Evans 2001, 2–4; see Chapter 4.) Indeed, the test case of pluralistic policies developed by a European state, or a body representing different European states, is undoubtedly the position of religious minorities. Whatever the case may be, ‘[a]ny interpretation of a treaty must begin with an interpretation in good faith of the words of the treaty itself ’ (Evans 2001: 5). Hence, Article 14 aims to secure the enjoyment of the rights and freedoms set out in the Convention, without discrimination on different grounds, religion being one of them. However, it is Article 9 which most directly addresses religious freedom. It reads: 1. Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief, in worship, teaching, practice and observance. 2. Freedom to manifest one’s religion or belief shall be subject only to such limitations as are prescribed by law and are necessary in a democratic society in the interests of public safety, for the protection of public order, health or morals, or for the protection of the rights and freedoms of others.

The first paragraph of Article 9 is worded almost to the verbatim to that of Article 18 in the United Nations’ Declaration of Human Rights.19 However, there was a fundamental difference with respect

19 See Evans for a more detailed discussion on the wording of this provision and its consequences for the case law (2001, Chapter 4).

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to drafting this provision. It is interesting to learn that, unlike with the equivalent instruments in the United Nations, no major arguments or debates erupted during the process of drafting Article 9(1) among the delegates from different countries. On the contrary, the travaux préparatoires reveal how the delegates very much shared a mutual agreement on the importance of religion and of the fundamental nature of religious freedom. Perhaps the groundwork done for the wording of the articles concerning religious freedom in the United Nations’ instruments paved the way for the work in Europe. (See Clark 1987; Evans 2001: 39–40, 50.) Moreover, Europe was and is far smaller in size, and also had and still has far less religious and cultural diversity, in comparison with the world community (cf. Saarni 2002: 26–7). If drafting the first paragraph of Article 9, on the right to have a religion or belief, was fairly simple, the same was not the case with the second paragraph of this Article, stating the limitations for the manifestations of religion and belief. What one can learn from the discussions of the drafters, although they are not very well recorded, is that they discussed different wordings between general and more specific formulation of this provision. Finally, they settled on the current, rather narrow form. The Turkish and Swedish governments, furthermore, suggested different types of limitation clauses, designed not to undermine their domestic religious arrangements. Turkey expressed a fear of Islamic fundamentalism and wanted to secure its attempts to modernise Turkey, while Sweden wanted to maintain the prominent role of the Lutheran Church, referring to the long tradition of Lutheranism in a religiously homogeneous Swedish society. Thus, the measures of these two countries were different but the aim was the same: to secure the existing social order of the country.20 However, these proposals were turned down and in the end the two countries submitted to the joint formulation. (Clarke 1987: 31, Evans 2001: 42–44.) As noted by Evans, the limitation clause regarding religious freedom is the least permissive in the Convention, leaving no room for

20 The example of these two countries defy one dearly held belief about the difference between a Muslim populated and a secular European country. In this case, it was a ‘Muslim country’ aiming at restricting the scope of religion and a ‘secular European country’ pursuing preservation of the status quo of religion, and not the other way round.

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state interference on the right to have or change religion. In her view this reflects the drafters’ high regard for religious freedom. At the same time, however, she regrets that the drafters did not give much time to define more precisely the meaning and scope of religious freedom. As she repeatedly points out, this vagueness had and has defeating practical consequences for the interpretation of this provision with respect to case law.21 (Evans 2001: 2, 17, 43–45, 50.) Perhaps this ‘vagueness’ also explains the fact that the Court and the former Commission have been very ‘generous’ in their definition of religion and belief, hence recognising under the protection of Article 9 the different traditional religions and beliefs, such as Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, and atheism, but also more recent ones in Europe, such as the Church of Scientology, the Druids, the Divine Light Mission and even pacifism. However, there is a certain limit to this recognition of a religion or belief: a religion or belief must be manifested in one way or another. Hence, an extremely individual belief, without overt manifestations does not count as ‘religion’. As noted by Evans, there is a discrepancy here since no members of an established religion are expected to prove the existence of their religion, whereas members of some new and more individualistic religions or beliefs are made to do so. Thus, the burden of proof lies with the applicant but, in the absence of a restricted definition of religion, it is not clear what kind of evidence is actually needed (number of members, time of existence, rules and regulations etc.). (Evans 2001: 55, 57–59.) To rephrase it, a ‘religion’, in the general understanding of the European Court, is not only a matter of private conscience but needs to have a public side to it as well. This can be a problem for the so-called new religions. However, the problem is reversed with respect to Islam, which, at times, seems to have too much of a public manifestation for European taste. As was mentioned previously, in drafting the Convention the emphasis in the first place was on the civil and political rights, and not on the economic, social and cultural rights. (See Harris, O’Boyle & Warbrick 1995: 3; cf. Evans 2001: 45.) However, a 21 Unfortunately, it is not possible here to go into detail on the discussion regarding the case law provided by Evans (2001). Her sophisticated analysis would also be most illuminating for the study of religions, with its timeless question concerning the definition of religion.

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provision concerning education was also added to the Convention. In similar fashion to drafting the United Nations instruments, one of the most controversial issues with respect to the Convention was the right to education; the drafters did not reach an agreement on this provision in time before signing the Convention and therefore it was included in a separate protocol.22 (See Clarke 1987; Evans 2001: 6, 47–48). Finally, the following wording for Article 2 in the First Protocol was settled: No person shall be denied the right to an education. In the exercise of any functions which it assumes in relation to education and teaching, the State shall respect the right of parents to ensure such education and teaching in conformity with their own religious and philosophical convictions.

One may observe that the European formulation of this provision on education does not make similar reference, as does Article 26 in the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights, to the role of education in promoting ‘understanding, tolerance and friendship among all nations, racial and religious groups’, in order to maintain world peace. (Evans 2001: 35.) Perhaps in the 1950s Europeans could not envisage conflicts within Europe, such as the troubles in Northern Ireland, or the war in the former Yugoslavia, not to mention the recent bomb attacks in Madrid and London. The questions raised with respect to this provision concerned, on the one hand, whether a separate provision on this matter was necessary or not, and, on the other, what the exact wording of this provision should be. Some critics notwithstanding, the drafters more or less unanimously agreed upon including the clause on education in the Article (Evans 2001: 47). One of the core issues with respect to the wording of this provision regarded the rights of parents to choose their children’s education in general and religious and philosophical education in particular. What is significant about the discussions on this provision is that the parental rights concerning their children’s education were closely linked with religious freedom, and that the states were emphatically expected to respect these rights. Therefore,

22

Clarke points out that the Irish delegates had a very significant role both in the preparation and eventual adoption of the provisions concerning education in the Convention. In their view, the provision finally did not give enough consideration to the parental rights with respect to their children’s education. (Clarke 1987: 29.)

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as noted by Clarke (1987: 28, 33), the educational policies of member states could be seen as some sort of a litmus test for the implementation of these rights. One much discussed issue in the process of drafting the provision on education was the question whether respecting parental rights would mean, in practice, the responsibility of a state to finance private schools in line with the parents’ religious and philosophical views. Some states feared a burden of financing both secular and religious schools. The Irish representative, Mr. de Valera (later the President of Ireland), spoke for a ‘positively religious’ education and suggested the ‘Irish solution’, which, according to him, had worked well in Ireland: We solved them [i.e. difficulties in educational policy] in Ireland by arranging for denominational education. The system works perfectly there and, in my opinion, it indicates the real solution to this question (cited in Clarke 1987: 33).

However, the Irish model with state-funded denominational schools was and is not the solution for most of the other European countries. Moreover, that was not the intention of the provision either. It simply stated the necessity of the state to respect parental rights but did not oblige the states to fund private schools in accordance with the parents’ religious and philosophical convictions. (See Clarke 1987: 40; Evans 2001: 46–47.) In practice, European states, nonetheless, follow different policies in this matter, which is also reflected in the circumstances for starting a Muslim school. As will be shown in Chapter Ten, the ‘Irish solution’ of segregated education according to religion works very well for the Muslims in Ireland. Another interesting point, when considering the ongoing debates about Islam and education in Europe, came up in the discussions concerning the fear that too much emphasis on parental rights would imprison a child in a ‘moral and spiritual ghetto’. (See Evans 2001: 46–47.) The concern about locking children into religious ghettos, and thereby hampering their process of integration to the wider society, regularly comes up in debates about the private Muslim schools in some European countries. As an example, one can mention Sweden and Norway (see Johansson 1999: 184–5, 188–191; Naguib 2002: 164; Vogt 2002: 98). Another matter, undoubtedly, is the fear that private Muslim schools would work as a breeding ground for Islamic fundamentalism

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and thereby for political terrorism. In this respect, times have truly changed. At the time of drafting the Convention the main worry for the drafters was to prevent systematic indoctrination of children by the state schools, under a totalitarian political system, such as Communism—hence the emphasis on parental rights (Clarke 1987: 40). Today, however, the main fear concerns the indoctrination taking place within the margins of society, imposing a threat for the security of a state. As an example one can mention the recent discussions on religious education in Spain where, in addition to the criticism voiced against the power of bishops professed in the employment of Catholic teachers of religion in state-supported schools, there is a growing worry that the education of Islam might foster Islamic fundamentalism among the Muslims in Spain. No doubt, this fear is understandable after the attacks on Madrid in 2004. In general, this shift of perception from Communism to Islam as a threat for human rights could be seen to illustrate quite nicely a shift from the Cold War to the Huntingtonian ‘clash of civilisations’. However, the education of Islam should not be seen as a matter pertaining solely to national security but also and perhaps foremost as a right to freedom of religion. Undoubtedly, it is in the interest of European states to strike a balance between these two demands. It goes without saying that to organise the education of Islam as part of a general school curriculum offers more opportunities for state control than the education offered in private Islamic schools, which are often opposed on such grounds. In Ireland, however, the Muslim national schools are sponsored by the state and follow the national curriculum, whereby religion is taught simply as one of the school subjects. Thus, the Muslim pupils attending these schools go through an Irish system of education while maintaining the right for education of Islam (see Chapter Ten). Whatever the case may be, in addition to the interests of the states and parents, there is also the rights of children to consider, and, rightly enough, plenty of work in this field of human rights has been accomplished in recent decades. All in all, different rights in the triangle consisting of the state, parents and children is as complicated as it is important to manage in a plural Europe (see Chapter Eight). Perhaps, it is fair to say that, in consequence of the present political climate, it is the rights of parents and children which easily are drowned under the interests of protecting a state. Hence, due to such strong identification of Islam with terrorism, individual Muslims

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are the first to suffer. Therefore, one can say that any terrorism conducted under the banner of Islam is not only a threat for European states but also for the rights of individual Muslims living in Europe. One telling example of the way the emphasis has changed from the rights of an individual to the protection of the interests of the state is certainly the recent decision made by the European Court of Human Rights in the case of Leyla }ahin v. Turkey.23 In June 2004, the European Court of Human Rights decided that the universities in Turkey have the right to prohibit Muslim women from wearing a scarf on the university premises. Hence, a dispute which has been raging in Turkey for over two decades finally got a verdict—in defeat of Muslim women who, in order to have a right to dress in accordance with their belief in Islam, have fought many court cases in Turkey. With regard to these court cases they have, among other things, appealed to religious freedom which they, in their opinion, are entitled to according to the Turkish Constitution. However, they have regularly lost their appeal on the grounds that a scarf, worn by them, signifies Islam and hence is a religious symbol which violates the secular sphere of the Turkish state, including state-run universities. (See Sakaranaho 1998.) Now, they have lost their case also in the European Court of Human Rights, which undoubtedly is a victory for the Turkish state but a sad defeat for the women themselves, and for their cause in defence of their religious rights. According to the press release of 29 June 2004, Leyla }ahin, born in 1973, is a Turkish national, who is a student of medicine in the University of Istanbul, coming ‘from a traditional family of practising Muslims and considers it her religious duty to wear the Islamic headscarf ’.24 On 23 February 1998, the Vice-Chancellor of the university

23 There was also another application made by Zeynep Tekin v. Turkey but ‘the Court decided unanimously to strike the case out of the list’. See the Chamber judgements in the Case of Leyla Sahin v. Turkey (http://www.echr.coe.int/eng/press/ 2004/june/chamberjudgmentssahinandtekin.htm). 24 See www.echr.coe.int/eng/press/2004/june/chmaberjudgmentssahinandtekin.htm [accessed 30 June 2004]. This decision was briefly reported in the main newspapers of both Finland (Helsingin Sanomat 30 June 2004) and Ireland (The Irish Times 30 June 2004). The European Court of Human Rights delivered its Grand Chamber judgment in the case of Leyla }ahin 10 November 2005. For the appraisal of the judgment, see, for instance, the Strasbourg Conference Forum on Freedom of Religion or Belief (www.strasbourgconference.org).

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issued a circular which warned students wearing headscarfs or having beards that they would be refused admission to lectures, courses and tutorials. Due to wearing a headscarf, the applicant Leyla }ahin was denied access to lectures and exams, and was also issued a warning for contravening the university’s rules on appropriate dress. Finally, she was suspended for a term because she took part in an unauthorized assembly, gathered to protest against the university dress code. Leyla }ahin appealed to the European Court of Human Rights and complained under Article 9 of the Convention that she had been prohibited from wearing the Islamic headscarf at the university. She also complained of an unjustified interference with her right to education under Article 2 of Protocol No. 1 to the Convention. In addition, she complained together with Article 9, about the violation of Article 14, claiming that since the prohibition on wearing the Islamic headscarf forced the students to choose between education and religion, it discriminated between believers and non-believers. Finally, she also relied on Articles 8 and 10. However, the Court dealt with the case under Article 9 because it did not find any additional questions arising in relation to the other Articles. The Court did not take any position whether it was necessary for a Muslim woman to wear a headscarf in order to fulfill a religious duty, but it acknowledged all the same that Miss }ahin ‘was inspired by a religion or belief ’. Accordingly, it assumed that the university’s dress rules, prohibiting Islamic headscarfs, interfered with her right to manifest her religion. However, the Court also acknowledged the view represented by the Turkish state that this sort of an interference had a legal basis in Turkish law, and that Islamic headscarfs were incompatible with the fundamental principles of the Republic. In short, the ‘necessity’ to limit the manifestation of religion was justified by the principles of secularism and equality. Secularism was seen as one of the main values underpinning the Turkish Constitution for its necessity in the protection of the democratic system in Turkey. Moreover, the Turkish Constitution emphasised gender equality and the protection of the rights of women. The Court was concerned about the impact on others of the compulsion attached to wearing an Islamic headscarf. Thus, it referred to the protection of the ‘rights and freedoms of others’ but also to the ‘maintenance of public order’ in a country with a population strongly supporting the rights of women and the secular way of life, while at the same time adhering to Islam. It was also pointed out that a headscarf as a religious

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symbol had taken a political significance in Turkey, and that there were extremist political movements in Turkey aiming at imposing their religious conception of society on others. As against this, the aim of the decision was to preserve pluralism in the university. It is obvious from the Court decision that it reiterates the usual ‘Western’ concepts of the Islamic headscarf as a sign of Islamic fundamentalism and oppression of women. It hence ignores the possibility that wearing a headscarf could be purely a matter of individual conscience and religious conviction, without any connection with politics of any sort. This side of the argument, concerning the right of an individual to personal religious freedom and the consequent right to manifest it in public, hardly features in the justifications of the decision. Instead, the Court fully sides with the Turkish state and its militant secularist stand with respect to religion in public. In actual fact, the Court does not show that any political motivation would have inspired the applicant, and hence it bases its concerns on matters outside the case itself. It thereby ‘reads’ into the case political meanings connected with the fear of Islamic fundamentalism and terrorism. One can therefore ask if, in another political climate, the right to wear an Islamic headscarf could actually have been justified with the very same arguments concerning pluralism as it was now overturned. It seems that, depending on the context, pluralism can be used as a justification both for allowing religious diversity and for protecting ideological uniformity. In similar fashion, religious freedom can be seen as a right to manifest one’s religion in public or as a restriction of such right—if the interest of the state so requires. Therefore, the Turkish headscarf dispute can be used as an example of a conflict that can erupt between a state, a religious community and individual believers. Here, if anywhere, it becomes obvious that religious freedom is ‘a matter of relations’ (Alwall 1998: 19). As such, this recent decision of the European Court of Human Rights is one more example of the way the liberal approach taken by the Court to the definition of religion is undermined with respect to manifestation of religion. (See Evans 2001: 132.) The reasons for the decision taken by the European Court of Human Rights inevitably are manifold and will be analysed in due course.25 Politically, this

25 One might assume that the politics behind this decision was to weaken the position of Islam in Turkey and strengthen the secular state of Turkey, on its way

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decision gives a very clear message on the separation of the state and religion, and thereby emphasises the secular nature of a state. Moreover, this Court decision might well set a precedent for similar cases in other European countries, such as France and Germany, where a scarf worn by Muslim students (France) or by Muslim teachers (Germany) has become a pressing issue in recent decades. At the same time, it must be noted that, in their dealings with the headscarf issue, France and Germany are extreme cases among European countries. Similar disputes have not erupted, for instance, in Britain, and neither in the neighbouring country Ireland, known for its ardent Catholicism, nor in the secular Nordic countries. However, one can go a step further and ask what type of message the decision by the European Court of Human Rights conveys to the Muslims, seeking recognition as a religious minority in Europe. Perhaps, the headscarf issue reveals, once more, the double character of religious freedom. As noted by Boyle and Sheen with respect to Europe: It is one of the great paradoxes of the present decades that, even as virtually all constitutions across the continent guarantee freedom of religion, conscience and belief, there are new possibilities of misusing or reducing such liberties. There is growing concern that freedom to preach and to choose one’s religion can be misused, both by established or majority religions and by new religious movements, and can become a licence for violent or insidious forms of proselytism or sectarianism. However, it is still possible for some governments to invoke principles of ‘national unity’ or ‘laicity’ in order to inhibit or even to persecute authentic forms of religious or cultural self-definition, especially those practised or expressed by minorities. (Boyle & Sheen 1997: 259)

It is obvious that one can look at the case of Islamic headscarfs, brought to the European Court of Human Rights, in either of these two perspective, i.e. as a misuse of religious freedom, or as an authentic religious self-definition. Indeed, this most recent decision of the Court to overturn the appeal of the women fighting for their right to wear an Islamic headscarf proves the critical point made by Evans that the Court has been very sympathetic to the concerns of the state and correspondently has

to the European Union. Another interpretation, a very sad prospect indeed, is the enforcement of the Huntingtonian vision of the clash between Islam and secular Europe.

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shown little regard for the plight of sincere, committed believers whose claims that States’ actions interfere with their religion and belief are routinely dismissed by institutions prepared to substitute their judgement for the judgement of the believers. (Evans 2001: 132)

Therefore, the worry expressed by Boyle and Sheen (1997: 259) concerning minorities is and remains very real. This worry is particularly relevant with respect to Muslims who represent Islam, ‘Europe’s second religion’ (Hunter 2002), and thereby constitute the largest non-Christian minority in most European countries. However, this numerical priority does not necessarily translate into an advantage. On the contrary, the complex history of Christian-Muslim relations, and the one-sided negative media coverage of Islam, assigns an extra burden also on the dealings with contemporary matters of Muslims living in Europe as recent immigrants or refugees, or as members of second and third generation Muslims with immigrant background. These complications notwithstanding, one does not most likely go wrong when saying that both the wider society and a majority of Muslims agree upon such educational and political efforts which enhance the liberal and open elements in a ‘European Islamic society’, particularly if these are coupled with a liberal and open approach towards Muslims in a wider society of Europe (cf. Boyle & Sheen 1997: 260). National Scenes In the long run, Article 9 of the European Convention on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms on religious freedom seems to have been accepted without many reservations among the member states of the Council of Europe. According to Evans, this is probably due to an understanding that this provision does not prevent countries from having a state or an established church, provided that the rights of other religious groups are respected. (Evans 2001: 50; cf. Clarke 1987: 28.) This is of course important for both Finland and Ireland, as will be discussed in Chapters Three and Four respectively. However, before going into the details of these country-specific cases, some general observations are in order concerning vested interests on the national scenes with respect to religious freedom.

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As previously mentioned, the position of religious communities, freedoms regarding the public manifestations of religion, as well as the interaction between religion and education are very much dependent on the cultural and historical factors which vary from country to country in Europe. Hence, in order to understand the conditions which regulate the ways that, for instance, Muslims can manage to create a religious infrastructure in the existing legal and social frameworks, it is necessary to look at two things, namely the general social role of religion in a society and the operation of religious groups within a civil society. The social role of religion is, first, reflected in the particular arrangements of the church and state relations, which have developed in the course of history and become articulated in the law. In the history of Europe, the policies adopted by the state towards churches have undoubtedly constituted the starting point for the realisation of religious freedom (see Seppo 1998: 847). In present times, it is important to note that all member states of the European Union are committed to religious freedom and non-discrimination in their constitution. (See Shahid & van Koningsveld 1995: 111; Shahid & van Koningsveld 2002a: 1; Ferrari 2002.)26 Second, the role of religion is also reflected in the operation of the civil society and the way different religious groups negotiate for their interests in the public sphere. One crucial question in this respect is how well Muslims become incorporated into the public and civil life on different levels of society, and thereby can work actively within the wider society (cf. Lewis 2002).With regard to the general societal developments, the first of the abovementioned questions is related to the process of secularisation, whereas the second one is a matter of cultural and religious pluralisation. At present, it is fair to say that, even though constitutions of the European states, in principle, treat all their citizens equally, in practice, the religious communities representing a historical majority often enjoy legal and social advantages as well as larger autonomy, than other religious communities. (See Seppo 2003: 30.) In order to correct this bias at least three models have been suggested.

26 In practice, however, this does not necessarily help in coming to terms with the challenges that Islam poses on the legal systems of individual countries, and therefore some changes in the present law might be needed. (See Musselli 2002; Jonker 2002; Alwall 2002.)

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According to the first model, the rights of all religious communities should be levelled out so that, irrespective of their historical and cultural links with the prevailing society, none of them would enjoy special privileges. According to the Finnish church sociologist, Juha Seppo, this model is highly unrealistic, and no European country has put this model into practice (Seppo 2003: 30). However, unrealistic as it may be, this model would treat all religious communities equally, irrespective of their age, size or social influence. Instead of equality, the second model aims at expanding the rights enjoyed by the dominant Christian church also to other religious communities. At present, this seems to be the prevailing trend in Europe. For various political and cultural reasons, European states do not want to limit the privileges enjoyed by the Christian churches prominent in society and hence meet the growing pressure of multiculturalism by extending some of these privileges also to other religious communities. In practice, these privileges given to religious communities have included such measures as economic support for hiring religious staff (Netherlands, Belgium), participation in planning religious education of schools (Britain), radio broadcasting (Germany), or having a particular contract with the state (Italy, Spain). (Seppo 2003: 30–31.) As will be discussed in the following chapters, this above-model of extended privileges has been adopted also in Finland and Ireland. As these country-specific examples reveal, the legislation and policies in accordance with this model are usually articulated in terms of positive religious freedom, which, in turn, is easily taken at facevalue. What the model of extended privileges does, in short, is to reify the status-quo of the prominent Christian church, thereby strengthening its position in society (cf. Seppo 2003: 33). Consequently, one is justified in asking if giving some of the privileges enjoyed by churches to other religious communities can in any way level the scales between them. However, legitimising the model of extended privileges by positive religious freedom more often than not puts an end to any critical discussion concerning its merits and faults. But, if this is the model by which European states aim at combatting the challenge of multireligiosity, surely it should be put under a critical scrutiny and thereby examine the actual outcome of such politics of religion in different European countries. The cases of Finland and Ireland, dealt with here, are an opening towards this end. The third model resembles the model of extended privileges but is more limited in scope. In order to gain benefits from the state, a

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religious community has to comply with a particular set of criteria laid down by the state. The positive religious freedom is thereby acknowledged but within certain limits, which vary from country to country. Thus, in order to get financial support from the government of Sweden a religious community needs to be both vital and well-established. Moreover, it should pursue strengthening in its members the basic values of Swedish society. At present, there are some twenty religious communities in Sweden which fall into this category. In Austria, in order to be recognised as a registered religious community (in similar fashion to the Christian churches), a religious group has to prove that it has been functioning continuously for at least twenty years. In addition, its membership should have risen to around 16,000 within that time period. Moreover, the group’s attitude towards the state has to be positive, and it is not allowed to unlawfully disturb the activities of other religious communities. The financial benefits provided by the state should be used strictly for religious purposes. More or less similar criteria are listed also by Belgium. All in all, it seems to be in the interest of the state to control the unexpected consequences of the new and unknown religious groups and, against this threat, to oversee the following of law and order in society. (Seppo 2003: 32–33.)27 Therefore, it could be called the model of protectionism. Without a doubt, the growing threat of violence and terrorism in the twenty-first century is bound to strengthen the above-model of protectionism. Unfortunately, an overemphasis on the security of the state and society can have reverse consequences for extending religious freedom of the fairly recent and less established religious communities in Europe. Since Islam so often is categorically identified with terrorism, the rights enjoyed by ordinary Muslims, who have

27 The model of protectionism seems to prevail also in Russia, where the relationship between the state and the Orthodox Church has traditionally been very close. However, in the former Soviet Union a law was issued concerning religious freedom, which placed all religions on the same footing before the law. This led to a phenomenal upsurge of different religious groups in the country, which also became the target of active missionary work from abroad. In consequence, the Orthodox Church, in particular, expressed its dissatisfaction with the law, which it saw as being too liberal. In 1997, the Duma passed a new law emphasising the significance of Orthodoxy for Russian culture and identity. The operation of religious communities less than fifteen years old were restricted and the rights of religious minorities in one way or another were limited. (Kääriäinen 2001.)

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no part or parcel with any sort of terrorism, are under threat here. Hence it does not come as a surprise that the events of 11 September 2001, and the consequent struggle against terrorism, are suspected to be having the effect of limiting religious freedom in the United States, which in general allows a very wide scope for religious rights (see Seppo 2003: 35). There are signs that in Europe the efforts to maintain the safety of the state and society are connected with the emphasis on European values and hence strengthening the position of the historically and culturally established Christian traditions of a country, which, unlike many new religious groups, are seen as guardians of these values. In this sense, religions in the form of traditional churches play an important role in the public sphere of contemporary politics. In order to elaborate the positive religious freedom further, it needs to be noted that the legal protection of religious minorities, such as Muslims, is not enough if it is not accompanied by social recognition, and the subsequent provisions for the law. It is the social recognition which translates a legal will into a political practice (cf. Nielsen 2002), and also facilitates the establishment of Muslims as European Muslims proper (cf. Alwall 2002). All in all, members of religious minorities should feel that they are able to function as adherents of their religion not only in the privacy of their homes but also in the public sphere of society at large. Consequently, the realisation of such social recognition basically requires the acknowledgment of and sensitivity to not only the positive but also the negative religious freedom of religious minorities in society (cf. Saarni 2002). Hence, it is not only the positive but also the negative religious freedom of religious minorities (and in some cases also of religious majorities) which in a multicultural Europe will deliver the litmus test for religious freedom. The above-arguments are well illustrated in the discussion on Finland and Ireland. Indeed, one may ask what differences and similarities prevail between these two countries with respect to the position of religious communities, freedoms regarding public manifestations of religion, as well as the interaction between religion and education. Finland and Ireland Before going into detail on the development of religious freedom in Finland and Ireland, dealt with in Chapters Three and Four, one

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can note that both Finland and Ireland have signed Article 18 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, as well as Article 9 in the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms. Ireland was one of the first out of eleven countries to join the Council of Europe in 1948, whereas Finland came forty years later, joining the Council in 1989. Ireland joined the European Union in 1973, whereas Finland joined it twenty years later in 1995. Hence both of these countries are affected by the legal decisions authorised in the EU. When joining the EU, Finland requested and was granted an official position for Finnish language, whereas Ireland applied for the official recognition of the Irish language as recently as in July 2004—irrespective of the fact that, according to Article 8 of the Irish Constitution, Irish ‘as the national language is the first official language’, and English ‘is recognised as a second official language’. This undoubtedly is dictated by practical reasons, considering that 98% of the Irish speak English in the vernacular. However, all the most important international instruments of human rights have been translated both into Finnish and Irish. Traditionally, the state church systems in western Europe have been divided into the following systems: concordatarian; separation; and national. In countries with a concordatarian system, such as Italy, Spain and Germany, the relationship between the state and the Catholic Church is regulated by concordats, and between it and other religious groups by agreements. In the separation system, such as in France, Belgium, and the Netherlands, the church is legally separated from the state. Irrespective of the strong position of the Catholic Church, Ireland, in accordance with its Constitution, belongs to this group. In the state or national church system, as is prevalent in the Nordic countries with regard to the Evangelical Lutheran Church and England with the Anglican Church, the state or the national church enjoys distinctive privileges in comparison to other religious groups, for instance, regarding religious education in the schools, or prison, hospital and army chaplains. Finland, with a national church system, belongs to this group. Notwithstanding the legal stand in this matter, it would certainly be more appropriate, regarding the privileged position of the Catholic Church, to also include Ireland in this group. Moreover, the Catholic Church in Ireland enjoys a far better legal position than the Catholic Church in some other countries with a concordatarian system and therefore

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Ireland would seem to correspond exceedingly well with other Catholic countries, such as Italy and Spain. Indeed, Ferrari points out that this division into three state church systems is both legally and culturally outdated and a leftover of a cultural division between the Protestant countries with a state church, the Catholic countries with a concordat, and the secular, ‘separatist’ countries. (Ferrari 2002: 6–7.) Another way to map the religious landscape of Europe is to distinguish between Catholic countries (e.g. Italy, Spain, Ireland), Protestant countries (e.g. Denmark, Britain), mixed countries (e.g. Germany), and région laïque (e.g. France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and partly England). (See Davie 2000: 12.) With respect to this division, Finland can be included in similar fashion to Denmark among the Protestant countries. However, even this division does not take into consideration great differences prevailing between the Catholic countries, for instance, between Ireland and the Southern European Catholic countries, or between different forms of Protestantism, such as Anglicanism in England and Lutheranism in the Nordic countries. Moreover, one can easily agree with Ferrari that, as a result of rapid secularisation in Europe, the division between Catholic and Protestant countries is diminishing in significance over time (2002: 7). This observation no doubt is interesting with respect to this study, which concerns Protestant Finland and Catholic Ireland. Perhaps, nonetheless, a far more interesting question is how and why a particular kind of an arrangement regarding the state and church came about in these two countries. In national legislation, freedom of religion is usually treated as one of the fundamental rights and, hence, articulated in the constitution, which ‘as a legal and political instrument, is affected by the values of its framers, by the intellectual and theoretical traditions of the cultural circle, as well as by the cold calculations of power politics’.28 In similar fashion, the interpretation of fundamental rights involves a great deal of case law and argumentation, which have developed in the course of a considerable length of time and relatively freely with respect to the exact functioning of these rights. Fundamental rights are also closely connected to the values and notions of morality, which are the outcome of cultural and historical factors, varying from society to society, and from time to time. (See Saarni 2002:

28

Nousiainen (www.om.fi/3344.htm).

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3–9; Lerner 1996: 92.) Therefore, the interpretations of fundamental rights are particularly prone to rhetoric, i.e. the use of argumentation with respect to a particular context (see Tindale 1999:69 ff.). The discussion on the development of religious freedom in Finland and Ireland as well as on religious freedom in Finnish and Irish law nicely illustrates this observation. However, one needs to note a difference between Finland and Ireland concerning the legislation of religious freedom. In Finland, religious freedom is briefly mentioned in the 11th Article of the Finnish Constitution and is mainly covered in a separate Freedom of Religion Act, whereas in Ireland religious freedom is, as a whole, dealt with in the Irish Constitution. However, this difference does not have much bearing for this study, where the main focus lies in the general understanding of the meanings carried in the law concerning religious freedom in these respective countries. Irrespective of their differences, both Finland and Ireland place a clear emphasis on positive rather than on negative religious freedom— whether with respect to religious majorities or minorities.29 This is so to the extent that one is justified in arguing that, in both of these countries, positive religious freedom is more or less taken for granted. Perhaps this partly explains why the negative religious freedom of both religious majorities or minorities has not received much attention in either of these countries. Unlike Germany and the United States, neither Finland nor Ireland, have shown much activity in finding a balance between the positive religious freedom of the majority and the negative religious freedom of the minorities. In general, these observations are connected with the questions concerning the relationship between the state and religion as well as the religious neutrality of the state, and with the corresponding equality of religions in society. (Cf. Saarni 2002: 19, 23.) It goes without saying that new policies cannot be created where problems are not acknowledged.

29 Saarni argues that, in actual fact, the drafting process of the new Freedom of Religion Act in Finland somewhat reveals an overemphasis of positive religious freedom (2002: 15).

CHAPTER THREE

RELIGIOUS FREEDOM IN FINLAND From Compulsory Lutheranism to Religious Freedom Finland came under the influence of Christianity around a thousand years ago. The rooting of Christianity in Finland took place gradually between the eleventh and fourteenth centuries, whereby the old Finnish beliefs and practices were replaced by those of Christianity. The ancient folk belief in Finland was closely connected to the customs upheld by small close-knit communities and lacked any welldefined system of doctrine and organisational structure. Therefore, it was quite easily cast aside by institutionalised Christianity, backed up by wealth, education, and military power. As was common at the time, people were left with no choice but to embrace Christianity or risk their lives in refusing to do so. The coercion notwithstanding, the change from folk belief to Christianity did not of course happen overnight but rather took place gradually as people mixed in their old folk beliefs with the Catholic faith. For instance, when the church replaced the old offering shrines for sacrifice with church buildings, people would visit the church but, in parallel, continue to practice their old customs in the same place. Moreover, people would, in the company of a priest, worship the Christian God but in the priest’s absence worship their ancient gods. In similar fashion, people might attribute Christian saints with the qualities of fairies, and so forth. Therefore, one can say that even though there was no religious freedom at the time, in principle, in practice the church did not or could not exercise its control over the non-Christian beliefs and practices held by people (See Purhonen 1998; Heininen & Heikkilä 2002: 23–6). With respect to Christianity, Finland has always been the meeting point of both Eastern and Western Christianity.1 However, as a result

1 For a more detailed account of the history of Finland, see Wuorinen 1965, Jutikkala & Pirinen 1984, and Singleton 1998. For church history of Finland, see Heininen & Heikkilä 2002. For a discussion on relations between Finland and

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of the missionary work in the Nordic countries, the Catholic Church widened its influence also to Finland in the twelfth century. According to a well-known legend, the first local crusade to Finland was undertaken in 1155 by the Swedish King Eric, who was accompanied by an English-born Bishop Henry, nominated as the first Bishop of Finland. However, later Bishop Henry met his death on the lake of Köyliö at the hand of a Finnish peasant, Lalli. Bishop Henry was later canonised.2 (See Lehtonen 1999: 18, 22; Pulkkinen 1999: 118, 130; Anttonen 2004.) The spread of Catholicism to Finland was facilitated by the fact that Finland was part of Sweden for over six hundred years, from the thirteenth century until 1809. According to some historians, the so-called Sweden-Finland was not a ‘colony’ of Sweden as such, but rather held a more or less equal status with that of other provinces of Sweden. After all, the Finns and the Swedes ‘shared common religious traditions, were under the same administration and complemented rather than competed with each other’ (Singleton 1998: 23; see also Wuorinen 1965: 49; cf. Jutikkala & Pirinen 1984: 22, 76–80).3 At the same time, Orthodox Novgorod was also seeking a foothold in Finland. The strife between these two contestants was settled in 1323, when a border dividing the east and west was drawn from the Gulf of Bothnia to Karelia near Lake Ladoga.4 This border lasted more or less for two hundred years, during which time SwedenFinland saw the gradual establishment of the Roman Catholic Church, with the foundation of church administration, church buildings and schools. In other words, the Catholic infrastructure was constituted in the south and southwest region of Finland. In order to finance this infrastructure, the church collected taxes, which were partly used to pay for education and social services. In medieval times the centre

Western Europe, see Lehtonen 1999 and Pulkkinen 1999. On the development of religious freedom, see Seppo 1998 and Reijonen 1977. A short chronology of Finnish history is available in Lehtonen (ed.) 1999: 3, 236–41. 2 For a critical study regarding the legend of Bishop Henry, see Heikkilä 2005. 3 The use of ‘Sweden-Finland’ emphasises the equal position that Finland held as one of the ‘provinces’ of Sweden. Of course it is inaccurate to speak about Finland when referring to the period when Finland was annexed to Sweden, or since 1809 to Russia, because it did not yet actually exist. (See Pulkkinen 1999: 118–9; Lehtonen 1999: 24, 27.) However, to make things simpler, I will use SwedenFinland or Finland when referring to the territory that now constitutes Finland. 4 For the changes in Finnish boundaries, see Jutikkala & Pirinen 1984: 27; Singleton 1998: 50.

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of Catholic administration in Finland was Turku, where the bishop’s seat was situated. The bishop also represented Finland in Stockholm. Moreover, several monasteries were established in Finland between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries. In addition to religious power, the church wielded a considerable social and political power in the country. (See Heininen & Heikkilä 2002: 27–55.) However, the sixteenth century saw a drastic religious and political upheaval in Sweden and Finland, brought about by the Reformation and the gradual development of the nation state. Primarily for political and financial reasons the King of Sweden, Gustavus Vasa (1496–1560), sided with the Reformation and began an attack against the powerful position of the Catholic Church in Sweden. In order to pay the debts of the state, he confiscated the church’s property and closed the monasteries.5 In addition, Gustavus Vasa also took over the highest legislative and administrative powers which the church had held. In the spirit of the Reformation, the Latin service was replaced by the vernacular and the celibacy rule for priests was abolished. Even though the religious politics of Sweden did not, strictly speaking, follow the principle of cuius regio, eius religio, opted for in 1555 in other European countries, the sovereign nonetheless was in charge of the main policies of the state (See Wuorinen 1965: 60–66; Jutikkala & Pirinen 1984: 58–64; Singleton 1998: 31–6; Heininen & Heikkilä 2002: 56–81). The Reformation in Finland marked the beginning of the period of ‘collective and compulsory Lutheranism’, when Finland was a country of ‘strict religious uniformity, based on the ideal of a confessional state’ (Seppo 1998: 849). In similar fashion to other Lutheran countries, Finland embraced the system of state church so that for centuries the constitution and other legislation reflected the unity between these two entities. The Constitution of 1634 read: ‘Unanimity in religion and the true worship is the strongest foundation of a worthy, harmonious and constant government’,6 which phrase was repeated in every constitution until the first republican constitution of 1919 in that of the newly independent Finland. The period of Lutheran Orthodoxy, nonetheless, had a decisive impact on the development 5 The confiscations had a detrimental effect on internal education, developed in Catholic Finland since the late thirteenth century, and was revived again only in the seventeenth century (see Lehtonen 1999). 6 The reference translated in Seppo (1998: 850).

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of Finnish language, because people were obliged to learn to read religious texts. The church thereby set the foundation for extensive literacy in Finland so that by the mid-eighteenth century, ordinary people had access to and could read devotional literature in Finnish.7 Leaving the Lutheran Church was heavily sanctioned, so that it usually lead to expulsion from the country and to the loss of rights to one’s inheritance. At the same time, the state made some concessions to members of other Christian denominations. In 1658, the Orthodox, constituting the largest religious minority at the time, were given the right to have their own priests and to participate in religious ceremonies of their own faith, after an unsuccessful effort to convert them to Lutheranism. Moreover, in order to facilitate the employment of a foreign workforce, reformed Christians and some members of the Anglican Church had, since the beginning of the eighteenth century, retained the right to the private practice of their religion. Later in that century, this right was also extended to other Christian groups and to Jews as well. These concessions notwithstanding, one had to be a Lutheran in order to obtain a SwedoFinnish citizenship, whereby the strong link between nationality and religion was upheld until the independence of Finland. In other words, the principle of religious freedom was acknowledged but in a very limited sense (See Seppo 1998: 849–51). In 1809, the Swedish era ended and Finland was annexed to Russia as an autonomous Grand Duchy. This change, however, did not provoke any major changes in the relations between church and state. The system of a state-run church continued and the religious freedom remained limited. One peculiarity, however, arose when the Orthodox Czar of Russia replaced the Lutheran King of Sweden as the head of the Lutheran Church in Finland. As a consequence, the Constitution, which stated that the head of the church should be a Lutheran, had to be amended. With respect to religious minorities,

7 The Reformation was important with respect to Finnish language. Mikael Agricola (circa 1510–1557), the headmaster of the Turku School, translated the New Testament and large parts of the Old Testament into Finnish. He also wrote handbooks to priests to be used in church services. (See Heininen & Heikkilä 2002: 60–72.) Until Agricola’s time Finnish language literature was practically non-existent and he thus laid the foundation for the written vernacular of Finnish language, starting the development of literate Finnish culture. For a discussion on the impact of vernacular literacy on the development of Finnish society and the religious field, see Lehtonen (1999).

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the number of adherents to Orthodoxy grew considerably, and their position was strengthened with enlarged rights, granted by the czar (See Seppo 1998: 851–2; Heininen & Heikkilä 2002: 141–8, 168–70). Since the eighteenth century, Pietism8 and the Enlightenment started gradually to erode the consensus of collective and compulsory religion. Moreover, the ideology of liberalism spread from Continental Europe to Finland, whereupon the pressure to recognise religious freedom started to grow. As a result, a new canon law was passed in 1869, increasing the autonomy of the Lutheran Church, and allowing people to leave the church in order to join some other Christian denomination. (Seppo 1998: 852.) Hence, the law acknowledged the positive religious freedom to choose between Christian denominations, but the negative religious freedom of not belonging to any faith group was out of question. The number of Orthodox, Roman Catholics, Jews and Muslims remained very small and the dominance of the Lutheran Church in the religious field remained intact. An important change concerning school education, however, was a statute enacted in 1865 in the countryside and in 1873 in the cities, which established local government based on direct participation. The ecclesiastical and secular administration was thereafter separated from one another, and the municipalities took over such ‘secular’ tasks as healthcare and education. (Finnish Local Government 1981.) Even though municipalities were in charge of primary school education, the church organised elementary education for children in order to enhance their literacy, among other things. Towards the end of the nineteenth century some changes occurred in the religious field when the number of Christian groups, originating both in Finland and from abroad, grew considerably. In 1889, a law was passed which allowed Protestant minorities to get organised. (Seppo 1998: 853.) At the same time, the idea of a state church started to give way to the idea of a national church. The church, moreover, allied with Fennomania, a cultural movement which created the idea of Finland as a separate national unit, invested with a distinctive history.9 As a part of the linguistic campaign, many 8 Pietism was a reform movement within the Lutheran Church, which emphasised personal piety and putting one’s faith into practice. (See Heininen & Heikkilä 2002: 112–16.) 9 According to Pulkkinen, the history of Finnish political thought, with its emphasis on ‘the people’, resembles, more than that of the Scandinavian countries, that of the Czech Republic, Poland, Italy, Hungary and the Baltic states (1999: 127).

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nationalists in the Swedish-speaking university-educated elite took Finnish names and started speaking Finnish as their home language. As mentioned above, Finnish was already used in church services and religious education of the Lutheran Church. Thereby Finnish language gained wide support from different strata of society. However, Swedish remained the language of the judiciary until the independence (See Pulkkinen 1999; Briody 1997). In the aftermath of the Russian revolution, Finland gained its independence in December 1917. The Constitution Act of 1919 guaranteed all Finnish citizens the right to practice their religion in public and private. However, it also declared the Finnish state to be confessionally neutral, and the civil rights and duties laid down by the state no longer depended on religious affiliation. There was, nonetheless, a considerable debate on the status of the Lutheran Church in relation to the state. In line with the neutrality of the state, however, ‘the significance of the Lutheran Church and faith for the integrity of the nation was no longer mentioned in the Constitution’, and thereupon, the ‘role and status of Lutheranism as state ideology was over’ (Seppo 1998: 854). This omission notwithstanding, the Lutheran Church was, due to its central role in Finnish history and with its membership which embraced the vast majority of Finns, accorded a privileged position as a national church. Morever, the Constitution also acknowledged the special legal status of the Orthodox Church as the second national church of Finland (Heininen & Heikkilä 2002: 199–202; Seppo 2003: 44; see also Reijonen 1977: 72–4). The constitutional right allowing for religious freedom was put into practice by the implementation of the Freedom of Religion Act of 1922. With respect to this act Finns, for the first time, had the right not to belong to any religious community. Already since 1917, people with no religious affiliation had been registered in the civil register, and now the law also permitted a civil marriage in addition to the religious one. In addition to positive religious freedom, these legal and administrative changes created a space for negative religious freedom in Finland.10

10 However, it was only after the Second World War that the number of people with no religious affiliation started to grow. While in 1930 their number was 1,5% of the population, in 1960 5,5%, and in 2001 14%. At the same time, the membership of the Lutheran Church was gradually decreasing. (Kirkko ja valtio 1977: 22–24.)

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Religious Freedom in the Finnish Law The Constitution of Finland The Constitution of Finland (Suomen perustuslaki) was recently revised so that the present Constitution (731/1999), issued in March 2000, replaced the four former Constitutional Acts enacted in Finland since 1919. The new Constitution was published in Finnish, Swedish and Samish (Lappish), and distributed to all households in Finland. In parallel with the Constitution, the Ministry of Justice also published a booklet Valtiovalta Suomessa kuuluu kansalle (2000), which is available in English translation with the title In Finland sovereign power rests with the people (www.om.fi/18854.htm). This booklet encapsulates in everyday language the rights listed in the Constitution. Moreover, the Ministry of Education keeps web pages on the reform, which provide the text of the Constitution in different languages, the above-mentioned booklet, as well as background information of the reform (see www. om.fi/21910.htm).11 The Constitution opens with the Fundamental provisions, stated in Chapter 1, as follows: Finland is a sovereign republic. [—] The constitution [of Finland] shall guarantee the inviolability of human dignity and the freedom and rights of the individual and promote justice in society. Finland participates in international co-operation for the protection of peace and human rights and for the development of society.

The opening paragraph of the Finnish constitutional act portrays Finland as a republican parliamentary democracy but also clearly echoes the principle of individual freedoms and rights, dealt with above in respect of the international instruments of human rights. In line with this statement, Finland is portrayed as a willing promoter of peace and human rights in co-operation with its international counterparts. Hence, the first section of the Constitution reveals Finland to be juxtaposed between two interests: one for state sovereignty and the other for international obligations, which particularly as a member 11 For the translation of the Constitution, see www.finlex.fi. With respect to foreign languages, aside from English, the text is available in German, French, Spanish, and Russian (see www.om.fi/21910.htm). For the background of the reform and the main principles of the new Constitution, see the article by Jaakko Nousiainen, Professor Emeritus in Political Science (www.om.fi/3344.htm). Professor Nousiainen’s text is also available in German, French and Spanish.

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of the EU are binding on Finland (see Nousiainen, www.om.fi/3344. htm); see also Chapter 8 of the Constitution). In one way or another, it is necessary for the state to strike a balance between these two interests.12 In general, Finland is considered to be a relatively egalitarian and democratic state, which is perhaps understandable in the light of the state’s history. Finland has witnessed very few ethnic, cultural, religious or linguistic controversies, which would have split the society into competing factions and interest-groups.13 Moreover, Finland is characterised by a strong tradition of legalism, prevailing among both the authorities and the citizens. All in all, the Finnish state is ‘a highly consensual political community’ (Nousiainen, www.om.fi/3344.htm). Section two (2 §) of the first chapter deals with democracy and the rule of law, stating ‘the right of the individual to participate in and influence the development of society and his or her living conditions’. However, in public, this right can be exerted only within the strict observation of the law. The idea of democratic participation of the individuals in affairs concerning themselves is of course important with respect to minorities and immigrants. One may rightly ask to what extent they are able, and allowed, to participate in public activities in order to forward their interests. Without a doubt, in a multicultural society, this is a litmus test of democracy. As will be discussed in more detail below with respect to the new Freedom of Religion Act, religious minorities did not have a representation in the Freedom of Religion Committee but were consulted in the process of drafting the new act.14 Chapter 2 of the Constitution on the basic liberties and rights guarantees the fundamental civil rights of individuals. Hence section six (6 §) states that ‘Everyone is equal before the law’, and proceeds with the qualification of this general principle, as follows:

12

Chapter 8 of the constitution deals with international relations (93 §–97 §). In the civil war of Finland in 1918, it was the social class, rather than religion or language, which divided the Finnish nation into two factions (Nousiainen, www.om.fi/3344.htm; see Hentilä 1999: 91–94). 14 See Yhteenveto uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietinnöstä (KM 1999:5) saaduista lausunnoista [Summary of the statements concerning the Interim report of the Freedom of Religion Committee (KM 1999: 5)]; henceforth Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000; and Yhteenveto uskonnonvapauskomitean mietinnöstä (KM 2001: 1) saaduista lausunnoista [Summary of the statements concerning the final report of the Freedom of Religion Committee], henceforth Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001. 13

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No one shall, without an acceptable reason, be treated differently from other persons on the ground of sex, age, origin, language, religion, conviction, opinion, health, disability or other reason that concerns his or her person.

Moreover, this section also emphasises the equal treatment of children as individuals, in addition to the equality between sexes (2:6). Gender equality is dealt with in more detail in the Equality Act (Tasa-arvolaki 1999; 2005), which aims at preventing discrimination on the grounds of gender and promoting equality between sexes especially in working life. However, the application of the Equality Act is restricted so that, for instance, it does not concern the religious activity of the Lutheran Church, the Orthodox Church, or any other registered religious community either. The restriction, nonetheless, does not concern ‘non-religious’ matters of these institutions, such as employment and pay. (Bruun & Koskinen 1986: 55–56.) In this respect, the religious freedom of a Lutheran Church does not override the principle of gender equality. As an example, one can mention a high court decision (KKO 2001: 9) concerning the equality between men and women, applied in a case concerning the employment of an assistant minister in the parish of Hyvinkää. In 1996, the parish of Hyvinkää appointed a male candidate to the post of a parish chaplain instead of a woman candidate, even though she had been stated to be better qualified for the job. The woman candidate appealed to the Hyvinkää district court claiming that she had been discriminated against on grounds of her gender, and therefore she demanded that the parish of Hyvinkää should pay her compensation in accordance with the Equality Act. The parish rejected this demand on grounds that appointing ministers in the Lutheran Church was part of the religious practice of the church and hence, as such, did not come within the scope of the statutes concerning equality. Moreover, it pointed out that the Equality Act (609/1986) did not, in any case, cover the women’s ordination as ministers, which was accepted by the Finnish Lutheran Church in 1988 and hence after the Equality Act was passed. Finally, the parish defended its choice of the male candidate on grounds of his personal merits (KKO 2001: 9). However, the Hyvinkää district court, the Helsinki Court of Appeal and the Supreme Court decided the case in favour of the plaintiff. According to the Supreme Court decision, religious freedom entails freedom to practice religion, also including the freedom of a parish

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freely to choose its ministers. With respect to religious practice, nonetheless, the church is obliged to comply with the constitutional law and respect gender equality. The gender equality is particularly important in cases where the church operates as an employer. Therefore, the appointment of ministers by a parish comes under the scope of statues concerning equality. Consequently, the Supreme Court obliged the parish to compensate the plaintiff in accordance with the Equality Act (KKO 2001: 9). In sum, the court ruling emphasised in a case of employment the right to equality of an individual rather than religious freedom of a religious organisation, whereby the autonomy of the Lutheran Church in this matter was limited (cf. Seppo 2003: 20). In Chapter 2 of the Constitution, section eleven (11 §) is dedicated to freedom of religion and conscience, as follows: Everyone has the freedom of religion and conscience. Freedom of religion and conscience entails the right to profess and practice a religion,15 the right to express one’s convictions and the right to be a member of or decline to be a member of a religious community. No one is under the obligation, against his or her conscience, to participate in the practice of religion.

The Finnish Constitution is clear about both positive and negative freedom of religion. In the process of drafting this statute, however, the Lutheran Church criticised the original wording which, in its view, laid too much emphasis on the negative freedom of religion.16 Instead, the Church was of the opinion that, in light of the international human rights instruments, the statute should explicate more clearly the positive freedom of religion. The final wording of the statute seems to reflect this criticism. (Seppo 2003: 53–55.) With respect to positive religious freedom, section eleven (11 §) of the Constitution states the right to religious belief, practice and belonging, whereby the belonging is explicated as a membership of a religious community. Thus, regarding the manifestation of one’s religion in community with others, the law seems to reiterate the understanding of religious belonging as a membership, which undoubt-

15

In Finnish, ‘tunnustaa ja harjoittaa uskontoa’. The wording stated the right not to belong to a religious community, not to practice religion against one’s conviction, not to financially support a religious community that one is not a member of, and the right not to take part in the military conscription against one’s conviction (See Seppo 2003: 53). 16

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edly is characteristic of the national churches in Finland and other Nordic countries. As will be discussed in Chapter Six in relation to Muslims in Finland, membership as a mode of religious belonging is not necessarily customary in all religions. In this respect, the law rearticulates an established Christian model of religious belonging and fails to reflect the multi-faith scene of Finnish society. Moreover, it must be noted that church membership as a justification for limiting a freedom of choice in matters pertaining to one’s conscience has been contested in similar fashion to that of Europe also in Finland (see Evans 2001; Scheinin 2001a). The Constitution explicates the negative religious freedom as the right not to be a member of a religious community and, finally, emphasises forcefully the individual right not to be forced to participate in the practice of religion, such as divine service or some other religious occasion (see Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö17 1999: 2). For some reason or another, this last-named clause seems to have overshadowed the process of drafting the provisions concerning religious education at school, and also discussions in its respect. In these discussions, religious education is, for the most part, dissociated from religious practice (see Chapter Seven).18 In addition to section eleven, dealing with religious freedom in general, section seventy-six (76 §) explicitly concerns the Lutheran Church. It states: Provisions on the organisation and administration of the Evangelical Lutheran Church are laid down in the Church Act. The legislative procedure for enactment of the Church Act and the right to submit legislative proposals relating to the Church Act are governed by the specific provisions in that Code.

In comparison to the previous constitutional law (94/1919), the wording of this statute is less comprehensive. Previously the equivalent statute dealt with religious communities in three categories, first, the Lutheran Church, second, other traditional religious communities in Finland, and, third, religious communities that might be founded in future (83 §). The provision on religious communities has been seen

17

In English: the Interim Report of the Freedom of Religion Committee 1999. See Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001 [the Final Report of the Freedom of Religion Committee], for a dissenting opinion put forward by Scheinin (2001b: 95–98). 18

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as a support for the position of religious communities and thereby as an explication of communal religious freedom (Seppo 2003: 56). Now, however, the new Act recognises the communal religious freedom solely in relation to the Lutheran Church, and its autonomy under the Church Act. This change in the Constitution was brought about by the activity of the Lutheran Church on its own behalf. It so happened that the first draft of the Constitution proposed by the Constitutional Law Committee (2000) did not make any reference to the Lutheran Church, or to any other religious community either, for that matter. In addition, the committee wanted to limit the autonomy of the Lutheran Church by extending the power of the parliament in the internal affairs of the church. The proposal of the committee, however, was heavily opposed by the Lutheran Church. First, the representatives of the church were of the opinion that the church should not be omitted from the Constitution because the Constitution, by tradition, dealt with the most important institutions of the state, the church being one of them. Second, they did not accept the proposed limitations to the autonomy of the Lutheran Church. The criticism of the church was heeded by the Constitutional Law Committee and the above-mentioned statute included in the Constitution. (Seppo 2003: 56–57.) The Orthodox Church, which is recognised as the second national church of Finland, is conspicuous by its absence, not to mention other securely established religious communities in Finland. With respect to other basic rights and liberties, the Constitution recognises Finnish and Swedish as the national languages of Finland, but also ensures that the Sami people, as indigenous people, and the Romanies, including other language groups, have the right to maintain and develop their own language and culture. In addition, the rights of people using sign language are protected by the Constitution. The fundamental rights, furthermore, include the right to work and livelihood, social security, health-care, free basic education, a healthy environment, and legal protection. Undoubtedly, section twelve (12 §) on freedom of speech, section thirteen (13 §) on the right to free assembly, as well as section 127 on the right for exemption from military service, also have practical consequences for religious freedom (see Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 1). Moreover, chapter seventeen of the criminal law code treats as a criminal offence blasphemy as well as violations against the freedom of religious belief and practice (Rikoslaki 10§, 11 §).

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The Freedom of Religion Act A need for change As mentioned previously, it is the Freedom of Religion Act which lays down the main legal parameters of religious freedom in Finland. The current Freedom of Religion Act, issued in 2003 (Uskonnonvapauslaki 2003), replaced the former act, issued in 1922 (Uskonnonvapauslaki 1922). The need to revise the Freedom of Religion Act arose from the changes in constitutional law in the 1990s, but also from the feeling that the 75-year-old Freedom of Religion Act of 1922 was somewhat out of date19 (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 19–21). Two groups, in particular, expressed their dissatisfaction with the act. First, the Freethinkers of Finland had long campaigned against the privileged position of the Lutheran Church, and wished to gain larger recognition for negative religious freedom. Second, some Christian minorities, such as the Adventists, Pentecostals, Methodists, Salvation Army, and the Free Church, were of the opinion that the law did not treat their members on a par with those of the majority religion. On behalf of these dissenting groups, the Ecumenical Council of Finland proposed to the Ministry of Education that the Freedom of Religion Act should be redrafted and that the process of redrafting should includ as broad a swath of representatives from the different religious communities as possible (Seppo 2003: 58–59). Hence, the outcry for the recognition of multireligiosity in Finnish society came from the Christian circles, and not, for instance, from the Jews or Muslims, who are also long established in this country. However, the latter were consulted in the process of drafting the act. In October 1998, the parliament set up a committee for redrafting the Freedom of Religion Act. In addition to the chairman (Vilho Hirvi), the Council of State nominated nine members to the committee, consisting of the representative of the Ministry of Justice (Tuula Majuri), the Ministry of Education (Håkan Matlin) and the Ministry of Internal Affairs ( Jukka Aalto), and in respect of the academic expertise, consisting of Professor Eila Helander and Professor Juha Seppo, both church sociologists, Professor Heikki Palva, specialist in Arabic language and Islam, Doctor Päivi Setälä, a historian,

19 For the changes in the politics of religion after the Second World War, see Seppo 2003: 47–52.

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all working in the University of Helsinki, and Professor of Law Martin Scheinin, the head of the Human Rights Institute, Åbo Akademi, Turku. In addition, the director of the Association for Mental Health in Finland, Pirkko Lahti, was nominated as a member of the committee.20 Two secretaries for the committee were nominated from the Ministry of Education. Moreover, a student of theology took part in writing a chapter to the committee report covering religious freedom in other European countries.21 (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 1.) In the process of drafting the new Freedom of Religion Act, the committee consulted, in addition to the Lutheran Church, specialists with respect to different religions, including the Orthodox Church, Islam,22 Judaism, the Jehovah Witnesses, the Ecumenical Council of Finland, the Council of Free Christianity in Finland, in addition to the Federation of Freethinkers (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999). After its seminal work, the committee produced an interim report in 1999 which was sent to altogether 130 representatives of political parties, government offices, religious communities and various associations. The statements concerning the proposal for the Freedom of Religion Act were then published in 2000 in a separate report, which also includes responses from such quarters which were not listed at first (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000). After this seminal work, the committee published its final report in 2001,23 which again was sent for commentary to 147 quarters, of whom 93 responded with a statement.24 These statements were published in 2001 (see Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001).

20

One can note that the committee members except one were centred in Helsinki. As such, it is interesting that it was a theology student and not, for instance, a student of law who was nominated for this task. In the statements concerning the final report of the Freedom of Religion Committee the section of the report concerning other European countries has been criticised for being very narrow in scope and purposefully selective in its approach (See Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 6). In addition to other Nordic countries, i.e. Sweden, Norway, Denmark and Iceland, the report only deals with Germany and France. See Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 17–19. 22 With respect to Islam, the committee consulted Professor of Economics Mohamed Ahmed (Tampere), who in the 1980s was one of the founding members of the Islamic Society of Finland. 23 Uskonnnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 1. 24 For a list of commentators to the final report of the Freedom of Religion Committee, see the Appendix in this report (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001). 21

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It is important to note how widely the process of drafting the Freedom of Religion Act mobilised different interest groups of the state and civil society. Political parties, state administration, religious communities as well as different non-governmental organisations had a chance to acquaint themselves with the new bill and express their views concerning important issues in the politics of religion. (See Seppo 2003: 78.) With respect to Muslims, it was the ‘old’ Muslims, i.e. Turkish Tatars (the Islam Congregation of Finland) who were active in giving their statement to the interim report of the Freedom of Religion Committee, whereas the ‘new’ Muslims, i.e. the Islamic Society of Finland and the Federation of the Islamic Organisations in Finland, consisting mainly of the immigrant-based Muslims and of some Finnish converts, gave their statements to the final report of the committee. However, it is interesting to note that the committee drafting the proposition for the new Freedom of Religion Act consisted of two professors of the ‘Western’ (Protestant/Lutheran) theology but none of the ‘Eastern’ (Orthodox) theology, even though the latter has several chairs in the University of Joensuu. Taking into consideration that the Orthodox Church is the second national church of Finland this seems a bit odd. In general, the composition of the Freedom of Religion Committee, set by the Ministry of Education, has met with criticism from some religious minorities other than the Orthodox Church. Thus, the Council of Free Christianity in Finland25 regretted the narrow choice of members in the committee, and the Methodist Church pointed out that minority religions had very little influence in general on the working of the committee (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 4). In light of this criticism, it is obvious that the drafting process of the Freedom of Religion Act was organised hierarchically so that the religious minorities were, rightly enough, offered an opportunity to express their opinion concerning both the interim and final report of the committee, but it was the committee that was, in its own right, the sole decision-making body concerning the final proposition for the law of religious freedom. Therefore the fact that religious minorities were not represented in the committee is all the more significant. Since religious minorities were excluded from the final

25

Suomen Vapaan kristillisyyden neuvosto (SVKN ry).

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stage of decision making of the committee, it is fair to say that, in principle, they were treated in similar fashion to minors before the law, who might be listened to in matters regarding themselves but who, nonetheless, do not exercise power over themselves. After all, it is one thing to express an opinion and another to make decisions. In this respect, the process of drafting the law of religious freedom reveals complications in the use of the constitutional right ‘to participate in and influence the development of society and his or her living conditions’ (Constitution of Finland 1999: 2). Hence, the right that, in principle, is the same for all, in practice, is not so readily available for members of the minority as they are for members of the majority. Concerning the working of the committee, it can be seen as a clear religio-political statement that it decided to operate under the heading of the Freedom of Religion Committee (uskonnonvapauskomitea), and not, for instance, as a committee dealing with outlooks and convictions in general. In this respect, the committee disassociated itself from the demands of the Federation of Freethinkers, which was unhappy with the committee’s limitation to issues dealing directly with religion. The committee, however, saw as its main task the articulation of the constitutional right to freedom of religion and conscience, namely the right to profess and practice religion, or the right not to adhere to any religion. It emphasised that the freedom for different outlooks on life was sufficiently secured under the provisions concerning the freedom of speech and the right to free assembly (See Uskonnonvapauskomiten välimietintö 1999: 26; Seppo 2003: 63–64, 80). In its statement, the Lutheran Church warmly supported this emphasis, and so did the Theological Faculty of the University of Helsinki. However, the humanists, teachers of Ethics and Philosophy of Life (elämänkatsomustieto),26 atheists and the freethinkers criticised the law for focussing too much on religion and thereby neglecting other convictions and outlooks on life. To rephrase it, they were seeking a positive recognition of negative religious freedom with respect to irreligiosity (See Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000; Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001; Seppo 2003: 73–74). The legislation concerning religious freedom and conscience is dealt with in three sets of laws, namely the Freedom of Religion Act 26 This is a subject which is taught in Finnish schools for pupils without religious affiliations. See Chapter Eight.

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(Uskonnonvapauslaki 453/2003), the Burial Act (Hautaustoimilaki 457/2003), as well as other related legislation. Hence, the regulations concerning burial and graveyards, included in the previous Freedom of Religion Act (1922), are now dealt with in a separate law. With respect to the other related legislation, one can mention the Comprehensive Education Act (Peruskoululaki 454/2003) and the Uppersecondary Education Act (Lukiolaki 455/2003), dealing with religious education at school. Moreover, the provisions concerning church taxation and the right to marry were omitted from the new Freedom of Religion Act because they are already covered in legislation concerning taxation and marriage, respectively. Hence, the new Freedom of Religion Act is more compact than its predecessor (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 18). The laws on religious freedom and burial will be discussed below, and those concerning religious education in Chapter Eight and Nine. The Freedom of Religion Act is divided into three chapters dealing with general provisions (Ch. 1), with provisions concerning registered religious communities (Ch. 2), and with additional provisions (Ch. 3). Chapter 1 and 3 are applied to the Lutheran and Orthodox Church (1 §), whereas Chapter 2 concerns religious communities other than these two churches. Purpose of the law Section one (1 §) of the Freedom of Religion Act (2003) states that the purpose of the law is to protect the employment of religious freedom, as it is stated in the Constitution (11 §). Unlike the previous act (1992), the new act no longer refers to the right to practice religion in private and in public, ‘as long as law and good manners are not offended’ (1 §). The committee justified this omission by pointing out that the freedom of religion or conscience cannot in any case be applied so that it would work against either other people or the system of justice (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 35). As an example, the committee mentions in its interim report two actions violating fundamental rights and the Finnish sense of justice, namely ‘bodily mutilation’ and ‘polygamy’ (Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 28). Both of these matters are in Finland usually identified with Islam.27

27

Also Juha Seppo (2003: 229) in his book on religious freedom in 21st-century

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The bodily mutilation of women has been discussed on several occasions in the 1990s (in 1991, 1992, 1997) in the Finnish Parliament in relation to Somalian women who practice the circumcision of girls in one form or another. In the beginning of the 1990s, some members of parliament were of the opinion that a particular law should be passed criminalizing the circumcision of girls and women. However, this was overruled with the argument that criminal law already sufficiently covers offences causing bodily harm (See Lepola 2000: 214–16, 221–4). In no circumstances has the circumcision of girls been defended in the name of religious freedom. Hence, it is rather odd, to say the least, that the committee report should take up such an extreme case of multicultural issues (cf. Lepola 2000: 214). Unlike in France, to date there have been no court cases on circumcision of girls in Finland (See Mustanoja 1993; Mölsä 1994; Sakaranaho 1995; Sakaranaho & Pesonen 1999: 18; Tiilikainen 2003: 267–75; Akar & Tiilikainen 2004: 17–19).28 The issue which has been defended in relation to religious freedom, however, is male circumcision, which in recent years has been rather hotly debated in Finland. In Summer 2001, seven Muslim boys were circumcised at home in Kuopio, a town in Eastern Finland. All the boys suffered from complications and were taken to the local hospital. Later, the parents and the doctor were accused of maltreatment of the children. The incident reheated a discussion on male circumcision in Finland, which has been touched upon now and then since the beginning of the 1990s. The arguments concerning male circumcision have focussed on the acceptance of different cultural habits and values; on the inviolability of the child and the need to guarantee a child’s health; and on questions of minority and religious rights (See Tiilikainen 2003: 275–80). It must be noted, however, that male circumcision is not a new thing in Finland; it has been practiced among the Jews and Tatar Muslims in this country since at least the 19th century. Neither was

Finland notes that in contemporary Europe the main points of friction with respect to religious practice have arisen with Muslims. As an example of the clash between the Muslim customs and rituals with western culture, he lists: times of prayer, women’s headscarfs, boys’s circumcision, Islamic burial and animal slaughter. However, he does not specify where and when these ‘problems’ occurred. 28 Polygamy was discussed in relation to Turkish Tatars in Finland when the rights to different religions were under consideration in the process of building an independent state of Finland (see Chapter Six).

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it considered a problem before the 1990s, when the number of Muslims started to grow dramatically and the issue became visible. Until then, circumcision of boys was quietly conducted through private healthcare, which could be afforded by the wealthy Jewish and Tatar communities. Most of the recent Muslims, however, entered Finland as refugees, and, therefore, they cannot afford to pay for private operations. This situation has resulted in undesirable incidents, as in Kuopio, described above (See Sakaranaho et al. 2004: 134–6). In 1999, the National Advisory Board of Healthcare Ethics (Valtakunnallinen terveyden huollon eettinen neuvottelukunta), gave a statement concerning male circumcision and recommended operations be carried out by the public healthcare system. The statement was reasoned by religious freedom and the need to guarantee the safety of the operation. At the end of the same year, the Parliamentary Ombudsman expressed her contradictory view: circumcision should not be performed in the public healthcare system, because the practice violated a child’s integrity. After this statement many Finnish hospitals refused to conduct circumcisions of boys for religious and cultural reasons. In response, the Ministry of Social Affairs and Health together with the Federation of Municipalities (Suomen Kuntaliitto) urged public hospitals in March 2003 to perform circumcisions of boys not only for medical but also for non-medical purposes. However, many doctors refused and the situation has remained unresolved with the result that a preparation for a separate law obliging the public healthcare system to carry out circumcisions on boys is under way (See Tiilikainen 2003: 275–80; Sakaranaho et al. 2004; 134–6 Akar & Tiilikainen 2004: 16–17). In similar fashion to the Freedom of Religion Act, a committee under the Ministry of Social Affairs and Health was nominated in order to look at the necessity of legislation concerning male circumcision. The Circumcision Committee published a report in 2003 (Ympärileikkauskomiteatyöryhmän muistio 2003), which was then sent to 41 recipients for assessment. The recipients included, among others, representatives of different ministries, different sectors of the healthcare system, some religious communities, namely, the Lutheran Church, the Orthodox Church, the Jewish Congregation of Helsinki, Al-Rahma mosque and a rather unknown Islamic association Iftin Seura ry. Moreover, the Freethinkers gave a statement on their own accord. Both the Lutheran and Orthodox Church supported a provision which, in certain conditions, would legalise male circumcision

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for religious and cultural purposes. The Jewish Congregation warmly supported the preparation of a new act on male circumcision and was of the opinion that drafting such an act would reveal a sense of realism and recognition of enriching effects of multiculturalism on Finnish society. In similar fashion, the Muslim respondents expressed their satisfaction on allowing male circumcision to be conducted in the public healthcare sector. However, circumcision was adamantly opposed by the Federation of Doctors, by Sexpo Foundation (functioning for the sexual welfare of Finnish society), and the Freethinkers. (Yhteenveto ympärileikkaustyöryhmän muistiosta 2004.) In 2004, the Circumcision Committee gave its statement with the opinion that male circumcision for religious and cultural reasons should be allowed with the parents’ consent and that the boys should be operated only by a legal doctor in the public healthcare system. The committee justified its opinion by pointing out that since circumcision of boys in the private sector would be too costly for big families, this might encourage resorting to illegal circumcision which, however, is very risky for the boys’ health. Therefore it saw it as important to legalise conducting male circumcision in the public healthcare system. However, the committee also emphasised the importance of hearing the child. In practice, this is not possible of course since the Jews circumcise their boys on the eighth day after birth and most Muslim boys are circumcised before puberty.29 (Ympärileikkaustyöryhmän tiedote 2004.) The above-discussion on the circumcision of boys is an example of a multicultural issue which intersects with various questions concerning religious and cultural rights but also those of children’s rights. Depending on the viewpoint, it is also seen as an ethical issue but also as a matter concerning criminal law on bodily harm. In general, the Freedom of Religion Committee emphasised that provisions concerning religious rights should in any case be read in connection with other legislation. For instance, criminal law lists offences such as breaking the peace of religion (Rikoslaki 17:10), preventing religious practice (17:11), and disturbing graves (17:12) as religious crimes. With respect to these provisions, the aim of criminal law is to prevent offences against the use of positive religious freedom (see Uskonnon-

29 The Committee estimates that around 200 male circumcisions per year are conducted in Finland (Ympärileikkauskomitean tiedote 2004).

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vapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 4, 28–9). Thus, the new Freedom of Religion Act can be read as a statement concerning the core issues of religious freedom legislation. Registered religious communities What the Freedom of Religion Act rules about is the setting up and functioning of a registered religious community (uskonnollinen yhdyskunta). According to the final report of the Freedom of Religion Act Committee, the aim of the new act is to extend the autonomy of religious communities and guarantee their equal treatment before the law (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 21–2). By a registered religious community the act refers to the Evangelical Lutheran Church, the Orthodox Church, and any religious community registered in accordance with the Chapter Two of the act (2 §). However, the administration and function of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church are governed by their own church laws (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 28). In this respect, the Lutheran and Orthodox Church are set apart from the other religious communities and hence there is no change in the law concerning this matter; the Lutheran and Orthodox Church are viewed as the national churches of Finland and hold a privileged position before the law. In light of the growing multiculturalism in Finland, an important question is no doubt as to what changes the new law has brought to the privileged position enjoyed by the Lutheran Church, as the church of the majority. A committee, set up by the Ministry of Education for assessing the necessity for a change in the prevalent church-state relations, stated in its report in 1977 that the special position of the Lutheran Church, and that of the Orthodox Church, did not in any way endanger the equality regarding religious freedom of minority religious communities. Moreover, it did not consider it as a viable politics of religion for a state to constitute similar legislative and economic ties to all religious communities. The committee assumed that this kind of categoric uniformity would actually work against religious freedom of the religious communities which do not wish to engage themselves with the state. At the same time, the committee emphasised that the special privileged position of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church should not be taken for granted and that it was important to listen to the views of religious minorities concerning their experiences of unequal treatment in Finland. (Kirkko ja valtio 1977: 55; see also Seppo 2003: 51.)

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However, it is quite rare that the views of religious minorities are explored concerning the status of the majority church. In this respect, a debate in Britain concerning the establishment of the Church of England constitutes an exception. As noted by Tariq Modood, the development of a new multicultural and multi-faith situation in Britain has evoked a constitutional debate about the privileged position of the Church of England in the British state. Those in favour of severing the link between religion and state argued that this position violates equality in a plural religious society. In contrast, however, representatives of some non-Christian groups, such as Muslims and Jews, surprisingly enough, sided positively with the establishment of the Anglican Church. In their view, the strong foothold of the Church of England in the British state secures the public platform for religious concerns and activities in favour of the religious interests of all religious groups in the face of secularist trends (See Modood 1997a). What one can learn from the above-mention debate is that the bottom line remains a question as to how it will be possible to give due expression to both history and minorities, old and new, in the definition of a national identity (Modood 1997a: 6). There are at least two opposing views to this question. According to the secularist approach, the state should be strictly neutral and secular, and the role of religion restricted to the private sphere of home and personal life (see Pitt 1997; Herrick 1997). This, no doubt, is the policy followed most explicitly by France. According to the multi-faith approach, the only way to reconcile the two is both to accept the privileged position of Christianity and to give public recognition to other religions. The latter also emphasise that it is important to preserve the role of religion in public affairs (see Parekh 1997). In Finland, the Freedom of Religion Committee clearly opted for the multi-faith approach. The collections of statements concerning the interim and final report of the above-mentioned committee also offer an invaluable source wherein to study to what extent the aim to guarantee equal treatment of religious communities has materialised in the new law according to the views of religious minorities, among others.30 30 Unfortunately, it is not possible here to give a comprehensive analysis of the statements concerning the new Freedom of Religion Act, which are available in the Ministry of Education. This kind of an analysis would be a topic of study in its own right.

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In comparison with the previous law, the new act has opted for a more uniform vocabulary when referring to the rights of a religious body so that instead of referring interchangeably to uskonnollinen yhdyskunta ([registered] religious community) and uskontokunta (religion)31 it now uses the former term systematically (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 29). This change of vocabulary, however, has met with some criticism. The Islamic Society of Finland perceives the omission of the wider term ‘religion’ as problematic from the Muslim point of view. In Islam there is no similar parish organisation as in Christianity and, therefore, the existing Islamic communities in Finland have been registered only in order to fit into the Finnish legal and administrative system. Since one becomes a member of a Muslim community simply on a account of one’s faith, no institutional structures are needed in order to be a Muslim. Consequently, only less than 10% of Muslims have a membership in one of the registered Islamic communities in Finland (see Chapter Six). The Catholic Church perceives the term ‘registered religious community’ as old-fashioned and too narrow in scope. Instead of the concept of ‘registered religious community’, implying a restricted membership, it argues for a more comprehensive concept of religious belonging. The Friends of Truth (Totuuden ystävät) express their concern for those religious communities which for some reason or another do not want to become registered and emphasise that also the non-registered religious communities should be granted similar religious rights to those of the registered ones. In other words, there is a danger that a more restricted terminology will narrow the scope of religious freedom (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 9, see also 2001: 27). All in all, the above-mentioned criticism against focussing the religious rights on a ‘registered religious community’, in the new Freedom of Religion Act, seems to reiterate a hope that the legislators would have shown a broader understanding of religious belonging where registration and set membership would not be the sole criteria of a religious community. The growing multi-religiosity in Finland will most likely increase this sort of criticism and apply pressure for the legal recognition of different kinds of religious community formations. For now, however, the law is clearly written from the majority point 31 It is impossible to give an exact translation of these terms in English. Hence, I use a translation which reveals the general difference between these terms of which the ‘religious community’ is much narrower in meaning than ‘religion’. The main thing is that a person can identify with a religion without being a member of any (registered) religious community.

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of view, where the Lutheran Church operates as the model for a religious community protected by the law. Hence, from a multicultural point of view, the ethos of the new law is ‘old’ from the start. As mentioned above, the new law does not bring about any changes to the internal autonomy of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. Chapter Two of the Freedom of Religion Act prescribes the founding and function of the registered religious communities in general, whereas the internal affairs of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church are regulated by their own church laws (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 28). In its statement to the final report of the Freedom of Religion Committee, the Catholic Church expresses its dissatisfaction with the lack of autonomy that the new law is unintentionally inflicting upon religious communities other than the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. It emphasises that in its internal affairs, the Catholic Church of Finland is obliged to follow the Catholic Church laws, such as Codex Iuris Canonici. This, however, is not recognised by the Finnish law. Therefore, from the Catholic point of view, the Lutheran and Orthodox Church continue to enjoy special protection of the state. (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000: 25; Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 5, 27). Admittedly, it is strange that the church laws of the Catholic Church are not recognised by the Finnish law in similar fashion to those of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. In this respect, the law treats these Christian churches unequally. The criticism of unequal treatment of different religious communities in the new law is expressed also in several other statements. The administrative board of East Finland argues that, since the new law supports the interdependence of the state and the Lutheran Church, it recognises the equality of religious communities in appearance only. Instead of favouring the Lutheran Church, it should more forcefully protect the right of religious minorities (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 1). In comparison to the administrative boards of other parts of Finland, East Finland is in this respect exceptionally strong in its criticism of the new law. The inequality of religious communities before the law is also criticised by the Council of Free Christianity in Finland, together with the Pentecostals, the Free Church and Adventists, arguing that the new law continues to carry remnants of the old monoculturalism in Finland (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 4). Moreover, the Ecumenical Council of Finland draws attention to the vocabulary used in the law text and points out the use of certain words, such as a ‘church’,

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giving the impression that the text is written mainly for the Lutheran audience. In its view, the use of such vocabulary can be offensive for members of minority religions (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 3). One of the most controversial issues affecting different religious communities concerns the right to collect the so-called church tax, presently granted only to the Lutheran and Orthodox Church (See Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 4–5). The question of a church tax is a sensitive issue for the Catholic Church. It claims that all religious communities should be treated equally in respect of economical matters; therefore the right to collect taxes should be broadened from the Lutheran and Orthodox Church also to other religious communities (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 37). In relation to the above-criticism it is interesting to note that the Federation of the Islamic Organisations in its statement fully agrees with the new law and has no need to express any disagreements or additions to the law (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 3). In addition to a church tax, a much debated issue concerns a community tax which all public enterprises are obliged to pay. In connection with the financial support of the state, a part of this tax is delivered to the Lutheran Church and hence all enterprises, irrespective of their religious or ideological standing, end up supporting the functioning of the church. The Freethinkers, in particular, have forcefully campaigned against this provision. There are, however, some exemptions to this tax payment. The enterprises owned by the Orthodox are not obliged to pay the community tax to the Lutheran Church if half of the owners are members of the Orthodox Church. Moreover, the Lutheran congregations of Helsinki have agreed to return an equivalent sum of the community tax back to the Jewish community. However, the Muslim communities do not enjoy the same benefit. A report by the Ministry of Social Affairs and Health noted in 1994 that several enterprises run by Muslims have payed a considerable some of money for many years as a community tax to the Lutheran Church in different cities of Finland. According to the report, the Islam Congregation of Finland, run by Turkish Tatars, has applied for an exemption from the community tax, but the Lutheran congregations have turned down their application (Islamilainen hautausmaatyöryhmä 1994; see Chapter Six). It has been noted that during recent decades the relations between church and state in Finland have developed towards a greater autonomy of the Lutheran Church. This development, however, has not been interpreted as a separation of the church and state but rather

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as a clearer division of labour between them. Hence, the ‘good working relation’ of the state and the Lutheran Church continues. The reason for not pressing any drastic changes in this matter has been attributed to the relative stability with respect to numbers of different religious communities; in the beginning of the twenty-first century, 85% of the Finnish population are still members of the Lutheran Church, whereas the number of those who have no religious affiliation is around 13%, and the number of those belonging to the Orthodox Church and other registered religious communities is only around 2% of the population (Seppo 2003: 52). Against this background it does not come as a surprise that the membership of a religious community is so overtly emphasised in Finland when religious rights are discussed. However, as long as the legitimacy of the argument dealing with numbers is not challenged, no status quo is shaken. Neither is there any necessity to appraise the ideology of multiculturalism prevalent in this country (cf. Lepola 2000: 378–9, 384–5). Religious communities other than the Lutheran and Orthodox Church Chapter Two of the Freedom of Religion Act focusses on registered religious communities other than the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. According to an interim report of the committee, there were, at the end of the 1990s, 45 such registered religious communities, with varying membership levels. There were only seven registered religious communities with more than a thousand members, whereas altogether sixteen of them had under 20 members. In 1999, all in all 55,000 persons counted as a member of some of these registered religious communities (Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 15). In its final report, the Freedom of Religion Committee argues for the necessity of giving a separate provision concerning the rights of registered religious communities (other than the Lutheran and Orthodox Church) in order to write the law so that it would correspond with the separate church laws governing the internal affairs of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. With this legislation the state, in its view, expresses its will to treat different religious communities equally (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 28). The aim of the committee, moreover, was to write the provisions concerning registered religious communities in a flexible enough manner so that the provisions would not unnecessarily contain restrictions for registering and running a religious community. With these changes,

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the committee wanted to enlarge the autonomy of religious communities, and thereby bring all religious communities onto the same footing with the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. Hence, the law treats all religious communities as legal entities, and they are, for instance, allowed to own property, and to decide about their organisational structure (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 19, 47–49; Seppo 2003: 69–71). In the statements concerning the interim report, this issue attracted little attention, but when it did, the response was affirmative (see Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000: 24–25; see also Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 26; Seppo 2003: 77–78.) According to section seven (7 §), the purpose of a registered religious community is to organise and support the profession and practice of a religion,32 connected with individual, communal and public activity, which is grounded on creed, sacred scriptures, or some other established authority held as sacred.33 The activity mentioned in the provision is understood in the meaning of rituals, such as mass, and other distinctively religious ceremonies (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 35). Moreover, religious communities should pursue their aims so that they do not abridge fundamental and human rights, and neither are they allowed to function as profit-making enterprises. In addition, the function of a registered religious community has to be such in nature that it is in accordance with the provisions concerning associations (see 27 §). (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 36.) In its statement, the Catholic Church expresses criticism against the restrictions laid on the religious communities undertaking economical activities. The church maintains that in some instances economical activities are closely connected with the profession of religion, such as keeping monasteries, guest houses or kindergartens, and so forth. Moreover, it points out that similar restrictions cannot be found in the church laws of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. Hence, the Catholic Church is of the opinion that this provision treating different registered religious communities differently does not have any backing in the Constitution (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 28). 32 Cf. the translation in the Constitution (11 §) of ‘tunnustaa ja harjoittaa uskontoa’ as ‘to profess and practise a religion’. 33 In Finnish: ‘Rekisteröidyn uskonnollisen yhdyskunnan tarkoituksena on järjestää ja tukea uskonnon tunnustamiseen ja harjoittamiseen kuuluvaa yksilöllistä, yhteisöllistä ja julkista toimintaa, joka pohjautuu uskontunnustukseen, pyhinä pidettyihin kirjoituksiin tai muihin yksilöityihin pyhinä pidettyihin vakiintuneisiin toiminnan perusteisiin.’ (7 §)

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It is obvious that section seven (7 §) lays down the main parameters for a religious belief and practice and thereby encapsulates some sort of minimum definition of religion with which the legislators are able to work (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 20; Seppo 2003: 65–6). In the previous act, applicants for a registered religious community had to articulate the creed of the community and the public form of its religious practice. The committee, however, acknowledged the problem attached to the centrality of a welldefined creed for some religious communities and suggested that the definition of the confession and practice of religion would not entail that religious activity should be based on a creed alone. Instead of a definite creed, it would be enough to identify the main bases of religious practice. Thus, the reference to creed remained in the act but was complemented with a reference to sacred scriptures and established authority. With this formulation the committee wanted to replace the overt emphasise on creed with a broader account of one’s faith (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 35–36). As was discussed in relation to religious freedom in the European instruments of human rights, it is very important within a multi-faith situation to explicate the understanding of religion underlying provisions concerning religious freedom. From a comparative religion point of view, one cannot avoid the impression that the prototype religion implicit in the new Freedom of Religion Act (2003) continues very much to resemble Christianity, or religious traditions alike. However, as noted by Evans (2001) with respect to decisions made by the European Court of Human Rights, overt emphasis on doctrine and institution, coupled with a public practice of religion, can be problematic in case of new religious groups, which are individualistic and private in nature but nonetheless identify themselves as a religious tradition. As an example of a clash concerning the criteria of religion, one can mention the failure of the Wicca to register as a religious community in Finland. In December 2001, the Ministry of Education turned down the application of the Wicca to be registered as a religious community. According to the Ministry, the Wicca did not comply to the criteria of religious community with a set creed, collection of sacred texts and a coherent religious practice and hence could not be registered as a religious community. The Wicca appealed in January 2002 to the High Court on the decision of the Ministry of Education which, in their view, used criteria in defining a religious

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community not mentioned in the Freedom of Religion Act (1922). They moreover surmised that the real reason for rejecting their application was the fact that the Wicca religion greatly differs from the outlook of the decision makers representing the majority. Consequently, the decision of the Ministry of Education in their view violated the fundamental and human rights of the Wicca as a minority. The Ministry of Education, however, did not revert its decision and the final High Court decision was made in November 2003 with votes of 4 to 3 in favour of the Ministry (See Hjelm 2005; cf. Evans 2001: 57–58). In a sense, groups such as the Wicca challenge institutionalised forms of religiosity and instead give room to new popular expressions of religion (see Sjöblom 2005). They thereby exemplify a more general trend in the European religiosity to defy institutional religion in favour of more eclectic personal religiosity. From this point of view, the decision made by the Ministry of Education goes against the grain. In similar fashion to the European Court of Human Rights, the Ministry of Education seems to operate with a fairly restricted view of what freedom of religion entails and thereby to rely on a rather conservative conception of religion (cf. Evans 2001: 66). The future will show, with respect to the new Freedom of Religion Act, whether a broader view on religion will be applied, which would facilitate a change in dealing with cases such as the Wicca (cf. Evans 2001: 189 ff.).34 The above-problem, concerning new religions, however, has not arisen with religions, such as Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism. The reason for this might be that they have a legitimate place in the European understanding of the so-called world religions. Hence, the reference to these religions helps to guarantee the success of an application as a registered religious community, irrespective of the exact nature of religious practice that a group might prefer. All of the above-mentioned religions are constituted of a great variety of beliefs and practices, where rituals can be more central than creed, and oral tradition more pronounced than written texts. However, there is no burden of proof on the recognised world religions before the law.

34 For the Wicca, see the decision of the Ministry of Education 18 December 2001 Dnro 1/901/2001 (see also Sjöblom 2005).

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The questions concerning the definition of religion implicit in the Freedom of Religion Act (2003) will no doubt come under scrutiny in time. However, there is an interesting development in this respect in section 23, stating that the Ministry of Education will set up, for a four-year period, a committee of experts which is to handle the applications for a registered religious community and give their statement to the National Patent and Register Board in line with section seven (7 §) on the purpose and function of such community (See Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 40). It remains to be seen what will be the effect of this committee and how it will employ the understanding of religion stated in the law. Founding and functioning of a religious community Reverting back to the Freedom of Religion Act, a minimum of twenty people can start a religious community, and the founder of a religious community has to be over 18 years of age (8 §). According to the committee, the minimum standard of twenty for the number of people starting a religious community is justified since one can require from a registered religious community some sort of stability. The committee, however, did not want to set the required number any higher than twenty so as not to restrict unnecessarily the use of religious freedom (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 36; cf. Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 29). In order to form a registered religious community, the founding members of the community need to draft a charter of foundation, laying down the main rules for the function of the community with respect to members, decision making, membership fees, and so forth. Moreover, the charter should include the name and address of the community (9 §–10 §). Members of a religious community can consist only of individuals (11 §). According to section twelve (12 §), a registered religious community has to have a board, of which the chairman and at least half of the members should have permanent residence in Finland, unless an exception is granted in this matter by the Ministry of Education. The board represents the community. Section thirteen (13 §) deals with the division of religious communities into local communities (see also19 §), and section fourteen (14 §) with membership fees, which, in the case of leaving a religious community, should be payed in full till the end of the current year (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 37–38). With respect to the nationality of community members, the new law seems to reflect the growing multiculturalism in Finland. While the previous law demanded that the majority of the members of a

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religious community should have Finnish citizenship (1922, 15 §), the new law is satisfied with half of the members having residence in Finland (2003, 12 §). Without a doubt, this change will help the founding of communities where most members have recently moved to Finland. Except for Turkish Tatars, this is the case for most of the Muslims in this country who arrived in Finland since the beginning of the 1990s (see Palva 2001a: 536; Chapter Six). Moreover, not having a higher education available in this country for religious leaders necessitates some religious communities to employ leaders without Finnish citizenship, as in the case of the Catholic Church, and hence the new law helps in situations like this (see Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 33). Thereby, it is obvious that the new law takes better into consideration the needs of religious minorities and immigrant-based religious communities. With respect to the potential members of a religious community, the act differs from the original proposal of the Freedom of Religion Committee. The committee suggested a change to the previous act such that, in addition to individual members, members of a religious community could also consist of registered religious communities. In its view, this addition would make regulating the relations between locally embedded religious communities more flexible (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 39; cf. Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 29, 33). In practice, allowing local communities to join as members of a religious community would facilitate founding some sort of umbrella organisation. Professor of Arabic Heikki Palva points out that this would be a very timely matter specially for Muslims, who are scattered in numerous Islamic communities mainly operating without any organisational ties. On his view, functioning together in an Islamic umbrella organisation could help Muslims better to separate religion from cultural habits. (Palva 2001a: 536.) However, the new act does not open up this avenue for Muslim or other religious communities either. From the Muslim point of view, strict regulations concerning membership fees of a religious community seems unnecessarily harsh. As mentioned above, only a small minority of Muslims are registered members of a religious community and only some of these members regularly pay the membership fees of an Islamic community. However, Islamic communities do not perceive this as a problem since membership in an organised community is, in any case, secondary to belonging to the Muslim umma (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 37). According to section eighteen (18 §), the chairman of a religious community needs to sign a notice of founding a religious community

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and this notice should be delivered in writing to the Ministry of Education. Moreover, the chairman or an executor is also obliged to inform the National Patent and Register Board if a particular religious community has ceased to exist (20 §). In practice, however, this does not always take place. For instance, some Islamic communities, registered in the middle of 1990s, have since stopped functioning but no official notification has been made (See Chapter Six). This problem concerns small religious communities existing as long as the founding members of the community are active. The more numerous religious communities become, the more extensive will be the number which are registered but no longer function actively. In time, this will add to the work of the National Patent and Register Board, which is obliged to deregister a religious community which has not been notified during ten years’ time, unless it can be proven to be functioning (24 §). Perhaps, this can be seen as one of the negative side-effects concerning the administration of the growing multireligiosity in Finland.35 A religious community can also be deregistered if it is functioning against law and order (25 §–26 §). To illegally continue the activities of a religious community, which has been deregistered, or is under the process of being deregistered, can be punished with a fine (29 §). The same concerns the failure to notify the National Patent and Register Board about the changes concerning the members of a registered religious community (30 §; cf. 4 §). Hence, the registering duty is quite heavily sanctioned in Finland, and again the emphasis is on membership. Membership In light of the multi-faith approach, an interesting development in the Freedom of Religion Act is that it allows a person to be a member of more than one religious community in parallel (3 §) Previously, it was thought that membership in a religious community should be strictly exclusive. According to a survey done among religious communities in Finland, most of them seem to share this view of exclusive membership. This is also obvious in the summary of the final 35 Sections fifteen (15 §) and twenty-one (21 §) deal with the duties of the National Patent and Register Board, in charge of keeping a list of the registered religious communities. Moreover, section twenty-seven (27 §) lists the provisions concerning the law of associations applied to registered religious communities.

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report of the Freedom of Religion Committee, where most religious respondents, Muslims among them, oppose a parallel membership of religious communities (see Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 9–12). With respect to Muslims, both the Islam Congregation of Finland, run by Turkish Tatars, and the mainly immigrant-based Islamic Society of Finland objected to this change in the law (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 1999: 12; Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 12). However, the committee argued that restricting membership too categorically might in some cases limit the use of religious freedom. Moreover, it notes that it is not for the state to limit the membership, but it should rather be left to the religious communities themselves to decide whether they demand an exclusive membership or not. Another motivation for this provision was to make it easier for some religious associations to become registered as religious communities, if their members did not lose the right for membership in other religious communities. However, a person with a multiple membership is obliged to pay the church tax or other membership fees to all those religious communities that she or he is a member of. In this sense, the provision does not touch upon the economic benefits brought by its members to a religious community (Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 30–31). According to section three (3 §), everyone has a right to join or to leave a religious community, whereas parents together are to decide on the religious position (uskonnollinen asema) of their child. If the parents cannot reach a consensus on this matter within a year after the child’s birth, it is the mother, as the guardian of the child, who can decide whether a child is to join a religious community or not. However, a fifteen-year-old can join or leave a religious community with a written permission of her or his parents, whereas a twelve-year-old child can be joined to or separated from a religious community, along with her or his parents, only by her or his written consent. Hence, only when reaching one’s majority at the age of eighteen is one granted the full autonomy with respect to religion. (Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 32–42; Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 23, 32.) In cases of disagreement between parents, the representatives of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church were of the opinion that a child should follow her or his mother in respect of membership in a religious community (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 14–15). However, the Islam Congregation of Finland expressed a different opinion emphasising that the religious position of a child should be the same as

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that of the father (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000: 18).36 Most of the statements concerning the reports of the Freedom of Religion Committee agreed with the age limits set forth in the report. However, representatives of the Lutheran Church were hoping that a fifteenyear-old could join or leave a religious community with a written permission of her or his parents in the beginning of the year she or he reaches the age of fifteen. The reason for this recommendation was that, in practice, most of the fifteen-year-olds, even if not being members of the Lutheran Church, attend a confirmation school organised by the church, and after the confirmation school some of them want to join the church.37 However, since they are not able to do it on their own accord before reaching fifteen years of age, they have to wait until they reach the required age (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000: 19; Seppo 2003: 75). Representatives of some political parties and government ministries, coupled with some associations working for children, wanted to lower the age when a young person could join or leave a religious community by her or his own will from eighteen to to fifteen years of age (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000: 20; Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 20–21; cf. Scheinin 2001b). The age of eighteen however remained the age of full religious autonomy. In this respect the new law does not reflect the development towards a greater autonomy of a child with respect to her or his religion, which can be observed in the Nordic countries (Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 41). Section four (4 §) lists the conditions for joining or leaving a religious community. Naturally enough, a person wishing to join a religious community needs to inform her or his intentions to the community in question. Moreover, in the case of leaving a religious community, the decision should be communicated in writing, whether to the religious community in question or to the city administrative

36 Religions vary concerning the transmission of a religious tradition from one generation to another so that, for instance, in Judaism being born of a Jewish mother is important, whereas in Islam the minimum definition of a Muslim is having a Muslim father. Christianity, however, emphasises the importance of baptism as a prerogative for being a Christian but, nonetheless, seems to emphasise the role of a mother as a religious guardian of a child. 37 It is interesting to note that 25% of the young people in Helsinki are not members of the Lutheran Church and yet 90% of the fifteen-year-olds attend the confirmation schools organised by the church. (Seppo 2003: 75.) Hence, the confirmation schools organised by the Lutheran Church remain popular among young people (Niemelä 2003b: 180–1).

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court. In this respect, the new Freedom of Religion Act enforces a more flexible procedure of leaving a religious community than the former law. According to the former Freedom of Religion Act (1922), a person had to personally announce her or his separation from a religious community, and, after this announcement, there was a waiting period lasting for one month before the separation came into force (5 §). According to the new law, no personal announcement is necessary and no waiting period is needed before the separation comes into force. It is worth noting, however, that the members of the committee were not in complete agreement on whether a mere written announcement of leaving a religious community would be enough. Old fears were evoked. For instance, the government bill in 1968 (HE 1/1968 vp) had expressed a concern that, if the personal contact was no longer necessary at leaving a religious community, this might be used by some quarters of society for incitement to a massive desertion of the church. Irrespective of these sorts of concerns, some members of the committee defended the change in the law by saying that this would protect people from any sort of pressure that they might face from the community they wish to leave. In their opinion, leaving a religious community is a matter of individual freedom and hence a person should have an opportunity to deliberate on his or her membership of a religious community without any pressure from outside. Moreover, some referred to the growing use of new channels of communication, such as e-mail, which should be permitted also in this matter. Due to differences of opinion, the committee left this question open in the interim report but in the final report took the view that a person can make a notification of her or his separation from a religious community in writing and that the separation comes into force immediately (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 43–46; Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 33). The view of the committee was supported by some administrative courts, by the Methodist Church of Finland, by the Council of Free Churches of Finland, as well as by several non-religious respondents. In these statements, the new system, especially in allowing the use of e-mail, was seen to promote individual freedom of religion and flexibility with respect to joining or leaving a religious community. However, some representatives of the Lutheran and Orthodox Church as well those of the conservative and central political party supported the obligation for personal announcement at leaving a religious community (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 23–25).

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As it happened, after the enactment of the new Freedom of Religion Act (2003), fears concerning incitement for leaving the church materialised to some extent. The Federation of Freethinkers, often advertising in some of the mainline newspapers the economic benefits of leaving the church when one does not pay the church tax, have taken up the Internet for the same purpose. The Freethinkers of Tampere posted in their web pages a form for leaving the church, which a person could fill in and send to the city administrative court, while the Freethinkers offered to pay for the stamp of that letter.38 In the end of November 2003, the free thinkers had paid for 7,048 such letters. After some time, the Lutheran parish of Tampere posted in its own web pages a form for joining the Lutheran Church. Hence, the fight for members of the Lutheran Church has extended to the Internet (See Tukkimäki 2004).39 The Burial Act One of the most debated issues with respect to the legislation on religious freedom has been changes in the law concerning burial and graveyards (457/2003). As mentioned above, the Freedom of Religion Committee opted for issuing a separate law of burial in addition to the Freedom of Religion Act. According to the Burial Act (2003/457), the Lutheran Church is obliged to maintain public graveyards ( yleiset hautausmaat) (3 §). In addition to the Lutheran Church, the state, municipalities and the Orthodox Church are allowed to maintain graveyards (7 §), whereas other religious communities have to apply from the county administrative board for a permission to set up and maintain a graveyard (8 §). Thus, in similar fashion to the Freedom of Religion Act (2003), the Burial Act (2003) places the Lutheran and Orthodox Church in a privileged position in comparison with other registered religious communities. In practice, however, it is the Lutheran Church which, on the main, takes care of founding and keeping graveyards, in exchange

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See www.eroakirkosta.fi [www.leavethechurch.fi]. According to section five (5 §), a person is allowed to choose between giving an oath or making an affirmation in the name of one’s honour and conscience. This section gave rise to very little response among the commentators of the proposed law (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 25–26). Section six (6 §) briefly mentions that the right for religious education is dealt with in a separate statute (see Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 34). 39

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for state support40 (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 69–70). In addition, the Orthodox Church has graveyards for its members, in similar fashion to that of the Free Church of Finland, Pentecostals and Baptists. Moreover, Jews have graveyards in Helsinki, Turku and Vaasa, and the Tatar Muslims in Helsinki and Turku (See Valtion ja kirkon taloudelliset suhteet 1997: 47; see Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 75–6). The question of graveyards for irreligious people is an issue which has long been pressed by the Freethinkers, who criticise the current practice whereby the Lutheran burial grounds function also as public burial grounds, and hence as a resting place for the deceased, irrespective of her or his creed or outlook. Instead, they are of the opinion that the burial of over 650,000 non-religious people should be organised not by the church but by the municipalities (See Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 1999: 36). The Ministry of Education appointed a committee in 1996 to assess the economic ties between the Lutheran Church and the state. The committee, however, did not deem it necessarily to change the current arrangement, whereby the Lutheran Church is in charge of burial grounds. Nonetheless, it emphasised that keeping graveyards and providing burials are clearly one of the functions of society, which have to guarantee individual freedom of religion and equal treatment in respect of burial to all its citizens. Therefore, the Lutheran Church can take up this public function if it provides graves for everyone, whether a church member or not (Valtion ja kirkon taloudelliset suhteet 1997: 49; see Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 68–69). The new Burial Act (457 / 2003) confirms this arrangement. Previously, members of the Lutheran Church were privileged from non-members of the church so that they had to pay less for a grave. Now, the new law (6 §) places everyone on the same footing so that the fees are the same irrespective of church membership. This levelling of 40 At present the Lutheran Church maintains 96% of all the lands preserved for burial grounds and the parishes spent in 1998 around 401 million marks (around 66 million euros) for this purpose. The state does not give any direct funding to the church for the upkeep of graveyards but the church’s share of the community tax is generally considered as a compensation for taking care of such public matters as the upkeep of burial grounds. The amount of the community tax for the church fluctuates considerably from year to year; for instance, in 1998 it was around 800 million marks, whereas in 1994 it was only around 200 million (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 65–6). In general, linking the community tax with the church’s upkeep of burial grounds has been criticised by the Freethinkers and some Christians alike (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 72).

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the grave payments have been heavily criticised by some quarters of the Lutheran Church, who see it as unfair that they should pay church tax but would not get any advantage in exchange. However, from the non-Lutheran point of view this has been interpreted as equal treatment of everyone with respect to burial (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 77–78). Whatever the case may be, the new law strengthens the role of the Lutheran Church in this matter. Undoubtedly, this is an unsatisfactory solution for those advocating negative religious freedom as a separation of the church and state also in issues of graveyards (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 72). Yet again, it might at present be the most practical solution at least for minuscule religious minorities (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 75, 79). The Catholic Church, however, suggests that the state would financially support with tax funds all graveyards kept by registered religious communities (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 1999: 37). Admittedly, the issue of graveyards is yet another matter where the Catholic Church does not enjoy equal rights with the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. As was mentioned above with respect to Muslims, the Tatars have graveyards for their own members, but these are getting too small even for their own use. In their statement concerning the interim report of the Freedom of Religion Committee, Tatars also see that every religious community should be in charge of burying its own members and that it should also have a right to decide on burying non-members. (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 1999: 37.) When giving its statement, the Tatar community had, undoubtedly, the other Islamic communities in mind. In the face of growing numbers of Muslims with different ethnic backgrounds in Finland, it feels a need to protect the privileges of its own members, which it has gained during its hundred years of residence in this country. With respect to Muslims other than Tatars, there is a growing need for graves in the metropolitan area of Helsinki and in other cities of Finland. This, in actual fact, has been a recognised problem for more than a decade (see Islamilainen hautausmaatyöryhmä 1994). In 1990, the City of Turku opened a graveyard for Muslims, and the Ministry of Education gave, in 1996, financial support to the Islam-Centre Foundation of Finland for purchasing 135 graves in Kirkkonummi (See Valtion ja kirkon taloudelliset suhteet 1997: 47). However, on the whole, it is the Lutheran Church which provides separated areas in its graveyards for Muslims in several cities. Taking into con-

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sideration the strict rules and regulations concerning graveyards, this certainly is the simplest solution for Muslims as a small and on the main not that wealthy minority (cf. Valtion ja kirkon taloudelliset suhteet 1997: 48–50). As was discussed previously in Chapter Two with respect to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, balancing the recognition of a predominant religion with the rights of other religions, or non-believers, is one of the core issues relating to religious freedom and multiculturalism on the national scenes, of which Finland is one example (cf. Lerner 1996: 97). Looking at religious freedom from the majority and minority relations point of view, the abovearrangement concerning graveyards can be taken as an example of a situation where the majority church keeps its privileges while the needs of religious minorities are also cared for. Another issue with respect to burial on which the views of the Freethinkers and the committee seem to differ concerns the placement of the ashes of the deceased after cremation. The Freethinkers supported the previous provisions with respect to health regulations that came into force in 1995 allowing a free placement of the ashes according to the wishes of the deceased, and defended their stand by pointing out that no problems had occurred in respect of the present practice. However, the current Freedom of Religion Act (2003) takes a far stricter view on this issue; instead of distributing the ashes somewhere in nature, for instance, the ashes of a deceased now need to be placed somewhere permanently (18 §). In taking this line of appointing a ‘grave’ also for the ashes of a deceased, the Freedom of Religion Committee has clearly followed the expressed wishes of the Lutheran Church, which demanded that a provision concerning the distribution of the ashes of a deceased should be included in the act (See Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 79–80; Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 1999: 38). In the interim report, the committee simply noted that it does not see any necessity for changing the provisions given in 1995 concerning health issues in respect of burial and very shortly mentioned that it needs to look into whether it is necessary to pass a law on the placement of the ashes after the cremation of a deceased (Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 68). However, in its final report, the committee rephrases the church’s concern for treating the memory of a deceased person with due respect (Uskonnonvapauskomitean mietintö 2001: 17–18). Hence, one is tempted to see here the Lutheran Church exercising influence over

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the legislator (see Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 83–86). In their response, the Freethinkers and the atheists pointed out that there are many ways to show respect for a deceased and that the wishes of the deceased should be given precedence (Yhteenveto mietinnöstä 2001: 74, 84). Whatever the case may be, with this law the state restricts individual freedom in favour of an administrative control exercised by the crematory. Implicitly, it also reifies the Lutheran Church’s view on the proper treatment of a deceased and thereby disregards the views of a differing minority, whether irreligious or not. In sum, one may note that the new Freedom of Religion Act explicates a better understanding of religious freedom as a positive right, which in practice entails a greater autonomy of individuals and religious communities in their practice of religion. However, it does not alter the existing power balance of the religious field in Finland and hence the Lutheran and Orthodox Church keep their privileged status while the registering and functioning of other registered religious communities is made more flexible before the law. Thus, the new law concerning religious freedom does not bring any drastic changes to the previous law. Perhaps it is fair to say that the law, thereby, reflects the wider society which, on the main, is trying to come to terms with a growing multiculturalism and multireligiosity by making concessions to the ‘Other’ but keeping the status quo firmly intact. In this respect the politics of religion in Finland would seem to resemble that of Europe in general (see Zemni 2002).

CHAPTER FOUR

RELIGIOUS FREEDOM IN IRELAND From Penal Laws to a Catholic Country In comparison with Finland, where Christianity was introduced as late as in the 11th century, Ireland is a Christian country of much longer standing.1 While Christianity came to Finland through Sweden, it was introduced to Ireland mainly from Britain. Every March 17, Irish Christians, both Catholics and Protestants, celebrate St Patrick as the person who introduced Christianity to Ireland. According to a well-known legend, Patrick, who lived in the fifth century, was a native Briton who as a child had been enslaved in Ireland and after his escape to his homeland had a vision where he heard ‘The Voice of the Irish’ calling him back to Christianise them. Patrick answered this call from God, studied for the priesthood and later returned to Ireland in order to convert the Irish to Christianity. During his sixtyyear ministry, Patrick was successful in this pursuit and was appointed bishop of Ireland. He is considered the Apostle of Ireland, celebrated as patron saint and symbol of Irish identity. However, contemporary historiography contests this story of St Patrick as the introducer of Christianity to Ireland. It has been argued that already a hundred years previous to Patrick there were Christians living on the south coast of Ireland, and that Patrick simply undertook his missionary work in predominately pagan areas particularly in the northern parts of the country. Moreover, some historical records seem to indicate that the first bishop of Ireland was Palladius, who was working among the Irish Christians already prior to Patrick’s supposed arrival (432). Thus, some confusion prevails concerning the beginning of Christianity in Ireland. This confusion notwithstanding, Ireland, the Celtic-speaking country at the fringes of Europe, accepted Christianity more than a century before the Anglo-Saxons and long before many of the peoples of northern Europe, such as the Finns.

1 For a chronology of Irish history, see Foster 1988: 599–619 (from 1600 to1972); Bradshaw and Keogh 2002: 301–334 (from 431 to 2000).

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Hence, Ireland was the first non-Romanised and non-literate society in western Europe to receive Christianity. (See Ó Cróinín 1995: 14–27; Charles-Edwards 2000: 182 ff., Smyth 2002a.) In similar fashion to Finland, converting people to Christianity was a slow process in Ireland, and pre-Christian (Celtic) and Christian beliefs most likely blended in many ways. (See Ó Cróinín 1995: 27–33; Charles-Edwards 2000: 185–202.) Unfortunately, our knowledge of the so-called Celtic religion is rather limited, and very little exact information is available to us on the non-Christian setting of the early Irish church. Nonetheless, this early Irish church, adhering to the exclusiveness of Christianity, had to make an effort to root out the pagan traditions prevalent in the country—or to assimilate them to Christianity. Thus, for instance, old traditions not directly contradicting Christian theology were allowed to exist. In addition, early Irish Christianity borrowed numerous terms from the native pre-Christian religion.2 (Ó Cróinín 1995: 28, 38–40; Ryan 1995; see also Ó hÓgáin 1999.) With respect to church government, the Irish church somewhat differed from the administrative system characteristic of Britain and Gaul, where bishops ruled and wielded jurisdictional power in a diocese. Instead, Irish religiosity was marked by the prevalence of monasticism. Particularly between the seventh and twelfth centuries, the Irish church was organised into a confederation of monastic houses, and abbots, in addition to bishops, held the administrative power over the church. The monasteries were also important places of learning; after the literatures of Greece and Rome, the prose and poetry of Old Irish constitutes the oldest vernacular literature in western Europe. With the contribution of ‘the wandering Irish monks’, undertaking the peregrinatio pro Christo, this learning was also spread outside Ireland to continental Europe, which at the time was languishing in the ‘Dark Ages’. In respect of this monastic learning, Ireland is known as the ‘Island of Saints and Scholars’, and the

2

According to Dáibhí Ó Cróinín, ‘Celtic religion’ in Ireland is still all but a closed book to us’ (1995: 30). What adds to the confusion is that sometimes the early Irish church is referred to as the ‘Celtic church’. Michael Ryan, however, points out that there was no such thing as a Celtic church in Ireland (1995: 33). For the stereotypes regarding the early Irish church, see Smyth 2002b. Cf. Ó Ríordáin (1998) on Celtic spirituality. For pre-Christian Ireland, see also Ó hÓgáin 1999. For a feminist interpretation of Celtic Ireland and the mixture of the preChristian and Christian religions, see Condren 1989.

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period from the seventh to the ninth centuries is remembered as the ‘Golden Age’ (of Irish monasticism).3 (See Ó Cróinín 1995; Ryan 1995; Charles-Edwards 2000: 241 ff.; Flanagan 2002; see also Culligan & Cherici 2000; Staunton 2001.) This ‘Golden Age’ ended with the Viking intervention in Ireland beginning in the late eighth century. Over the next few centuries Irish monasteries, which had amassed a considerable wealth, became a target for Viking raids. During this period many monasteries were plundered and fell into ruin.4 However, the Irish church was not only shaken from the outside but suffered from internal disputes as well. Most of the monasteries were deeply involved in political rivalries of ruling dynasties, and different monastic communities also engaged in military action against each other. By the late ninth century, the Vikings had forged political alliances with native Irish local kings and in time became assimilated into the social system of the country and converted to Christianity. The Vikings left their mark on Irish commerce and the language, but made a particularly lasting effect on Ireland in founding important towns, such as Dublin, Cork, Limerick and Waterford. With respect to religion, however, they have been blamed for the secularisation of the Irish church: The destruction the Vikings brought upon the monasteries ultimately paved the way for the shifting of power from abbots, ruling the confederations of monastic houses, to bishops, representing the secular church hierarchy. (Ó Cróinín 1995: 240, 267–70; Charles-Edwards 2000: 587 ff.; Simms 2000: 10; see also Staunton 2001: 41–5.) In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the political situation in Ireland underwent a fundamental change, which also had a decisive effect on the Irish church. During these centuries, Ireland came under the hegemony of the English Crown as a result of the Norman invasion of the country (beginning in 1169). In establishing its power in Ireland, the English Crown was supported by the Irish church. The church’s support for Norman/English intervention was motivated by its own desire to bring the Irish Christianity into full conformity with

3 One of the greatest achievements of the Golden Age was the famous medieval manuscripts, Book of Kells, which according to Staunton ‘illustrates the Irish fascination for the word’ (2001: 40–41). 4 With respect to the Norse attacks, there is a famous story of Brian Boru who saved Celtic Christian Ireland from the hands of the Vikings at the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 (see Ó Cróinín 1995: 266–68; Staunton 2001: 44–45).

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the Roman church and implement Gregorian reform. This reform sought to assert papal authority, to develop uniform norms of canon law, to renew clerical discipline (including the observance of celibacy), and to improve pastoral ministry. Thus, the Norman/English lordship of Ireland was readily accepted by the Irish bishops and endorsed by the papacy. The process of anglicisation that followed changed the composition of the episcopate in Ireland so that by the end of the century almost half of the bishops were English.5 (Watt 2002; Bradshaw and Keogh 2002: 303–4.) One of the negative side-effects of the division in Ireland, which had prided itself on its schools and scholars in early medieval times, was the failure to establish that great medieval institution, the university, in the country until after the Reformation (Mooney 1969: 21). The English conquest of Ireland was only partial, leaving both the country and the church of the fourteenth century culturally divided into Irish (Gaelic)6 and English areas. The partition between the English and native territories was enforced, for instance, by the Statutes of Kilkenny (see Crowley 2000: 14–17), which were issued in 1366 in order to stop the Gaelicisation of the English colony, banning, among other things, the colonists’ use of Irish customs, dress and speech. Hence, the Statutes aimed at preventing the acculturation between the colonisers and the colonised. In contrast to the English, the Irish were regarded as a subject race and were officially characterised as the ‘king’s Irish enemies’ or the ‘wild Irish’. According to Staunton (2001: 60), the growing tension between the colonists and the colonised led to royal policy with a strong racial undertone, having its roots in the English conception of the Gaelic Irish as a rough and barbarous people. (See also Carroll 2001.) The division between the English and the Irish was also reflected in the church, where the ‘Englishry’ enjoyed privileges denied to the native Irish. Moreover, the parishes in the English-controlled towns enjoyed much greater prosperity than Gaelic-Irish parishes, mainly situated in rural areas that were often impoverished (Ellis 1998: 193–5). However, the division between the English and the Irish notwithstanding, the

5 However, the thirteenth century saw the spread of new mendicant orders to Ireland when Dominicans, Franciscans, Augustinians and Carmelites entered the country. (See Watt 2002: 53–5; Bradshaw and Keogh 2002: 304.) 6 It has been noted that until recently the history of Gaelic Ireland was poorly served by the scholarship (Duffy, Edwards & FitzPatrick 2001: 22).

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medieval church in Ireland was part of the universal Catholic Church, which can be seen as a unifying factor in the otherwise divided land. (Ellis 1998: 22–3, 192–5; Watt 2002: 51–3, 56; Bradshaw and Keogh 2002: 304–5.) In the sixteenth century the religious landscape of Ireland was once again splintered by the introduction of Protestantism. Under Henry VIII, the English church experienced the Reformation (1534), which also was soon extended to Ireland.7 The early reforms were mainly concerned with jurisdiction and the supremacy of the King as the head of the Church of Ireland. One of the most visible breaks with the religious tradition in Ireland, brought about by the Reformation, was the dissolution of the monasteries at the end of the 1530s, which was followed by the suppression of the mendicant orders. However, due to the monasteries’ diminished role with respect to schools, hospitals and charitable work, by this time, closing them down did not have such a detrimental effect on the religious development in Ireland as one might have surmised. All in all, the Henrician reforms in Ireland were rather successful: the Church of Ireland was brought into line with its English counterpart, general conformity was guaranteed among the ‘Englishry’, and the Irish did not protest against the lordship of the English. (Ellis 1998: 207–17.) The Reformation from the earliest reforms to its official consolidation in the beginning of the seventeenth century left Ireland only partially Protestant. While the King of Sweden succeeded in converting the Finns from Catholicism to Protestantism, the English Crown did not have similar success among the Irish. There were several reasons for the failure to implant Protestantism in Ireland. In short, these reasons were linked, first, with the failure to bring Gaelic Ireland under central authority administered from Dublin, second, with the weakness of the Protestant Church in Ireland, and, third, with the perseverance of Catholicism both among the Old English8 and the native Irish (Ford 1998: 476).

7

It is generally believed that Protestantism had an easy victory in England but was firmly rejected in Ireland. For a critical discussion on this argument, see Ellis 1998: 190. 8 The term ‘Old English’ was used in the sixteenth century for the English who were born, raised and resided in Ireland, as distinguished from Englishmen born in England (see Ellis 1998: 282–4). The Old English, for the most part, remained devoted Catholics. What united the Old English and Gaelic Irish were the issues of land and religion (Lennon 2002: 93).

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As a result of the adherence of the Gaelic Irish and the Old English to Catholicism the Counter-Reformation in Ireland, of necessity, had to administer to their followers in both Irish and English (Lennon 2002: 91). In contrast, Protestantism, not having native clergy committed to working among the Irish, remained a ‘foreign’ religion in Ireland. Thus, an additional hindrance to the introduction of Protestantism in Gaelic Ireland was the language barrier between the English-speaking clergy and the Gaelic-speaking Irish. In contrast, in Finland, the introduction of Protestantism was closely linked with the development of the vernacular language both in church sermons and religious literature. Admittedly, there were some sporadic efforts to use Irish in the Protestant ‘missionary’ work in Ireland, but these efforts did not gain much support among the clergy of the Established Church. On the other hand, throughout the seventieth and eighteenth centuries, the Catholic Church insisted on the importance of the Irish language both in the education of priests and in instructing its flock, thus strengthened its foothold among the Irish speaking population. (Wall 1989: 4–5; Ford 1998: 476; Lennon 2002: 91–2; see also Ó Huallacháin 1994.) Consequently, the Reformation was more and more identified with the English colonisers and Catholicism with the culture and people of Ireland. The Reformation, which introduced religion as an additional marker of identity, left Ireland divided between the Protestants and Catholics (see McVeigh 1995). The division between the Protestants and Catholics became even more pronounced from the end of the seventeenth century onwards. The Established Church might have been lax in respect of missionary work among the Irish,9 but, nevertheless, the English Crown sought to preserve the Protestant base intact and to secure Protestant ownership of land. Thus, converting to Catholicism as well as intermarriages between Catholics and Protestants were heavily penalised.10 Moreover, in the late seventeenth and eighteenth 9

For Charter Schools aiming at converting Catholic children, see Wall 1989:

6–7. 10

The laws against mixed marriages between Catholics and Protestants penalised not only those who engaged in such a marriage but also the Catholic clergy officiating at such a marriage. Notwithstanding the resentment against the penal laws in general, the Catholic Church in principle supported the ban against interfaith marriages. Marital segregation was also widely accepted as a part of a proper social order by Irish people of both faiths. Hence, the prohibition of interfaith marriages was not only a matter of colonial interest but reflected the views of Irish society at large. (See Akenson 1988: 111–5.)

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centuries, the colonial parliament enacted and enforced a series of what came to be known as the penal laws or popery laws (1691–1760) placing several restrictions on Catholics in Ireland. In respect of education, the Catholics were forbidden to go abroad for schooling, and in Ireland they were banned from teaching and running schools. Moreover, a large number of Catholic clergy and bishops were banished from Ireland and those who remained were under close surveillance. The idea behind this measure was the extirpation of Catholicism in Ireland simply ‘for want of priests’. In respect of ownership and occupation, the Catholics lost their rights to ownership of land, and were prohibited from holding governmental posts. Catholics were also excluded from the parliament and lost their right to vote. (Brady & Corish 1971; Wall 1989; Fenning 2002.) Thus, the penal laws not only restricted the Catholic practice of religion but they also, and even more importantly, weakened the social and economic position of Irish Catholics. (Brady & Corish 1971: 3, 23; Wall 1989: 73 ff .) When looked at through the backdrop of the general development in other western European countries—which in the eighteenth century had, for the most part, abandoned religious persecution—the penal laws enforced by the English in Ireland as a ‘form of religious apartheid’ (McVeigh 1995: 627) were outmoded to say the least. They were also exceptional in the sense that, unlike religious discrimination undertaken in other European countries, they were not directed against a minority but against the majority. (Wall 1989: 8.) All in all, Ireland differed from other European countries following the post-Reformation model of cuius regio, eius religio as a country where the religion of the ruler was not that of the people. (Bradshaw 2002: 76.) Despite the penal laws, the Catholic Church continued to operate non-officially and popular devotion flourished in Ireland (see Fenning 2002).11 Moreover, the end of the eighteenth century saw a general change in the politics of religion which facilitated a gradual recovery of the Catholic Church. The incentive behind the changed attitude towards Catholics was partly due to growing tolerance inspired by the Enlightenment and partly due to English military needs. From

11 For a fascinating study on popular devotion in early modern Ireland, see Gillespie 1997.

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the 1770s to the 1790s, dismantling the penal codes was set into motion by a series of Catholic Relief Acts, which gradually lifted restrictions placed upon the Catholics in Ireland. Hence, Catholics were given property rights as well as a right to vote. From the 1790s onwards, St Patrick’s College, Maynooth, was opened for the education of Catholic priests in Ireland, Catholic churches and cathedrals were constructed, Catholic schools started, as well as religious brotherhoods and sisterhoods founded. Consequently, the process for restoring the Catholic infrastructure in Ireland was well under way in the beginning of the nineteenth century. Finally, in the 1820s, mobilising both clergy and laity, a popular campaign for emancipation organised by Daniel O’Connell and the Catholic Association bore fruit and the Catholic Emancipation Act was passed in 1829, furthering the political and legal rights of Catholics. After emancipation, the government introduced a national system of primary school education which was locally managed by the clergy and hence, in the Catholic areas, directly controlled by the priests. (See Wall 1989: 115 ff.; Whelan 1995: 137; Kerr 2002.) Catholic emancipation improved the religious rights of Catholics but not their socio-economic position. Much of the rural Catholic population continued to live in extreme poverty. The rapid increase in population in the first decades of the nineteenth century worsened the plight of the rural poor, who were also the main victims of the Great Famine (1845–1849). As a result of this natural catastrophe, around a million Irish people died of starvation and disease, while over the same period approximately another million people emigrated from Ireland to England, the United States and Australia. Consequently, in the space of a few years the Irish population declined by one-fifth. Although the Catholic and Protestant Churches, both within and outside Ireland, endeavoured to come to the rescue of famine victims, for example, by funding relief work, this period witnessed an increase in religious conflict as some Protestants were accused of exploiting the situation in order to proselytise Catholics.12 Thus, this time of great destitution and misery was not an age of ecumenism. (See Kerr 2002: 183–5.) 12 In order to provide food, evangelical missionaries organised soup kitchens especially along the western seaboard, which, for one reason or another, have become the epitome of Protestant proselytism in Ireland, labelled ‘souperism’. For a discussion on the anti-Catholicism of nineteenth-century Britain as a political doctrine

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The post-famine decades saw the consolidation of the Catholic Church in Ireland. This consolidation of the Irish church has been attributed to Paul Cullen, appointed first as the Archbishop of Armagh (1849) and then as the first Irish cardinal (1866). For the first time since the seventeenth century, a National Synod was convened by Cullen in 1850, with the goal of strengthening the Irish church against external threats and internal disarray. The state-run National Education System continued functioning alongside schools run by the Catholic religious orders, which, after the Famine, enjoyed a major increase in vocations. Nevertheless, despite a number of attempts to provide university education for Catholics, a solution satisfactory to the religious hierarchy was not reached until 1908 when the National University of Ireland was established. After the decline in population, resulting from the Great Famine, there were enough priests ministering to people but a problem prevailed with respect to churches, which were too few and unevenly dispersed across the country. Hence, several means were employed in order to collect funding both in Ireland and abroad for church renovation and church building. In the latter half of the nineteenth century a major issue challenging the power of the Catholic Church was the re-emergence of militant Irish nationalism (the Fenian Brotherhood), which found some support among the ranks of the clergy.13 Popular support for Fenianism, moreover, revealed a fundamental gap between the perceptions of the hierarchy and the laity, and the failure of the Catholic Church to dictate the political allegiances of the people. Political confrontation notwithstanding, the local clergy continued its practical work in highlighting social problems and alleviating the suffering of their parishioners. (Moran 2002.) Catholic priests (the Vincentians) were also active in the parish mission movement, which took place between 1850 and 1880. As a result of this movement Ireland experienced a ‘devotional revolution’ which in a generation transformed the Irish into pious and practising Catholics.14 According to Emmet Larkin’s ‘devotional revolution’

‘rooted in the belief that the source of Ireland’s social and political problems was the Catholic religion, and that the country would never be prosperous and developed until Catholicism and all its influences were eradicated’, see Whelan 1995: 136 ff. 13 For the relation between the Catholic Church and Irish nationalism, see Collins 2002. 14 Not only were the effects of this devotional revolution felt in Ireland but it

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thesis, the main reason for the Irish to so readily embrace Catholicism was their loss of identity as a result of anglicization, i.e. the decline of the Irish language and its related culture. (Larkin [1976] 1997: 82; Whelan 2005: 139; cf. Miller 2000.) Hence, Catholicism operated as a sort of safety-valve against the assimilation of the Irish to the English culture, which was rooted in Protestantism (Larkin 2002: 204). By the end of the nineteenth century, the Catholic Church was firmly institutionalised in Ireland and its influence permeated all levels of society. (Moran 2002: 194.) From the end of the nineteenth to the beginning of the twentieth centuries Ireland underwent major political changes, which resulted in the political independence of the twenty-six counties in the south, while the six counties in the north remained linked to Britain. The political arrangements of this period were crucial for the religious freedom of both Protestants and Catholics. The main interest of the Catholic Church in the turmoil of these changes was, in general, to secure its position of power and in particular to safeguard the continuity of Catholic education. Thus, in order to defend its interest, the church was actively engaged in both public debates and national politics. The Catholic Church also supported the cultural aims of the Gaelic League, founded in 1893 to preserve and to restore the Irish language, as long as these aims did not conflict with its own interests.15 Concurrent with the rise of the power of the Catholic Church, the latter decades of the nineteenth century and the early decades of the twentieth century witnessed the rise of the Catholic middle class, who more and more began to make inroads to the Protestants’ dominance in professions. In independent Ireland, Protestants, who for centuries had ruled Ireland, were pushed to a marginal position. Although their numbers declined significantly in the period after independence and as a result of intermarriage, they were to remain a rather privileged minority in a Catholic country.16 (See Milne 2002.) In post-independent Ireland, religious exclusivity was further highlighted with a close identification of the national identity with

‘eventually made Irish Catholicism a worldwide phenomenon in the English-speaking world’ (Larkin 1997, 91). For the Irish mission abroad, see Hogan 1990. 15 For a detailed study on the Catholic clergy and the Celtic Revival from 1848 to 1916, see Collins 2002. 16 On the history of the Church of Ireland, see Acheson 2002.

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Catholicism, and the Catholic hierarchy and the clergy exercised a significant amount of authority in Irish society. However, with respect to politics, the episcopal influence was mainly limited to those issues concerning Catholic education and sexual morality. From this standpoint, therefore, Joseph Lee cautions against reading Irish history solely or even primarily in terms of clerical influence and draws attention to the nature and limits of the church’s authority. Apart from issues concerning education and sexual morality, the Catholic Church did not display much will to interfere politically and often when it did, its views were simply ignored by politicians when found to be inconvenient. It is therefore understandable that there were no major clashes between church and state, with one exception.17 (See Whyte 1980; cf. Bartlett 2002; Larkin 1997, 91 ff.; cf. Lee 2000: 141–6. See also Inglis 2005.) Religious Freedom in the Irish Law Bunreacht na hÉireann In Ireland, it is not possible to understand the arrangements concerning church and state relations without evaluating them against the backdrop of the general development of Irish Catholicism under the British rule and since independence. As noted by Staunton, Christianity shaped every European nation, but few to the same extent as Ireland (2001: 1). In consequence, Irish Christianity has developed its own distinctive character. This is also reflected in the Irish Constitution and its provisions concerning religious freedom. For historical reasons, the Constitution of Ireland (Bunreacht na hÉireann 1937) is available in both the Irish and English languages and the constitutional text in both of these official languages is considered to be ‘authentic’ (Lenihan 1999: ix). Some disagreement, however, exists concerning the drafting process of the Constitution in these two languages so that, according to Ó Cearúil (1999: 1), 17 An exception to this consensus was the Mother and Child Scheme in 1950–1, which provoked a conflict between church and state. However, the politicians and the Catholic Church worked very much along similar lines with respect to legislation enshrining the Catholic moral code on issues, such as divorce, which was made unconstitutional in 1937, the banning of contraceptives, censorship on films and books, as well as the regulation of dance halls. See Whyte 1980: 196 ff.; cf. Bartlett 2002: 253, 256.

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drafting the 1937 Constitution took place in parallel both in English and Irish, whereas Casey (2000: 74) claims that the Irish text is merely a translation of the English text. Whatever the case may be, Article 25.5.4° states that, in case of conflict between these two texts, the Irish language text prevails.18 In 1999 the Government of Ireland published a comprehensive study of the official text of the Constitution in the Irish language (Ó Cearúil 1999).19 However, English is usually used in preparing ordinary legislation (see Article 25.4), and the English language is also given precedence in the courts. (See Casey 2000: 73–77.) The Irish language, however, is the language used in much of the nomenclature of the state and its institutions, including such terms as Éire (Ireland),20 Bunreacht na hÉireann (the Constitution of Ireland), Uachtarán (the President); the two Houses of the Oireachtas (Parliament), i.e. the Dáil Éireann and Seanad Éireann (Article 15); Taoiseach (the Prime Minister; Article 28.5.1°); Tánaiste (the Vice Prime Minister, Article 28.6); and Teachta Dála, usually abbreviated as TD (member

18 One can sense a degree of annoyance in respect of this matter in Casey (2000: 74), who refers to the report of the Constitution Review Group in May 1996 criticising Article 8 for being ‘unrealistic’ when taking into consideration that 98% of the Irish people speak English as their vernacular. The group recommended that the first section of Article 8 would give equal standing for both languages and hence would read: ‘The Irish language and the English language are the two official languages’. Moreover, it recommended that the second section of the Article would give some concession to the Irish language and hence would read: ‘Because the Irish language is a unique expression of Irish tradition and culture, the State shall take special care to nurture the language and to increase its use.’ (See Casey 2000: 74; cf. Ó Cearúil 1999: 5.) To date, this ‘nurture’ has arguably resulted in the weakening of the Irish language. In contrast, the fate of the Finnish language has been very different. Although spoken widely among the populace at large, it was only in 1863 that it received the status of an official language and thereafter rapidly developed as a vehicle of modern communication to displace Swedish as the main language of administration, education, and literary activity in Finland by the early decades of the twentieth century. (See Briody 1997.) 19 Ó Cearúil’s (1999) work will be used here only to the extent that it sheds light on the provisions concerning freedom of religion. In the main, the following interpretation of these articles will follow the juridical commentary of the constitutional law in Ireland by Casey (2000), by Kelly (1984), as well as by Foley and Lalor (1995), the theological/philosophical considerations by McDonagh (1988, etc.), and the historical overviews by Keogh (1988a). For the ‘politics of the Irish Constitution’, see Chubb 1991. See also Doolan 1999: 72. 20 Casey notes that the Preamble seems to contradict Article 4, stating that the English language name of the State is Ireland, Éire being simply the Irish language form. Moreover, he continues, the expression ‘Republic of Ireland’ does not feature at all in the Constitution. (Casey 2000: 30; see also McDonagh 1988: 194–195.)

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of the Dáil ). Moreover, the Irish word is also commonly used with respect to some other state institutions, such as An Garda Síochána for the police force. McDonagh sees the choice of the Irish language and the Irish language nomenclature for the state and its institution with respect to the Constitution as a reflection of the close link between Irish republicanism and the Gaelic cultural ethos (1988: 196). Today this Irish language terminology is widely used in the everyday English speech in Ireland. In actual fact, it is quite impossible to follow the Irish media with respect to politics without being familiar with these terms. The Anglo-Irish Treaty of December 1921 dissolved the legislative union that existed between Ireland and Britain, and the Constitution of the Irish Free State (Saorstát Éireann) came into operation by royal proclamation in December 1922. This largely ended the British rule in Ireland, during which time Ireland was governed from London so that its main political decisions in legislative, fiscal and administrative matters were made there. Since its enactment the Constitution underwent several alterations, but it was only in the 1930s that the controversial symbols and external associations apparent in the 1922 Constitution came under scrutiny.21 In 1935, Eamonn de Valera,22 then the Head of Government, set into motion the preparation of a new Constitution, which was supposed to articulate an entirely new departure. The draft was submitted for the approval of people and, after gaining this approval, Bunreacht na hÉireann (the Constitution of Ireland)23 came into force in December 1937. (Casey 2000: 1–23.) A general observation concerning the two above-mentioned constitutions is that the latter is ‘more definitely religious’ than the former one, and bears a strong Catholic stamp (Whyte 1980: 51; Keogh 1988a: 24; Casey 2000: 22). Unlike the 1937 Constitution, the 1922 Constitution made no reference whatever to religion (Kelly 1984: 662). Thereby, the ostensibly secular document of 1922 was replaced by a confessional one (Murphy 1982: 106), and thus the Constitution ‘was conceived in part as a manifesto rather than as a bare law’ (Kelly 1988: 209).

21

See Hogan 1997, for the work of the Constitution Review Committee of 1934. For a recent appraisal of de Valera’s influence in Ireland, see Doherty & Keogh 2003. 23 The direct translation of Bunreacht na hÉireann is the Basic Law of Ireland (see Kelly 1988: 208). 22

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Moreover, devoting a whole article to religion (Article 44) can be seen to reflect the respect and high regard held for religion in Ireland. As was mentioned in Chapter One, the Irish have often been characterised as devoutly religious people and Ireland as an ardently Catholic country. Religious ethos The emphasis on religion is apparent in the Preamble of Bunreacht na hÉireann which opens with the following words: In the name of the Most Holy Trinity, from Whom is all authority and to Whom, as our final end, all actions both of men and States must be referred, We, the people of Éire, Humbly acknowledging all our obligations to our Divine Lord, Jesus Christ, Who sustained our fathers through centuries of trial [. . .].24

Without a doubt these words reflect the Ireland of seventy years ago and also mirror the hopes and aspirations of its designer, Eamonn de Valera, who himself was a devote Catholic. In actual fact, the 1937 Constitution is often seen to epitomise de Valera and hence sometimes even called ‘The de Valera Constitution’ (McDonagh 1988: 192; 1995: 11 ff.; 211; Dudley Edwards 2003: 27; cf. Hogan 1997: 360). At the same time, some commentators see it also as ‘a Catholic Constitution’ (Chubb 1991: 39). All in all, the Constitution of Ireland has been called ‘a fairly successful union of democracy and Catholic teaching’, and a document ‘self-consciously nationalist, strongly Catholic in tone and republican in aspiration’ (Keogh 1988a: 24). Hence, on the one hand, it was exceptional in the Catholic political world of the 1930s in its commitment to liberal democracy, and, on the other hand, it pleased the Vatican. (Keogh 1988a: 4–5; McDonagh 1988: 202.) In accordance with liberal democratic tradition, the Constitution lists fundamental rights, thereby expressing the will to protect small and vulnerable groups.25 After the enactment of the United Nations’

24

Boyle & Sheen call this preamble ‘theocratic’ (1997: 345). Boyle & Sheen (1997: 345) note that ‘Ireland’s 1937 constitution was one of the most liberal constitutions of its day’, which, with respect to its guarantees of civil and political rights, was inspired by the United States constitution, and which, with respect to its inclusion of communitarian values, in turn, inspired other postcolonial constitutions, such as that of India. 25

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Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948), these sorts of rights have generally come to be known as human rights. However, in the 1937 Irish Constitution they rather reflected the ethos of Catholic social teaching in Ireland. (McDonagh 1988: 198–199; Whyte 1980: 52.) These fundamental rights in Bunreacht na hÉireann include personal rights, the family, education, private property and religion. For this study, the main interest, however, lies in the rights concerning religion (Article 44) and education (Article 42).26 Article 44 on freedom of religion is the provision which most explicitly articulates the church and state relations in Ireland. This provision begins, in somewhat similar terms as the Preamble, with a reference to Almighty God and the obligation of the state to respect and honour religion in Ireland. Article 44.1 reads: The State acknowledges that the homage of public worship is due to Almighty God. It shall hold His Name in reverence, and shall respect and honour religion.

This distinctively religious provision is exceptional but, at the same time, understandable against the historical and sociological background of the drafting process of the Constitution. However, the legal consequences to the state of this provision remain somewhat obscure. This provision, nonetheless, underlines the conviction that the Irish are a religious people (Quinn’s Supermarket Ltd. v. Attorney General, 1972), holding to a deep religious conviction and faith (Norris v. Attorney General, 1984). (See Kelly 1984: 662; Casey 2000: 688.) According to Casey, this ‘inclination to religion’ might explain why in Ireland issues concerning church and state so rarely reach the courts (2000: 685). Provision 44.1 was originally qualified with two sections, stating the recognition of the Catholic Church and the other religious communities, functioning in Ireland in the 1930s, as follows: 2° The State recognises the special position of the Holy Catholic Apostolic and Roman Church as the guardian of the Faith professed by the great majority of the citizens. 26 Undoubtedly, one of the most hotly debated issues in Ireland in recent decades has concerned abortion. In 2000, the Oireachtas Committee on the Constitution heard Muslim representatives who noted that abortion is ‘forbidden and is a crime [under Islamic law] except it is proven by medical experts that the mother’s life is at threat’ (Oireachtas Committee on the Constitution 2000: 69; O’Halloran 2000). For the abortion debate, see Hannon 2003; Mullally 2006: 201 ff.)

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chapter four 3° The State also recognises the Church of Ireland, the Presbyterian Church in Ireland, the Methodist Church in Ireland, the Religious Society of Friends in Ireland, as well as the Jewish Congregations and the other religious denominations existing in Ireland at the date of the coming into operation of this Constitution.

These sections are exceptional in the sense that they introduce particular religious groups to the Constitution, although, Whyte (1980: 56–8) notes, it is hard to see what practical effects this sort of explication might have. Moreover, he further maintains these sections to indicate that the state was by no means neutral with respect to religion nor irreligion, and neither was it neutral vis-à-vis different religious denominations. Even though the section recognises all denominations existing in Ireland at the time, in his view, it clearly favours the Catholic Church. At the same time, however, Whyte acknowledges that for the main architect of the 1937 Constitution, de Valera, this order of privilege merely reflected the sociological fact of Irish society, where over ninety percent of the people were Catholics. In other words, de Valera justified these provisions by linking the ideal of a democratic state with the representation of people whose life philosophy was based on Catholicism. (See Whyte 1980: 56–8.) An Irish-language biography of de Valera maintains that it was actually his conscious wish to be faithful to the Catholic Church while simultaneously showing justice to the minorities. In the process of drafting the Constitution, de Valera consulted the leaders of both the Catholic and Protestant Churches (Whyte 1980: 377–9). Accordingly, McDonagh maintains that these provisions did not favour one denomination over others but simply recognised the social rather than that of juridical position of the Catholic Church (1961: 136; see Kelly 1984: 662). To rephrase it, the Constitution reflected the religious experience of the Irish people by taking the ‘form of a chart or a map of the land’ (Redmond 1982: 94; see also Boyle & Sheen 1997: 346). As against this, it must be noted how easily the Catholic majority is represented in this line of argument as a ‘monolithic one’, disregarding different opinions prevalent among the Irish Catholics of the time, for instance, between those living in the urban and rural areas (see Murphy 1982: 112; see also Whyte 1980: 57). In other words, the official rhetoric, reifying the Catholic majority, does not necessarily correspond with the experiences of this majority. In any case, twentieth-century Ireland seems to have witnessed a spontaneous consensus concerning religious values. Even the Protestants were very moderate in their criticism of the state policies based on

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Catholic social teaching, which, as noted by Whyte, was perhaps understandable taking into consideration that they formed a very small minority in comparison to the Catholic majority. (Whyte 1980: 57–60.) Another reason for this acquiescence of the Protestants might have been the fact that both Catholics and Protestants of the time shared a ‘common puritanism’ in moral issues (Murphy 1982: 105). Amendments Since 1937 the Constitution has been amended several times so that by November 2002 the number of amendments had reached twentysix, including the introduction of divorce. Article 41 on education has, however, gone unaltered, whereas Article 44 on the freedom of religion has been partially amended. The above-mentioned second and third section of Article 44 on religious freedom, concerning different religious groups, were thereby deleted from the Constitution by the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution Act, 1972.27 It is worth noting that Ireland joined the European Union in 1973, which would in any case have necessitated some amendments to the Constitution (see Hourihane 2004; Foley & Lalor 1995: 192). Moreover, the ‘Troubles’, i.e. communal violence which erupted in Northern Ireland at the end of the 1960s had a direct effect on the decision to amend Article 44 of the Constitution. For instance, the Taoiseach (Prime minister) Jack Lynch summarised the importance of this Article by saying that ‘[i]n the main, Article 44 of our Constitution is a charter of the free practice and profession of religion and in this respect I suggest that it is second to none in any part of the world’ (Foley & Lalor 1995: 209). However, he also maintained that the general provisions in the article on religious freedom were in themselves enough and, therefore, sections two and three could be deleted. He saw no point in listing any religious groups in such a manner. In addition, he referred to Northern Ireland, hoping that this change would also contribute towards Irish unity. With regard to a united Ireland, some deputies defended a pluralist Ireland, where a secular constitution would be a common denominator for all. The amendment was effected in January 1973. (Foley & Lalor 1995: 209–215; see also Murphy 1982: 103–4; McDonagh 2003.)

27 Clifford points out that these sections were deleted under the direct influence of the Vatican Council II and with the consent of the bishops (1987: 160).

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An important boost to the recognition of different traditions in Ireland was undoubtedly given by the Good Friday Agreement, concluded in Belfast in 1998. According to Mullally, the recent concern for difference stood ‘in marked contrast to the search for homogeneity and national unity that has characterised much of Ireland’s post-colonial history’. She also adds that ‘the effective hegemony of the Roman Catholic Church’, coupled with ‘the overriding concern to define Ireland as “not England” meant that diversity and difference within Ireland was either ignored, denied or silenced’. (Mullally 2001: 100; ibid., 2006: 169.) The amendment notwithstanding, some observations concerning the provisions of Article 44.1.2° and 3° can be made in light of the general discussion on religious freedom. In its explication of positive religious freedom of the existing religious communities in Ireland, these provisions strike a nice balance between privileging one religion over other religions, while at the same time acknowledging the rights of the other religions as well (cf. Lerner 1996: 121; Shadid & van Koningsveld 2002a: 1). It needs to be asked, however, whether de Valera’s Constitution followed a principle in which, on the one hand, some basic freedoms were available to all individuals and groups, but, on the other hand, Catholicism, the religion of the majority of the population, received more support than other religions. (See Ferrari 2002: 11.) After all, important sectors of civil society, such as schools and hospitals, were and are controlled in Ireland by the Catholic Church (Boyle & Sheen 1997: 344). Furthermore, the above-mentioned provisions, listing different religious communities, were exceptional regarding the general approach in European thinking on rights, which emphasises the rights of individual and not those of a group identified with a particular religious adherence. As such, these provisions can be seen to propagate the autonomy and independence of religious groups in Ireland. In Ferrari’s view, the autonomy of religious organisations reflects the incompetence of the state (in western Europe) in dealing with religion. As an example in this regard, he mentions Germany, Italy, and Ireland. This autonomy of religious groups with respect to the state, Ferrari further notes, has in turn a limiting effect on the religious freedom enjoyed by members within a particular religious community because religious communities, unlike non-religious organisations, are not obliged to have a democratic internal structure. (Ferrari 2002: 9.) Hence, it limits the negative religious freedom of their members.

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In Ireland, the undemocratic nature of the Catholic Church has been much highlighted (see Inglis 1998a). Murphy points out that ‘it is important in any discussion on the Church, morality and the law to note the role of paternalism. The church tended to see its flock as the ‘“simple faithful” existing in a permanent state of retardation, to be preserved in a moral quarantine against alien contamination and domestic occasions of sin’ (1982: 17). Whyte, on the other hand, refers to the fact that a certain level of ‘criticism of the clergy’ existed, especially in rural Ireland, and therefore the Catholic flock may not have been as ‘simple’ or as ‘faithful’ as it has often been presented in official discussions both of the church and the state. (Whyte 1980: 57.) In general, Ferrari claims that the doctrinal and organisational autonomy of religious groups is on the rise in Europe (2002: 9). This, undoubtedly, is the result of the separation taking place between church and state. Notwithstanding the wide recognition enjoyed by the Catholic Church in the state and society of Ireland, it has never been the established church of the country, in similar fashion to, for instance, the Church of England in Britain. Hence, one could anticipate that, in Ireland, it is rather the general development of secularisation which will affect the position of the Catholic Church and not the organisational arrangements as such. After all, the explicit link between the church and state in Ireland was severed in the 1972 amendment of the Constitution. While deleting the above-mentioned provisions, the Irish Constitution was thereby brought into the line with the approach opted for in other European countries emphasising individual rather than group rights. (Cf. Casey 2000: 689.) However, this separation did not concern schools and hospitals owned by the Catholic Church, as will be discussed below. Freedom of religion The Irish Constitution guarantees freedom of conscience as well as free profession and practice of religion, requires the neutrality of the state with respect to different religions, and rejects any sort of religious discrimination imposed by the state. Moreover, the state is also requested to be religiously neutral in providing financial aid to school, and—interestingly enough—pupils attending state-supported schools are not obliged to take part in their religious instruction. Finally, the Constitution emphasises the autonomy of religious denominations,

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and safeguards their rights to their own property. However, the Constitution does not express a right to propagate religion, even though it might be implicit in Article 44.1. (Casey 2000: 688–91.) Article 44.2 of the Irish Constitution consists of six sections addressing religious freedom, which read: 1° Freedom of conscience and the free profession and practice of religion are, subject to public order and morality, guaranteed to every citizen. 2° The State guarantees not to endow any religion. 3° The State shall not impose any disabilities or make any discrimination on the ground of religious profession, belief or status.28 4° Legislation providing State aid for schools shall not discriminate between schools under the management of different religious denominations, nor be such as to affect prejudicially the right of any child to attend a school receiving public money without attending religious instruction at that school. 5° Every religious denomination shall have the right to manage its own affairs, own, acquire and administer property, movable and immovable, and maintain institutions for religious or charitable purposes. 6° The property of any religious denomination or any educational institution shall not be diverted save for necessary works of public utility and on payment of compensation.

In Ireland, it is the profession and practice of religion rather than freedom of conscience which has received judicial attention (Casey 2000: 689). With respect to the latter, dealt with in Article 44.2.1°, both the High Court and the Supreme Court, in McGee v. Attorney General (1974), took a narrow view on ‘freedom of conscience’, disregarding matters pertaining to social conscience in general and hence restricting the meaning of this provision only to that of religious conscience. Therefore, the meaning of this provision was limited to freedom to choose a religion and to act in accordance with its precepts, and, correlatively, to the freedom not to have a religious belief and to abstain from the practice or profession of any religion. (Kelly 1984: 663–4.) Moreover, concerning Article 44.2.2°, while not explicitly prohibiting the state to establish a religion, the Supreme Court insisted in Campaign to Separate Church and State v. Minister for Education (1998) that this provision indicates the rejection of establishing or recog28 The Irish text reads ‘aon chóras creidimh’, i.e. ‘any system of faith/religion’ (Ó Cearúil 1999: 631).

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nising a national church. In similar vein, this provision is also used for prohibiting the system of concurrent endowment, whereby financial benefits are conferred on all religions. Therefore, the Irish state cannot adopt the Belgium system where salaries of priests and ministers are paid by public funds, and neither can it adopt a system where a part of the church members’ income tax is handed over to the relevant church, as is the case in Germany and Finland. However, these restrictions concern only religious functions and therefore, for instance, hospitals run by Catholic religious orders are financially supported by the state. This kind of financial support has, however, been justified by the fact that these hospitals serve all Irish people, irrespective of their religion. (Casey 2000: 695–6.) However, it is fair to say that this justification blurs the distinction between institutions set up primarily for religious purposes and institutions run by religious organisations. This lack of distinction, in turn, facilitates a contradiction where the state, on the one hand, ‘guarantees not to endow any religion’ (Article 44), and, on the other hand, overtly supports Catholic institutions, such as schools and hospitals. In fact, the reinforcement of the Catholic ethos in Irish schools and hospitals has recently come under heavy criticism from bodies working for equality in Ireland.29 As noted by Mullally, this criticism was, however, rejected by the Supreme Court, which accepted that tension may arise between competing claims to equality and religious freedom but, nevertheless, opted for supporting distinctions on religious grounds in order to fulfil the Constitutional guarantee of religious freedom. (Mullally 2001: 103.) In other words, it used positive religious freedom in order to justify the particular position of the Catholic Church in Irish society. However, the Supreme Court has been consistent in its emphasis on positive religious freedom also with respect to minority religions, exemplified in the following case from the 1970s concerning Jews in Ireland. With respect to the second and third section of Article 44.2, the Supreme Court heard a case in 1972 (Quinn’s Supermarket Ltd. v. Attorney 29 Boyle & Sheen point to the anomaly of 100 per cent state funding for hospitals and other institutions providing health services, which operate in accordance with Catholic medical ethics and also demand that the staff, including doctors and nurses, have to abide by these ethics (1997: 349). It is interesting to note that for decades Muslim doctors have worked in Irish hospitals without any difficulty. Of course, the reason for this might be that Muslims doctors in general share the Catholic medical ethics.

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General ) where a retail company defied the Ministerial order of 1948, made under the Shops Act of 1938, which restricted the opening hours of butchers’ shops in the Dublin area on weekdays, with the single exception of the shops selling meat killed and prepared in accordance with the ‘Jewish ritual method’. While stressing that it was not against the privilege accorded to Jewish Kosher butchers’, the plaintiff company sought a similar exemption arguing that it had been discriminated against on religious grounds, contrary to Article 44.2.3°. (Kelly 1984: 666; Casey 2000: 692.) Both the High Court and the Supreme Court rejected this assertion. First, Judge Walsh argued that the plaintiff did not suffer from a ‘disability’ on the grounds of religious profession, belief or status. Second, he maintained that the wording of the particular provision did not read ‘discrimination against’ any particular group, but rather entailed distinction between different religions. This interpretation was also supported by the Irish text, reading: ‘ná aon idirdhealú do dhéanamh’, i.e. ‘nor to make any distinction’ (Kelly 1984: 667; Ó Cearúil 1999: 632). However, the case led to an observation that there was a potential conflict between the first section of Article 44.2., granting ‘free profession and practice of religion’, and the third section of Article 44.2., demanding that the state should not discriminate on religious grounds. Hence, on the one hand, it was argued that, since the Jewish butchers’ shops were granted an exemption from the restrictions on opening hours, the state favoured one religious group over the others and thereby violated the principle of neutrality of the state in religious matters, articulated in Article 44.2.3°. On the other hand, however, it was pointed out that not taking into consideration the Jewish Sabbath would discriminate against the profession and practice of the Jewish religion. Therefore, Jews needed to be accommodated in this respect. (See Casey 2000: 692; Kelly 1984: 666–8.) Hence, also in this case, the court decision gave precedence to religious rights over the neutrality of the state. In this respect, one could say that the religious ethos of de Valera embedded in the Constitution was, in the 1970s, alive and well in Ireland. This ethos has been particularly visible in education. Education In the Constitution of Ireland, family and education are very much intertwined. Thus, Article 42 on education reads as follows:

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1. The State acknowledges that the primary and natural educator of the child is the Family and guarantees to respect the inalienable right and duty of parents to provide, according to their means, for the religious and moral, intellectual, physical and social education of their children. 4. The State shall provide for free primary education and shall endeavour to supplement and give reasonable aid to private and corporate educational initiative, and, when the public good requires it, provide other educational facilities or institutions with due regard, however, for the rights of parents, especially in the matter of religious and moral formation.

In short, one may argue that the Constitution articulates both the negative and positive religious freedom of the family. Thus, on the one hand, Article 41.1.1° recognises the family ‘as the natural primary and fundamental unit group of Society, and as a moral institution possessing inalienable and imprescriptible rights’,30 and protects the family from state interference. On the other hand, Article 42.1 names the family as the main educator of children, hence stressing the limited nature of the state’s role in education, with the guarantee of the ‘inalienable right and duty’ of parents in this respect. (Casey 2000: 612; Whyte 1980: 52.) According to McDonagh, the latter Article ‘was an almost inevitable conclusion to the long struggle about education for Catholics in the nineteenth century and at the same time a genuine attempt to protect minority rights’ (1988: 200). Moreover, the reference to ‘natural’ and ‘inalienable’ rights reveal the influence of Catholic teaching on Article 41 and 42 and the natural law philosophy imbuing both of these Articles (Whyte 1980: 52; cf. Casey 2000: 612).31 According to Article 42.4, the state is obliged to ‘provide for free primary education’.32 A particular importance lies in the preposition ‘for’, which for Casey carries the whole history of such education in

30 For discussion on the problematic nature of the definition of the family in general, and the contribution of women to the common good of society concerning their life within the home in particular, see Mullally 2006. 31 Against this background it is no surprise that disputes over the religious upbringing of children have also reached the Irish courts. This has been the case particularly with respect to mixed marriages between a Catholic and a Protestant. The policy of the Catholic Church in these cases has been to guarantee the Catholic upbringing of the children. (Casey 2000: 651.) 32 According to some estimates, around 95% of the primary education provided in ‘national schools’ is state-supported (Casey 2000: 656).

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Ireland (2000: 655). For historical reasons, there is a particular legacy in Ireland of a resistance to the idea of state schools (see Whyte 1980: 21).33 Hence, the role of the state is to provide premises and sufficient finance to schools, while the schools are managed and run by trustees. Moreover, a similar arrangement also concerns teachers who are paid by the state but have a contract with school trustees.34 With respect to these trustees, Irish schools are generally denominational so that the vast majority of schools are owned or managed by the Catholic parishes or religious orders. In addition, there are some Protestant schools and a few schools owned by other denominations, as well as multi-denominational schools. (Casey 2000: 656, 660.) In 1993, the Muslims started a national school in Dublin, joined by another one in 2001. Both of these schools are run by trustees nominated by the Islamic communities. (See Chapter Ten). Against this background it is fair to ask if, again, there is a contradiction in the Constitution, which, on the one hand, prohibits discrimination on the grounds of religion and, on the other hand, recognises the rights of denominational schools to preserve their particular ethos (see Inglis 1998a: 224). The emphasis on the rights of a particular denomination is also exemplified in Irish case law. In Eileen Flynn v. Sister Mary Ann Power and the Sisters of the Holy Faith (1985) the plaintiff was a teacher in a convent secondary school but was dismissed on the grounds of her ‘embarrassing lifestyle’, after getting involved in an extra-marital relationship with a local man and having his baby. When reprimanded by the principle, she argued that her affair was no concern of the school or parents but solely her personal business. After her dismissal, she made a claim under the Unfair Dismissal Act (1977). Her

33 According to Drudy and Lynch, the church’s control over education in Ireland has received very little sociological attention. For this lack of interest they list the following reasons: the influence of theories developed in other countries not addressing such issues; the private nature of church organisations, hindering access to relevant research material; the pluralism existing within the churches themselves, making it difficult to draw any general conclusions; and finally, a tendency to perceive the churches, as the arbiters of moral goodness in society, to be ‘above and beyond analysis’ (1993: 73–4). 34 The criteria for eligibility for funding as well as the qualifications of teachers on the primary school level are set out in Rules for National Schools (1965). However, since the adoption of the Education Act in 1998, the Minister for Education has a right to make regulations concerning the qualifications of teachers. See Casey 2000: 655.

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claim, however, was rejected by the Employment Appeals Tribunal, by the Circuit Court, and finally by the High Court. The rejection of Ms. Flynn’s claim was defended by Judge Costello who argued that, when accepting employment as a teacher in a religious school with established and well-known principles, she was well aware of the norms of behaviour and the ideals promoted by that school, and hence could be expected to consent to the religious ethos of the school. Because her behaviour, however, was such that it could undermine the efforts of the school to promote religious tenets and foster codes of behaviour in the pupils, her dismissal was justified. Thus, the ruling favoured the Catholic school at the expense of the Constitutional rights of the plaintiff to privacy and a choice of lifestyle, which were not even discussed in relation to this case. (Casey 2000: 661; Mullally 2001: 103.) The line of argumentation in the above case, emphasising the autonomy of religious organisations, resembles that of the European Court of Human Rights, which has used the conception of religion as a ‘voluntary club’ in order to dismiss claims concerning state interference with an individual religion or belief. (Evans 2001: 132.) Thus, by choosing to join a religious community, or accepting employment in a religious school, an individual waives her or his individual rights in favour of a public institution. However, the same criticism as voiced by Evans concerning the decision of the European Court of Human rights is valid also with respect to the High Court decision in Flynn v. Power, namely, that due to social reasons individuals do not possess, in practice, a complete freedom of choice and, hence, decisions favouring public institutions place individuals in a vulnerable position. As noted by Tom Inglis: ‘For most people, religion is not a matter of choice’, and, ‘Churches, in Weber’s terms, are “compulsory organisations”’ (2005: 63). Therefore, to consider established religions as ‘voluntary clubs’ is highly questionable. In practice, a teacher, such as Ms. Flynn, who did not subscribe to the values and norms of the Catholic schools, would have founded it hard to find employment elsewhere since most of the secondary schools in Ireland were (and still are) owned by the Catholic Church. Therefore, the special arrangement concerning schools between the state and the Catholic Church would simply have made it impossible for her to assert her freedom of choice. Moreover, this kind of institutional arrangement would readily curtail her negative religious freedom not to follow the Catholic moral codes in her personal life.

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In any case, it is worth noting that the confrontation in Flynn v. Power (1985) took place more or less twenty years ago, and would not most likely arise nowadays. The reason for this is no doubt to be found in the process of secularisation, which has weakened the religious control of the Catholic schools, and has also altered the moral judgements of parents. In general, a more permissive society with respect to sexual matters has emerged in Ireland, as was discussed in Chapter One (see Inglis 1998b). All the same, one can agree with the following observation made by Inglis, who maintains that: The special position of the Catholic Church in Irish education is then enshrined in various articles of the Constitution, so unless there is a new Constitution, it is unlikely that the special position of the Catholic Church and other religious denominations in the educational field will be eroded in the near future. (Inglis 1998a: 224)

It would appear no change in the Constitution is in sight. On the contrary, the denominational system of education was supported by a recent court ruling. Both the High Court and the Supreme Court confirmed the Constitutionality of the Irish school system in Campaign to Separate Church and State v. Minister for Education (1998), stating that, first, the state aid to schools cannot be considered as an endowment of religion within the meaning of Article 44.2.2°, and, second, this endowment does not discriminate between schools run by different denominations. (Casey 2000: 697.) Hence, the courts conceived schools in similar fashion to hospitals as public and not religious institutions, serving the Irish public in general. Already in the 1980s, Desmond Clarke argued that current educational policy in Ireland is incompatible with the European Convention on Human Rights. The implementation of this provision, in his view, favours the majority of parents in Ireland and discriminates against a minority of parents, who either profess other religions or have no religious conviction, to determine their children’s education. Linked with the same problem in his view are the admission procedures of schools, which should not discriminate against pupils with different religious affiliation. However, with respect to admission procedure, Clarke admits that there is a danger concerning schools run by religious minorities that the admission of children belonging to the religious majority would compromise the religious ethos of a school. (Clarke 1987: 50–53.) In other words, treating all children equally would disfavour the minority.

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Clarke further points out that the educational policy adopted by the Department of Education, where religious instruction is integrated into the general school curriculum, goes against Article 44.2.4° of the Constitution guaranteeing ‘the right of any child to attend a school receiving public money without attending religious instruction at that school’. (Clarke 1987: 50–1.) A similar observation is made by Casey (2000: 701), who notes that formerly the Rules for National Schools (1965) made provisions which facilitated opting out of religious instruction. The Rules state that: (a) No pupil shall receive, or be present at, any religious instruction of which his parents or guardian disapprove. (b) The periods of formal religious instruction shall be fixed so as to facilitate the withdrawal of pupils to whom paragraph (a) of this section applies. (Rules 1965: 38).

The adoption of the integrated curriculum in 1971, however, made the withdrawal of pupils from religious instruction impossible. The Report of the Constitution Review Group (1996) on this matter, seems to imply, according to Casey, that the integrated curriculum should be abandoned and the previous arrangement brought back (2000: 702). To date, however, the discrepancy between Article 44.2.4° of the Constitution and the present educational policy remain unresolved. In order to bring the Irish educational policies more in line with the rights of parents emphasised in the European Convention, Clarke proposes two alternative measures. First, he suggests that the Irish state could provide a dual system of education consisting of both religious and secular schools and hence facilitating parents with a choice according to their own preference. He then notes, however, that this solution most likely is not viable for the state for financial reasons. (Clarke 1987: 53–4.) Clarke’s concern for lack of financial sources is understandable taking into consideration that he wrote his article in the end of the 1980s and hence at the time of economic recession, when no-one could have foreseen the prosperity that the 1990s would bring to Ireland. In today’s Ireland of the ‘Celtic Tiger’ the question is not so much whether the state can afford to finance the dual system of education, suggested by Clarke, but rather how much the state is willing to invest in this sort of education, or indeed in education in general (Sutherland 1997: 31; O’Toole 2003: 70–75; cf. Hyland 1997). Second, Clarke suggests as another measure of educational policy a system which very much resembles that of Finland. In this model,

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religious education would be given in state-supported schools as a separate subject within the general school curriculum so that pupils could absent themselves from this instruction if necessary. Moreover, teachers would be restrained from any sort of religious ‘indoctrination’ while teaching ‘secular’ subjects. The schools, furthermore, should provide all children an equal admission without any discrimination based on religion. (Clarke 1987: 54.) The Finnish system of education, discussed in more detail in Chapter Nine, follows the above-mentioned principles listed by Clarke. As will be discussed in Chapter Nine, the Finnish system has its benefits and drawbacks with respect to religious minorities. It sufficies here to note that not even this system manages to escape the effects of the majority religion on educational policies adopted in law. Reflecting on the points made by Clarke above with respect to Muslims, one may note, as will be discussed in more detail in Chapter Ten, that Muslims have been successful in starting two national schools in Dublin and are in the process of planning a Muslim secondary school. Thus, the system of education in line with religious affiliation has been favourable to Muslims. These schools satisfy the wishes of some Muslim parents in schooling their children within an Islamic ethos. To date, no children have applied to attend the Muslim schools from a non-Islamic background, and most likely none will do so in the foreseeable future. Neither has it caused any problems that the teachers in the Muslim national schools, with the exception of those teaching Islam and Arabic, are non-Muslim women. These female teachers are not, for instance, required to wear a headscarf, unlike their female pupils above a certain age. It is obvious that running these schools is dictated by realpolitik, where competition between schools over competent teachers makes it necessary to take the wishes of the non-Muslim staff into account.35 It is equally clear that, due to their minority position, the Muslim schools do not have a power base similar to that of the Catholic schools, which are backed up by two prominent institutions in Ireland, the church and the state. The question as to how the Protestant and multi-denominational schools fare in Ireland is a matter that deserves a study in its self. The recognition of the denominational rights to education in Ireland, undoubtedly, is good news for new religious groups, such as Muslims,

35 Unfortunately, no research is available as to how these teachers themselves experience their role in a school with a Muslim ethos.

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for whom transmitting religious traditions to the next generation in the wider European society is a real challenge. Therefore, having the right to set up a Muslim national school is a boost to their positive religious freedom. However, the heavy emphasis on the Catholic ethos of schools and hospitals in general does not leave room for the negative religious freedom of non-Catholic religions in Ireland. For instance, the two Muslim national schools operating in Dublin geographically serve a very limited number of Muslim pupils. Therefore, the question arises as to how the religious adherence of the majority of Muslim children, attending Catholic schools, is taken into consideration in the general system of education. (See Chapter Ten.) After all: It is both unlikely and impractical to expect that all the various ethnic minorities arriving in Ireland in recent years would establish schools that would meet their own religious and cultural needs. Therefore, the reality is that they are going to be educated mainly in the existing denominational schools, which [—] are mainly Catholic. At the same time, Ireland has both a moral obligation and a legal duty to cater for the needs of all within those schools. (O’Loingsigh 2001: 106)

In practice, emphasis on the Catholic ethos in the mainstream schools in Ireland can have definite practical consequences for pupils of other religious traditions. As an example, one can mention a case where some years ago Muslim girls experienced problems being admitted to a (Catholic) secondary school on the grounds that wearing an Islamic headscarf violates the Catholic ethos of the school (see McGarry 2000a). A complaint, however, was made to the Equality Authority which settled the case in favour of the Muslim girls (IntI 03:3). In spite of the positive outcome of this single case, a question remains as to how the Irish majority schools will, in accordance with the Education Act (1998), accommodate the religious and cultural needs of their pupils, and deal with the consequent ‘implications for these schools in terms of change in managements structures, in terms of change in ethos and in terms of the resourcing of these schools’ (O’Loingsigh 2001: 116). The challenge of diversity The recognition of the increasing diversity of Irish society has gradually diminished the prominence of the Roman Catholic ethos in the contemporary Irish jurisprudence (cf. Hannon 2003). As noted by Siobhán Mullally, relying on theistic versions of natural law does not sit well with the emerging vision of Irish society as pluralist,

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democratic and diverse and, thereby, ‘the judiciary has become increasingly reluctant to invoke natural law in arriving at decisions on fundamental rights’ (2001: 106). The respect for diversity is also reflected in a recent amendment of Article 3, necessitated by the Good Friday Agreement (1998). The new Article reads: ‘It is the firm will of the Irish Nation, in harmony and friendship, to unite all the people who share the territory of the island of Ireland, in all the diversity of their identities and traditions’. Consequently,‘the religious reference in the Irish Constitutional text can no longer claim to reflect a shared sense of national identity’ (Mullally 2006: 223 ff.). In a multicultural, secularised Ireland, people do not share a singular religious-cultural identity, as they might have done in the first decades of the independent Irish state. Article 2 of the Constitution, was also amended as a consequence of the Good Friday Agreement, but the new formulation, in time, gave rise to a public controversy with respect to refugees and immigrants to Ireland. The Article read: ‘It is the entitlement and birthright of every person born in the island of Ireland, which includes its islands and seas, to be part of the Irish Nation.’ In other words, the amended Article stated that every child born in Ireland was automatically an Irish citizen. According to some critics of the amended Article, this led to a flow of refugee women very late in their pregnancy with the intention of gaining Irish citizenship on the strength of their Irish born child. However, this amended Article was substantially changed in a Referendum (2004) making it impossible for non-residents of the island of Ireland to gain citizenship in this manner. The original amendment of Article has been described by the Irish Supreme Court as an ‘accident’, and, in changing it by means of a Referendum, the Irish Government has, instead of espousing an open and inclusive concept of citizenship, tightened its immigration controls (see Mullally 2006: 191) Since many recent Muslims in Ireland are refugees, the heated debate on this Article and the consequent changes in the ‘birthright’ of the newborn babies in Ireland has caused confusion and consternation among these Muslims, some of whom have turned to the Islamic Cultural Centres in order to seek advice concerning their rights. (IntI 03:1). However, the weakening of the Catholic ethos and recognition of diversity in Irish jurisprudence has not resulted in the change of the Preamble to the Constitution, invoking the ‘Most Holy Trinity’ as the ultimate source of authority. Such change, nonetheless, was suggested

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in 1995 by the Constitutional Review Group, which saw no relevance in a plural Irish society for theocratic references in the Constitution, or for religious allusion in the Preamble. Hence it recommended that the formula should be simplified, or combined with the recognition of people with a diverse ethnic, historical, political and spiritual origin and traditions. (See Mullally 2001: 106–7.) The latter suggestion has an astonishing resemblance to amended Article 44.1.3°, listing different religions prevalent in Ireland in the 1930s. Perhaps this suggestion encapsulates the change that has taken place in Ireland in the past seventy years or so from a country where religion was the main marker of identity to a country which is gradually coming to grips with the plurality of identities prevailing among the Irish, whether new to the country or otherwise. However, this diversity is very much limited to the private sphere and hence, to date, has had very little effect on the development of a more ‘heterogenous public sphere’ in Ireland (see Mullally 2001: 108).36 In general one may note that the overemphasis on positive religious freedom, materialised in the Irish denominational system of education, glosses over the needs and experiences of non-Catholic pupils in schools so that their negative religious freedom does not even reach the agenda. Hence, for the state, the guarantee of positive religious freedom can operate as an excuse to avoid addressing ‘embarrassing’ questions that the recognition of negative religious freedom might raise. Good will towards religious minorities notwithstanding, the state in fact avoids ‘a politics of transformation’ and instead simply ‘adds in’ to the rights of religious minorities, thereby reinforcing ‘the existing status quo with all its varied strategies of exclusion’ (see Mullally 2001: 115). Perhaps religious minorities face the same problem as marginalised groups, namely that the legislative reforms to date have operated within a ‘limited institutional, imaginative universe’, resulting in ‘a reluctance on the part of the legislature and judiciary to move beyond the confines of existing legal norms and practices and to take seriously the concerns of marginalised and disadvantaged groups’ (Mullally 2001: 115).

36 To date, there have been no litigations concerning the public manifestations of Catholicism such as the ceremonies of the defence fources and the daily broadcasting of Angelus on radio and television. (Casey 2000: 689).

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Here lies the main challenge for religious freedom in a multicultural society: To what extent the state recognises negative religious freedom as a positive right of religious minorities in the public sphere and thereby embraces them as an elementary part of society and its institutions (see Saarni 2002). It is obvious from the above overview on religious freedom in Finland and Ireland that in neither of these countries has the discussion even barely scratched the surface.

CHAPTER FIVE

ROOTING ISLAM IN EUROPE Islam: ‘The Third Pillar of Europe’ The interaction between Muslim populated countries and Europe is far from novel. In his seminal work on Muslims in western Europe, Jørgen Nielsen (1995: 1–7) gives a brief overview on the earlier phases of Muslim presence in the history of this continent and shows how Muslims settled into the southern and eastern parts of Europe very early on in the history of Islam. Hence there has been continuous interaction across the Mediterranean between Muslims in the south and Europeans in the north since the beginning of Islam in the seventh century. For centuries, Muslim traders and diplomats made contacts with south and central Europe. In addition to this peaceful interaction, the Muslims conquered parts of Europe and the Europeans colonised Muslim lands. In itself, these early encounters between Muslims and Europeans have left a kind of historical legacy, which undoubtedly have an effect on how Islam and Muslims are perceived in Europe. However, taking into consideration the variety of contacts between Muslims and Europeans, which were not only and always connected with invasion and warfare, the memory of Muslim presence in Europe seems to be a very selective one. (See Smith 2002: 5.) One could therefore say that the often-cited ‘new presence’ of Islam in western Europe is not ‘new’ in the sense that it would be unknown to, or formerly non-existent on, this continent (see Vertovec & Peach 1997: 11). Roger Garaudy goes as far as to name Islam as the third, but forgotten, pillar of Europe in conjunction with the other two Graeco-Roman and Judaeo-Christian pillars (cited in Vertovec & Peach 1997: 12). Admittedly, in the case of countries such as Italy and Spain one could, as pointed out by Stefano Allievi, speak of a ‘return’ of Islam rather than of a new presence (Allievi 1997: 211). Moreover, the long-established Muslim communities in eastern Europe, as a result of the Ottoman occupation of the Balkans, constitute an indigenous presence of Muslims inside Europe, which,

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after the war in the former Yugoslavia, has started to have its impact on western Europe as well (see Nonneman, Niblock & Szajkowski 1997). Furthermore, in addition to the southern and eastern parts of Europe, there are Muslim minorities in northern Europe, namely Turkish Tatars, who moved to Finland over a hundred years ago, and who in small numbers also live in Sweden (Sakaranaho 2002b; Otterbeck 1998). Neither should one forget that Tatars are a longstanding minority in Poland (Szajkowski 1997). The historical roots notwithstanding, the establishment of Muslim communities in western Europe is, as a sociological factor, a recent phenomenon. The rapid expansion of ethnic and religious minorities in Europe after the Second World War, due mainly to labour migration, has ultimately led to visible cultural pluralisation of European societies. Consequently, there is a growing realisation that European nation-states are increasingly multicultural and multireligious (see Davie 2000). A significant number of these new immigrants to Europe come from Muslim populated countries. The growing numbers of Muslims and gradual visibility of Islam in Europe has made it apparent that Muslims are in Europe to stay. To date, Islam constitutes by far the second largest religion in contemporary Europe (see Hunter 2002). Muslims in Migration Muslims in Europe constitute a significant part of the contemporary history of migration into Europe, but also of European colonialism out of Europe. Moreover, Muslims offer an important test case for the European understanding and practice of religious freedom in respect of a religious minority. As discussed in Chapter Two, it is important for new religious communities to have the right to organise and profess one’s religion publicly, as well as to secure the socialisation and hence education of children in accordance with one’s religious conviction. These rights are readily granted in the international and European human rights conventions, which nonetheless says very little about the practical application of these rights in the case of migrants and minorities in European countries. However, in order to assess what the important issue is, concerning religious freedom for Muslims living as a religious minority in Europe, one needs to look into the role that religion has had and continues to

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have in the lives of Muslims in Europe. The process of rooting Islam in Europe is certainly under way but how this rooting takes place in general, and in small northern European countries such as Finland and Ireland in particular, is the question that will be examined in what follows.1 After the Second World War, the migration of Muslims followed the overall developments in respect of labour migration to Europe. With regard to this development, one can distinguish two waves of migration, the first of which took place from the beginning of the 1950s to the middle of the 1970s, and the second of which took place from 1975 onwards. With regard to reasons for the migration, moreover, one may observe that the first wave from the 1950s to the 1970s was mainly the period of labour migration, whereas asylumseekers from Muslim populated countries, such as Irak, Iran etc., started to arrive in the 1970s, but even more so in the 1980s and 1990s. The arrival of the first significant waves of Muslim migrants to Europe took place in the 1960s. The European economy, which gradually recovered after the Second World War, created the need for a new labour force, particularly for low-paid manual work, which did not attract Europeans. At this stage, labour migration from southern and eastern Europe, that had so far provided northern Europe with its work force, more or less dried up. Moreover, the movement of migrants from East Germany was, for all practical purposes, stopped by the Iron Curtain; in August 1961 the Berlin Wall was constructed. Therefore a new labour force needed to be recruited from countries outside of Europe, many of which were populated by Muslims. Consequently, Muslims constituted a significant number among the labour migrants to Europe after the Second World War. It was only natural that France and Britain, as former colonial powers, when in need of a workforce, would avail themselves of their ex-colonies, i.e. North Africa in the case of France, and the Commonwealth countries, such as India, in the case of Britain. The movement of people between the colonial countries and their former colonies was not new, of course.

1 The following presentation of rooting Islam in Europe is greatly indebted to Nielsen 1995 and Dassetto 1996a, and to the collection of articles edited by Maréchal et al. 2003.

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Thus, the labour migration to Britain and France after the Second World War, and in the 1960s in particular, followed the well-trodden path of the former contacts, which were established by colonialism.2 Interestingly enough, the German contacts with Muslim people prior the 1960s took place, to a large extent, in connection with its military history. From the 1960s onwards, however, growth in the numbers of Muslims in Germany has been due to the needs of its economy. Very shortly after the foundation of the Berlin Wall, Germany made its first agreements with Turkey on the supply of a Turkish workforce to the German labour market. In addition to the pull factor of German interests, this agreement came at an appropriate time also for the Turkish people. In Turkey the land reform of the 1950s had left a large section of the rural population without a sufficient means of sustenance. This operated as a significant push factor in the creation of labour migration from rural areas to the big cities in Turkey, but also to foreign countries as well. (Nielsen 1995: 23.) During the period from the 1960s to 1974 the number of labour migrants in Europe grew significantly. This was largely due to family reunions when men, who formerly came alone, started to bring their families to Europe with them, but this was also due to the regularisation of illegal immigrants in the 1970s. Moreover, meagre economic perspectives in the homelands of the immigrants added to their motivation to stay in Europe. Consequently, the immigrants began to see their migration in a new light and gradually realised that, as opposed to their original intentions of returning home at some stage, they were in Europe not on a temporary bases, but to stay. (Vertovec and Peach 1997: 21.) From the middle of the 1970s to the mid-1980s, the reunion of families went on, and consequently the number of Muslims in Europe continued to grow.3 With regard to the demographic structure of the Muslim community, moreover, the reunion of families made it more balanced with a levelling of the male-female ratios (Vertovec and Peach 1997: 21). At this stage, some Muslims started to migrate 2

To some extent, the same concerns also the Netherlands, which had colonies in Indonesia and some in Antilles (see Dassetto and Nonneman 1997: 187). 3 However, there were also countries in Europe, such as Austria, during the 1960s and 1970s which used their immigration policy to restrict the unification of families, for the particular purpose that it would hinder the labour migrants from settling down in the country. Instead, the migrants were rotated in and out on a regular basis so there were new people entering the place of the former labourers who had to leave the country. (See Strobl 2002: 13.)

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also to Italy and Spain, even though these countries were not economically as affluent as France, Britain, and Germany. Moreover, the second wave of migration in the 1990s also reached other countries on the margins of Europe, such as Finland and Ireland. In respect of the second wave of immigration to Europe, the increase in the number of Muslims was also brought about by the emergence of asylum-seekers and refugees. In the middle of the 1970s Europe was hit by an economic recession, which was caused both by external and internal factors. Externally, the economic recession was initially brought about by the oil crises of 1973 and, internally, it was attached to the deepening of unemployment as a consequence of structural changes in the industrial field. Indeed, industrial work was gradually being moved to countries with sources of cheap labour, coupled with the automatisation of industry, which was leaving large portions of European industrial workers unemployed. Understandably enough, these changes struck at the very core of immigrant labour. Without education or proper language skills, it was difficult for them to find new employment. (Forsander 2002: 18.) However, in addition to unemployment, the economic recession also had other repercussions for immigrants and minorities living in European countries. In the first wave of immigration, which could be called classical immigration (Dassetto 1996a: 18), the immigrants were perceived by the wider society mainly in terms of economic necessity. Discrimination, if such should have existed, was not recognised or acknowledged for the simple reason that it was seen as economically unproductive. In the second wave of immigration, however, parallel with economical difficulties, the immigrants were seen, to a growing extents, by the wider society in the light of cultural differences. In other words, immigrants were ‘culturalised’ so that the problems attached to them were mainly perceived in relation to ethnicity and culture. Thus, in the case of the first generation of immigrants, their presence in European countries was sufficiently justified in economical terms so that the tolerance of different cultures was not an issue. However, towards the end of the 1970s and especially in the 1980s there was a change from dealing with immigrants as an economic factor to treating them mainly as a problem entailed in a growing cultural diversity in Europe.4 (Dassetto 1996b: 10; Forsander 2002: 4

For the ‘ethnicisation’ of Muslims, see Roy 2004: 124 ff.

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18–20; Nonneman 1997: 5; Shadid & van Koningsveld 2002b: 191–92.) Immigrants and minorities characterised by cultural differences have often been seen as a threat for the security of Europe (Geddes 2000), of which Muslims constitute a telling example. In the 1980s, however, the realisation grew in Europe that the immigrants were here to stay and that, consequently, some measures for integrating these newcomers needed to be taken. This has led to multicultural policies that, however, vary according to individual countries, as seen in relation to Finland and Ireland. With regard to changes in the labour market, the measures for integration of immigrants and refugees, such as providing them with language skills and familiarising them with the host society, become inevitable in a situation where immigrants were, to a growing extent, employed in the service sector. As against industrial work, work in the service sectors demands some basic communication skills and cultural competence. (Forsander 2002: 22; Sassen 1996). All in all, one can argue that in European countries, where work is one of the main providers of social respect, being employed is a preliminary factor in the integration of immigrants. However, in this respect, cultural differences can prove to constitute a decisive threshold for ethnic and religious minorities. For instance, in the 1970s there were heated discussions on turbans worn by Sikhs, whereas in recent decades the debates have culminated in the right of Muslim women and girls to wear hijab in the public sphere, such as schools and work places. To this date, hijab is almost invariably an obstacle in being employed in European countries.5 (See Maréchal 2003c: 427.) There are, however, some new developments in this area, one of which can be mentioned concerning the new uniform for women on the police force of Scotland Yard. This new outfit has been modified for Muslim purposes so that it includes a scarf made out of the same material as the uniform. In this respect, it reminds one of the compromise made in Sweden in the 1970s, whereby Sikh bus drivers were allowed, instead of a cap, to wear a turban as long as it was made of the same material as their overall uniform. 5 Of course, this is also true in some Muslim populated countries, such as Turkey (see Sakaranaho 1998). For good practices on the headscarf in Europe (including Ireland but not Finland), see a briefing by the Islamic Human Rights Commission (http://www.ihrc.org.uk).

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A new feature of Muslim migration in the 1990s was that it took place within Europe between the member countries of the European Union. In other words, those migrants who gained the nationality of one of the member states of the European Union could freely travel to another also belonging to the Union. This has led to an increase in migration of the labour force within Europe, but it has also facilitated the movement of illegal immigrants from one country to another. Another significant factor in the 1990s was the further growth in the number of asylum-seekers looking for refuge in Europe, whether legally or illegally. The warfare in the Middle East and Africa has added to the numbers of asylum-seekers from Muslim populated countries. Moreover, the war in the former Yugoslavia naturally increased the number of Muslims in Europe when several European countries received Bosnian or Kosova Albanians as refugees fleeing the country. With regard to these Muslim refugees from the former Yugoslavia, it is interesting to note the positive attitude towards them in several European countries, where they were integrated into the host society as effectively as possible. The 1990s also saw an increase in the numbers of Muslims from Africa seeking asylum in the northern European countries. In the beginning of the 1990s, these asylum-seekers came from Somalia, as in the case of Finland, but towards the end of the 1990s and in the beginning of the 2000 there was a growing number of migrants from Nigeria, as in the case of Ireland. All in all, one can note that Muslims have come to Europe for a variety of reasons, which is also reflected in the way they have integrated into the host societies. On temporary bases, there are the diplomats coming from Muslim populated countries, who represent their respective states in Europe. They hence form a special niche among Muslims in Europe, and perhaps because of their diplomatic status they do not generally figure in the general discussions on Islam in the European context. Moreover, students of Muslim origin are temporarily in Europe, who study in several European universities in order to return home and use their acquired expertise there. During recent decades, these students have been active in founding Islamic cultural centres and associations in many European countries. Moreover, instead of returning home, some of them have settled down in Europe. They constitute a group of professionals who work in such fields as business, medicine, engineering and, to a growing extent, information technology. In many cases, they might also

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be married to European women. Due to higher education, and proper language skills, coupled with professional expertise, these Muslims own human and cultural capital6 that is necessary in order to be socially and economically successful. Consequently, they have for the most part settled down well in the host societies. As an example, one can mention the numerous medical doctors, who have been educated and are working in Ireland (see Chapter Seven). Muslims who reside in Europe as an unskilled labour force or who seek asylum here, on the other hand, are in a very different position in comparison to these socially and economically affluent Muslims. They suffer from an obvious lack of human capital demanded by the labour force, which is apparent in want of language and necessary occupational skills, as well as in a low level of education. It therefore seems that Muslims follow a general pattern in which immigrants tend to cluster at the opposite ends of a scale where education is concerned so that they are over-represented both among the highly educated, but also among those with little or no education at all (cf. Forsander 2002: 123). Consequently, there is a split between Muslim immigrants so that a minority of them are well situated in European societies, whereas the majority tends to remain on the bottom of the welfare scale.7 Moreover, it is the latter group that faces the accumulation of social problems, which encloses them in ghettos marked by displacement, alienation and marginalisation. As such, this kind of an enclosure from the wider society can create a breeding ground for religious radicalism as a form of social protest and leeway for frustration. As an example of such a protest, one can mention the recurrent problems along these lines in Britain and France. (See Nonneman 1997: 6; Kepel 1997; Leveau 1997.)

6 The term ‘human capital’ has been commonly used in economics since the 1960s and has, to some extent, also been used in research on immigrants in the labour market, whereas the term ‘cultural capital’ became known from the work of Pierre Bourdieu (1990); but, the latter term has also been used as a model of explanation in relation to the conditions for successful integration into the labour market. See Forsander 2002: 52–56. 7 However, even if the socio-economic position of the ethnic minorities in Europe is below that of the majority, they, nonetheless, have not been consolidated as a part of the lower strata in society in similar fashion to the United States. Consequently, minorities of immigrant background in European societies have more opportunities for social mobilisation and a larger share in the institutions of a wider society than is the case in the USA. See Forsander 2002: 44; Wrench 1996: 144.

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On the other hand, even education is not always enough. According to the functional explanation, religious activism arises among Muslims of the younger generation in a situation where, in spite of being well educated, they cannot climb the social ladder because of obstacles in the labour market and in politics. Consequently, adhering to Islam becomes a means to articulate onself and gather counter-power in the face of social and political discrimination (Dassetto 1996a: 164). One could argue, that the way religion functions for these Muslim youth, that is, as a means to deal with structural discrimination, resembles Catholics in Northern Ireland. Moreover, one may note that the case of Muslims who, as religious minority, encounter problems in the advancement of their career, has a counterpart in what is still often experienced by women, who come up against a kind of glass ceiling in labour market practices and in the politics of western societies. It is obvious from the above that the phenomenon of ‘social multiculturality’, i.e. the uneven relationship between the elite and other social groups in society (Nielsen 1995: 153 ff.; cited in Nonneman 1997: 9), is not characteristic of European host societies only, but also marks the social stratification of Muslim communities, discussed in more detail in the following chapters on Muslims in Finland and Ireland. These social differences notwithstanding, religion can operate as a factor that brings together Muslims of different economic backgrounds. In this respect, mosques can function as focal points for networking and distribution of information, which helps Muslim immigrants to find employment but also helps them to gain other useful information concerning the host society. Moreover, there is a growing awareness among Muslims, for instance in Ireland, that it would be necessary to organise work among asylum-seekers and refugees coming from Muslim populated countries in order to help them to settle down. In the long run, this could also work for the benefit of the organised Muslim communities that, at times, find their work being disturbed by ‘radical’, dissenting Muslims.8 (See Chapter Seven.) There are two spheres, in particular, where local Muslim communities can be of assistance in the employment of their members. On the one hand, certain ethnic groups, such as Pakistanis in Ireland

8 Interviews in the office of public relations in the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland in 2001 and in 2002.

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or Turks in Finland, employ their countrymen in their businesses with ready-made networks, both in these host countries and abroad. Thus, immigrants or refugees become the beneficiaries of existing ethnic economies in a country (see Light & Gold 2000; see Maréchal 2003c). On the other hand, growing multiculturalism results in the constant demand for people who, on account of their ethnic background and language skills, are needed in a host society for dealing with immigrants in different spheres of administration. As an example of these sort of ethno-specific occupations, one can mention interpreters and assistants in courts (Forsander 2002: 43). Moreover, in Finland, the legislation concerning the right for instruction in one’s own language and religion has led to an increasing demand for teachers, who can teach these subjects in Finnish state schools. As will be discussed in Chapter Nine, the field of Islamic instruction in Finland is an example of the employing effect of religion, even in cases where one would not have formal education in theology but holds an occupation merely on the account of being a Muslim. One could therefore see the teaching of minority religions in Finnish state schools as a form of ethno-specific occupation. All in all, there is a need for empirical research on the role of religion, and religious communities in particular, as a factor in the employment and consequent economic integration of Muslim migrants to Europe (see Maréchal 2003c). This kind of research would be important in order to balance the common picture of Muslim immigrants as constituting a problem for the European host societies, with a picture of Muslims as resourceful social actors, not simply the victims of discrimination but also active agents of their own lives. Muslims in Numbers In similar fashion to the Muslim populations of the world, the numbers of Muslims is growing rapidly in Europe. Although, in practice it is impossible to know the exact numbers of Muslims in Europe, nonetheless, the estimated figures can give some general picture of the situation.9 In 2002, it was estimated that there were around 32

9 With regard to these estimated numbers of Muslims in Europe, I will rely mainly on the most recent source in this matter, which is the database edited by Brigitte Maréchal (2002). On previous estimates, see Dassetto 1996a, Table 1.

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million Muslims in Europe, which amounts to around four and half percent of the total European population.10 More or less half of these live in eastern Europe, where Muslims have resided for centuries, while the other half lives in western Europe, where they are mainly immigrants of fairly recent origin. Moreover, western European Muslims live mainly in urban areas and earn their living in trade and industry, whereas eastern European Muslims live mainly in rural areas and hence gain their livelihood, for the most part, from agriculture. (See Nonneman, Niblock, and Szajkowski 1997.) Regarding ethnicity, the largest successive groupings of Muslims in western Europe are first the Arabs, second the Turks, and third those from the Indian subcontinent (Dassetto 1996a: 23–24). In respect of European countries, Muslims or those with Muslim origin constitute by far the largest numbers in France, Germany, and Britain. The Muslim population of France, which is estimated to be around four to five million, in other words, seven precent of the total French population of 56 million, originates mainly from the Maghreb, namely Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia, contributing some three million to the total number of Muslims in France. In addition, the number of Harkis, who are descendants of the latter but who hold French citizenship, is estimated to be half a million. The rest of the Muslim population of France originates from Turkey, subSaharan Africa, and the Middle East. (Frégosi 2002: 69.) In Germany, there are over three million Muslims, which makes them close to three percent of the total population of 82 million. Of this Muslim population, moreover, 75% come from Turkey, thereby constituting the clear majority when compared to the rest who come from Bosnia, Iran, Morocco and Afghanistan. However, in 2000, the estimated number of those who held a German passport was only 310,000, including German converts to Islam. (Amir-Moazami 2002.) The number of Muslims in Britain is about one and half a million, which makes them approximately two and half percent of the total population of 55 million. Over half of these Muslims originate from India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, whereas the other half is divided into a quarter coming from other Muslim populated countries and the rest in small numbers from Africa, Cyprus, and Asia. 10 The exact number was 31,883,000. See ‘Religion.’ Britannica Book of the Year, 2003, in Encyclopaedia Britannica Online, http://search.eb.com/eb/article9389861.

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Even if small in total number, relatively speaking Muslims also constitute a considerable community in the Netherlands, where they amount to nearly 700,000, which is four and half precent of the 16 million inhabitants of the country. Moreover, in Austria, Belgium and Switzerland, Muslims make up around four precent of the population, whereas in other European countries their number amounts to two precent or less. Among the Nordic countries, the numbers of Muslims are largest in Denmark and Sweden. Thus, in Denmark it is estimated that there are some 150,000 Muslims (Bæk Simonsen 2002), whereas in Sweden there are around 250,000–300,000 Muslims (Otterbeck 2002). As mentioned above, the number of Muslims in Finland and Ireland is around 25,000–30,000 respectively and hence clearly less than one percent of the population. (See Sakaranaho 2002a.) There are, however, great difficulties in defining the exact number of Muslims in Europe because several factors work against drawing proper statistics concerning Muslim communities in Europe. Presently, very few countries register the immigrants according to their religion and even if representatives of different religions are registered the official statistics do not give a full picture of the actual situation. Admittedly, as shown above, one can roughly estimate the number of Muslims according to their country of origin. Thus, one may assume that immigrants and refugees coming from countries with the majority of Muslims most likely are Muslims by religion. However, as was discussed in Chapter One, in Ireland a question concerning religious adherence is included in the census, which therefore gives the number of those who personally identify themselves as Muslims. Notwithstanding such strategies for estimating the Muslim population, there are several factors that complicate the picture. Even if one might assume that people coming from Muslim populated countries represent the majority religion of their country, one finds people especially among refugees who belong to a religious minority. Moreover, in similar fashion to ‘lapsed Catholics’, a person might be brought up in a Muslim family but for political or other reasons he or she might not identify with that religion. It is obvious that such a person would not register as a Muslim in Europe and neither would she or he present her- or himself as such. Consequently, one needs to be careful and not to take for granted the religious identification of those coming from Muslim populated countries.

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However, the reluctance to register is also common among those who practice Islam, but who do not want to be listed officially as a Muslim. Therefore, in similar fashion to those who do not practice Islam, the official figures also fail to reflect the number of Muslims which actually adheres to the faith. Furthermore, listing Muslims according to their country of origin functions only with the recent immigrants who do not yet have the citizenship of their host country; this practice thereby loses its significance when immigrants become naturalised. It is an interesting question, of course, how long different generations of migrants are identified as such and hence as newcomers, even if these families have lived in a country for many generations. At present, there are great variations in the policies of naturalisation practised in different European countries. Moreover, state policies do not necessarily have a bearing on how immigrants and their offspring are perceived and treated in society in general.11 In addition to omitting those who are naturalised, the figures drawn on the basis of a country of origin do not include those Europeans who have converted to Islam. In looking into statistical information one should neither forget that there are great variations with respect to regions of a country that are inhabited by Muslims. Taking geographical distribution into consideration, for example, one can note that Muslims tend to concentrate in large cities, whereby in smaller countries this concentration usually takes place in the capital city area. Moreover, in cities there are often particular areas that house immigrant populations. With regard to age, Muslims in Europe are relatively young so that the number of children and the youth comprise between 30% and over 40% of the total Muslim population in most European countries, whereby the practice of having large families contributes to this factor.

11 For instance, it has been noted that the Nordic welfare systems, at least in principle, embrace all inhabitants of a country as members. But in light of research that concerns general attitudes, the situation is far from being this straightforward. (Forsander 2002: 76.)

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Whatever the criteria one would use in accurately calculating the Muslim population of Europe, there is an additional problem, however, that is not directly revealed in these statistics. Even if drawn up with care, numbers do not reveal qualitative factors, such as, for example, who is a Muslim, and according to which definition. It is obvious that the Muslim population of Europe is very heterogeneous; therefore, identifications with Islam vary a great deal from one Muslim to another. Some ten years ago Dassetto and Nonneman (1997) divided Muslims into three groupings according to the manner and intensity of their identification with Islam (see Dassetto 1996a: 124 ff.). Even if this division today would be somewhat outdated, it can be used heuristically in order to discuss some important issues concerning the religious identifications of Muslims in Europe. Firstly, according to Dassetto and Nonneman (1997), the majority of Muslims (60%) can be seen as Muslims mainly on the grounds of their cultural background. To put it simply, a person is a Muslim if his or her father is a Muslim, or who has converted to Islam (Maréchal 2003a: 5). In their views of religion, these people might be openly doubtful about Islam and harbour critical views of the Muslim community, or they might simply be indifferent to religious matters and hence would not have strong opinions concerning the Muslim community. Moreover, there are those of Muslim origin who belong to the second generation and are often very ‘Europeanised’ in their way of life but who, nonetheless, appreciate the cultural achievements of Islam, such as architecture and literature. One can also rightly include in this grouping the so-called ‘sociological Muslims’, who do not practise Islam but continue to call themselves Muslims (House 1996: 221). What ever the case may be, this group of cultural or sociological Muslims seems to constitute the statistical majority in Europe (Maréchal 2003a: 9). During recent decades there has, however, been a decrease in the numbers of those who are overtly critical of Islam. In this sense, the process of Islamisation has borne fruit among Muslims (Dassetto 1996a: 125). Moreover, one may note in respect of the cultural Muslims that they might become active in religious matters, if they were forced to take sides between that of Muslims and their opponents. It is a matter to be studied empirically, however, as to what bearing events such as 11 September 2001, and the subsequent juxtaposition

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between Islam and the West, have on Muslims at large. To complicate such matters even further, it is very common that European Muslims are held responsible for things that happen in the Middle East, or in other parts of the world. It is as if each and every Muslim would bear a collective responsibility for actions carried out by any person who claims to act in the name of Islam. This kind of an attitude forces any person with a Muslim background to define where she or he stands in relation to Islam. Moreover, it easily leads to the politisation of Islam so that especially young people start to identify themselves as Muslims for political rather than for religious reasons (House 1996: 221). In this respect, identification with Islam resembles the politisation of Catholics in Northern Ireland. Secondly, in addition to cultural Muslims, Dassetto and Nonneman (1997) distinguish individual believers who have a religious conviction, but who perceive religion from a personal point of view. Statistically, this second grouping of Muslims is estimated to constitute some 20% of European Muslims. For some of these Muslims, religion is a practical matter that structures their everyday life and is mainly practised within one’s family. As such, these family orientated Muslims often belong to the first generation, as will be shown below. However, individual belief can also manifest itself by active reinterpretation of Islam. By means of reinterpretation, these individual Muslims seek to harmonise basic tenets of Islam with a western way of thinking. One is tempted to argue that, if the former orientation is mainly found among the first generation of Muslims, the latter orientation is characteristic of Muslims within the second and later generation. Whatever the case may be, it is common for individual Muslims to avoid organised Muslim communities. (See Maréchal 2003a: 13.) Thirdly, Dassetto and Nonneman (1997) identify the organised Muslims, who constitute the remaining 20% of the European Muslim population (cf. Dassetto 2003: xxii). Contrary to the cultural and individual Muslims of the first and second groupings, these Muslims are, to varying degrees, attached to local mosques and Islamic cultural centres. Indeed, there are great variations among these Muslims concerning the manner in which they emphasise Islamic organisation. For ritualists, who are moderate Muslims but have respect for the Qur’an and Islamic tradition, a mosque is a place where they can follow the obligations of their religious rituals on a regular basis. Apart from their personal religious interest they might not be very

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committed to the institutional side of their religion and, in a sense, they are individual believers who simply function within organised Islam. For localists, mosques constitute an important basis for providing them a network with which to reach out to other Muslims. Transnational networks are naturally important, for instance, for people working in business. It is among these Muslims that one finds the most industrious founders of local mosques and prayer rooms. Moreover, local mosques also offer a focal point for practising Islam and for religious education of children in a plural, urban environment. Among organised Muslims there are also those who are engaged in missionary work, or da"wa (see Racius 2004). Hence they are active in distributing information about Islam among Muslims, but they are also equally motivated to interact with different sectors of the wider society, thereby making Islam known to non-Muslims. It is reasonable to suppose that doing da"wa in European countries requires a basic knowledge of the local culture and sufficient language skills. It is therefore those Muslims who have resided long enough in Europe, or those with a higher level of education, that are in the best position to publicly endorse Islam in the European context. Many among these Muslims are European converts to Islam, who, as natives of a country, can serve as cultural bridges between Muslims and the host society. In many cases, converts tend to be more orthodox than those who were brought up as Muslims, and thus these converts seek to strip Islam of the cultural baggage that they perceive it to have acquired (see Gerholm 1988: 263). As will be discussed in Chapter Six, the Islamic monthly An-Nur, published by the Finnish converts, is a clear example of this endeavour. One can assume that with the help of Islamic converts, Islam may continue to gather momentum in Europe. (See Gerhom 1988; Allievi 1998.) Indeed, Islam may prove to be attractive in offering a life with moral certainties and a sense of community in a highly individualised, unstable, and plural world (see Sakaranaho 2003b). It is the above-mentioned ‘organised Muslims’, whether of native or immigrant background, who also appear in the media and readily function as spokesmen and -women for Islam on issues that need to be addressed from the Muslim point of view. Thus, it is not an exaggeration to say that these Muslims also work on public opinion concerning Muslims, and thereby very much help to create a public image for Islam. However, there is hardly any empirical data on

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the manner in which members of Muslim communities aim at controlling their publicity (see Allievi 2003a). Admittedly, there are far less public representatives of Islam in countries with small numbers of Muslims than in countries with large Muslim populations, such as France, Germany and Britain. From this, however, it does not automatically follow that the general image of Islam, and Muslims, would be all that different in these countries (cf. Shadid & van Koningsveld 2002b). What unites most of the organised Muslims is some sort of panIslamism in the sense that Islam is seen as a universal concern. In practice it follows that these Muslims tend to operate in international organisations and in networks both within Europe and transnationally. No doubt the Internet offers an important means for international collaboration and in delivering information from one country to another. The second unifying feature among these Muslims is some degree of opposition to the West which is apparent, for instance, in a critical stand towards the economical and political power vested in United States and Europe. However, it must be said that this critical stance does not automatically justify such actions against the West as the attacks in the cities of the United States and Europe. Moreover, there is a conscious effort to differentiate from the western lifestyle, which is seen as highly individualistic and corrupt. For example, these Muslims carry visible signs of Islamic life which, in the case of men, can consist in wearing a beard and jellaba (a long and loose shirt-like dress) and, in the case of women, consist in wearing the Islamic head covering (hijab) and a long overcoat. In general, there are great variations among Muslims concerning different dress codes and, especially in the case of women, different opinions prevail concerning the right manner of dress. For instance, there are many opinions concerning the necessity of a head covering (hijab) among Muslim women, but there are also various ways of doing it. For Muslims an underlying question concerns how far one can go in the emphasis of one’s cultural difference without being too provocative in the eyes of a wider society. As an example of such a negotiation concerning the limits of difference, one can observe the opinion expressed by some women converts and Somali women alike against the total coverage of one’s face (niqab) in a European country such as Finland. In their opinion, wearing niqab, unnecessarily, feeds prejudice and raises hard feelings against Muslims. (See Tiilikainen

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1999.) However, with regard to the wider society, for instance in Finland, niqab is not even discussed but it is rather the hijab that raises controversy on the limits of tolerance concerning different customs (see Sakaranaho 2000). Finally, it is enlightening to look into the above-mentioned categories of Islamic adherence also in respect of research. The critical question here is how well research on Islam in Europe manages to cover all these different groupings of Muslims. As mentioned above, cultural or individual Muslims constitute a majority among people with an Islamic background. However, it is equally so that this ‘silent majority’ is hard to catch in research. Thus, when matters pertaining to Islam are discussed, it is the active, organised Muslims who also tend to dominate in the field of academic research. However, as discussed above, the appearance of these Muslims in the media have an effect on others in the sense that they influence the public image of Islam to a great degree, and perhaps also influence the way Muslims are perceived in general, irrespective of their religious adherence. The above-mentioned ‘bias’ in dealing with Islam in Europe, by focussing on those who are active within an Islamic organisation, invites the danger of a ‘religious paradigm’, which was discussed in Chapter One with respect to multiculturalism. When one ignores the actual fragmentation of Islam in Europe, especially with regard to the largest groupings of cultural Muslims, and focusses instead on the smaller grouping of activists, one tends to overemphasise the religious character of the Muslim population in Europe; the consequence of such a focus, furthermore, may be to overestimate the significance of religion as a guiding principle in their lives generally. However, one can also transform awareness of the religious paradigm into a methodological challenge and, thus, turn it into a question that can be studied within the European context. With regard to the general revitalisation of Islam in recent decades, and the subsequent process of Islamisation, two crucial questions remain, firstly, as to how these processes have affected those of Muslim background living in Europe and, secondly, how the role of religion in the lives of subsequent generations of immigrants from Muslim—populated countries has changed over time. It is thus a matter of investigation as to how the numbers of cultural, individual and organised Muslims have changes with respect to time and place. In the following, a brief overview will be given of the changes that took place with regard to religious

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adherence among different generations of Muslims in Europe (see also Chapter Six and Seven). The Establishment of Islam Without a doubt, the changes that the role of religion has taken in the lives of subsequent generations of Muslims are closely linked with the establishment of Islam in Europe. This role, in turn, has been affected by matters that are relevant in the lives of Muslim migrants within Europe, but also relevant to transnational and international developments as well. The research on Muslims in Europe shows that, since the 1960s, there has been a drastic change in the way they perceive their religion. However, it also reveals that in the process of this change, there is a general pattern that is characteristic to the overall Muslim population living in western European countries (see Dassetto 1996a; Nielsen 1995; Nonneman 1997). As mentioned above, the studies on Muslims in Europe, in similar fashion to other migration studies, seem to follow the research paradigm according to which the first generation of immigrants are perceived mainly in economical terms, whereas the emergence of the second generation also brings up the question of culture and hence religion as well (see Nonneman 1997: 5; Shadid & van Koningsveld 2002b: 191–92). In light of the Muslim migration to Europe, one is justified in arguing that social science studies, together with their changing modes of explanations, reflect a general pattern of social change, which also has a bearing on the issues that are discussed in the wider society (cf. Forsander 2002: 19). This change in the role of religion for individual Muslims had, in turn, clear consequences for the establishment of Islam in Europe. Migrant Workers For the first generation of recent Muslim immigrants who settled in Europe in the 1960s, religion was more of a cultural value. Hence they did not seek opportunities or recognition for socio-religious expression within and through the wider society (Nonneman 1997: 5). All in all, their attitude towards Islam was very moderate and they identified themselves in terms of their country of origin or language rather than their religion. The main role that religion served in their

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lives was mainly connected with rites of passage, such as weddings and funerals. Even the fasting month of Ramadan was celebrated more as a social event than was considered as a religious obligation. The attitude of the wider society towards these new immigrants was mainly centred on an interest in their exotism, which was coupled with the growth of tourism to Turkey and the Maghreb, as well as the emergence of ethnic restaurants in Europe (See Dassetto 1996a: 27–28). The motivation of this first generation of Muslims in Europe was, for economic purposes, to integrate into their host societies as quickly as possible, and religion was simply not a priority in this pursuit. On the other hand, one can also understand the role of religion as a cultural factor among Muslim migrants in Europe against the backdrop of a general social change that took place in Muslim-populated countries in the middle of the 20th century. During this period, these countries were undergoing a fundamental process of modernisation connected with urbanisation and industrialisation. With regard to religion, this process entailed, to some extent at least, the de-Islamisation of Muslim-populated countries (cf. House 1996: 221). With reference to modernisation, Turkey, with its explicit state ideology of secularism, exemplifies an extreme case in this development. In addition to Muslim-populated countries, however, the mid-1900s witnessed in general a firm belief in modernisation worldwide. As is well known, within the modernisation thesis there was no room for religion as a public factor, but it was viewed merely as a private matter. Instead of dealing with religion and spiritual values in public, newly independent nation-states focussed on the economic progress and on raising the general standard of living of the population. In this context, migration from Muslim-populated countries to Europe can be seen as a logical offshoot of economic pursuits, while the cultural identification with Islam can be perceived as a general attitude that migrated to Europe with the Muslim immigrants.12

12 See Dassetto 1996a, for the chronology of European Islam from 1945 to 1995, placed in the general historical framework of Muslim-populated countries and world history at large.

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Social community As the 1970s approached, however, a clear change emerged in the orientation towards religion that took place both in Muslim-populated countries, as well as among Muslim migrants in Europe. In Muslim-populated countries, Islam started to gather momentum as a political ideology and an instrument of power (see Dassetto 1996a: 335). In Europe, key among antecedents for a shift in the role of religion directly involved the Muslim family reunions, which constrained Muslim parents to raise up a second generation in a new, non-Muslim environment. It has been argued that the will to socialise children and youth in Islamic values and practices was, in actual fact, one of the main driving forces behind the Muslim mobilisation in Europe (Vertovec and Peach 1997: 22). Admittedly, this is understandable in a situation where one lives as a minority and where transmitting one’s native language and culture to children therefore demands a conscious effort on the part of parents; what it also requires are the available venues in which this preferred socialisation of the second generation could actually take place (see Nielsen 1995: 121). In other words, a demand for Islamic infrastructure suddenly existed in Europe. Consequently, after 1975 the number of mosques, prayer rooms, and Qur’an schools grew rapidly all over Europe (see Vertovec and Peach 1997: 22). Moreover, in countries, such as Denmark, Germany, Britain, and Belgium, Islamic schools were opened in order to supplement the religious education of children, aside from mosque attendance. Furthermore, some institutional and legislative issues pertaining to Muslims in Europe were raised which concerned, among other things, family law and dietary regulations. (Dassetto 1996a: 30; Foblets 2003.) In other words, the nature of the Islamic presence in Europe shifted from concerns centred on individual migrant workers to those centred on a social community in the full sense (Nonneman 1997: 5; Vertovec and Peach 1997: 24; Nielsen 1995: 121). This shift ended the silent presence of Islam in Europe (Dassetto 1996a: 334). At this stage the organisation of Islam was mainly in the hands of men and the participation of women was very slight. (See Dassetto 1999.) It was the experiences of these men, added to that of educating the second generation, which motivated the institutionalisation of Islam among European Muslims. Not surprisingly, when the first generation of Muslim immigrant men reached mid-life, religion

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gained more importance in their lives. To some extent at least, this was due to personal crises that were brought about by disappointment in the meagre outcome of migration. Migrating to Europe had not brought the fortunes that they had expected to earn when leaving their home countries. Coming from rural areas with very little education, many Muslim migrants ended up working in menial jobs with very modest salaries, which were soon spent in countries with high standard of living. Thus, after many years of working, these men did not have as much to show in terms of material wealth as they might have wished. Moreover, in raising the second generation in the European context, the position of a father as head of the family was easily threatened. This was because the children, schooled in a host country and socialised in a European society, emerged from the situation as much more competent social actors in the new environment, in stark contrast to their parents. In order to salvage the crises of meaning in their personal lives, these men of the first generation tended to look for personal legitimacy in the traditions of their country of origin and sought for comfort and support in religion and in the company of other migrant men. Unfortunately, very little is known about the experiences of women among the first generation of Muslims migrants. In this respect, the countries with the most recent arrival of Muslim migrants, such as Finland and Ireland, might prove to be important for the purpose of research, because the process of adjustment of the first generation of Muslims is currently under way in these countries—even if this is taking place during a different decade, compared to their predecessors. In the light of recent research, however, one can pinpoint some general factors that might be characteristic of the experiences of women migrants in Europe. It seems that, while men in diaspora might lose their position as head of the family, women, on the contrary, tend to gain more responsibility for their families. Migration to Europe often breaks up families and can also result in marital break-downs. This leaves women solely in charge of their families. In Europe, the position of these women as lone mothers is hard because there is no supportive, extended family available for them. In some cases, their own mother might be living in one country with siblings in another, whereby the main means of communication with other family living on this global scene is the telephone. However, as for the first generation of men, so too for women: religion can operate as a structural support when they seek their place in a new

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environment. Even if these women are not necessarily active in local mosques they can search for religious knowledge on their own, thereby availing themselves of a more conscious belief as a guideline for their lives. (See Tiilikainen 2003.) Being exposed to a European way of thinking on gender relations can also alter the way especially young women begin to understand the role of women (Roald 2001). Moreover, the recent research on women’s activism in Europe indicates that Muslim women are gaining expertise in Islam among themselves, but it remains to be seen how women will achieve legitimacy as religious experts on a wider, and to a large extent male-dominated, religious scene in the European umma (see Sakaranaho & Jonker 2003). One can conclude that, while Islam at large is gaining visibility, the experiences of Muslim women in Europe, together with their expertise in Islam, still remains very much invisible. In this sense, grasping an understanding of religious freedom in relation to Muslims in Europe is necessarily only partial, that is, until there is more systematic information available on Muslim women living in the different countries of Europe. This issue, however, is out of the scope of this study. Mosques and cultural centres The institutionalisation of Islam on local bases in Europe has been very much promoted by a flexible organisation structure. For Sunni Muslims, there is no all-encompassing hierarchy in similar fashion to that of the Christian churches, and neither is there any officially appointed clergy with ascribed power in such a religious hierarchy. Local mosques and cultural centres could therefore be organised in a very spontaneous and autonomous manner. However, as mentioned above, there were also some transnational factors that aided in the advancement of organised Islam in Europe. As mentioned above, the interest in Islam among Muslim migrants in Europe coincided with the growing interest in Islam in Muslim-populated countries. Countries such as Saudi Arabia, Libya, and Pakistan began the development of programmes for promoting Islam worldwide and in Europe they relied on Muslim migrants for transmitting these programmes locally. Moreover, there were Islamist movements which started to re-Islamise European Muslims. Consequently, the number of prayer rooms or small mosques in Europe rose significantly; in the middle of the 1980s there were estimated to have been 2,000

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mosques and by the beginning of the 1990s it had already reached 3,000. (Dassetto 1996a.) Even if the international input in the expansion of Islam in Europe might have played an important role, the finance for local mosques was, however, in most cases provided locally rather than with the help of governments and organisations. Most of the prayer rooms, or small mosques, were housed in buildings that were converted for religious purposes. The main incentive in transforming these rooms for prayer was to create spaces for the practice of Islam. In addition to acquiring this ritual space, another important issue for Muslims was to meet their dietary regulations and to obtain meat that was slaughtered in a proper manner. Consequently, members of the Muslim community set up butcher shops that sold this kind of halal meat. Moreover, the number of Islamic book shops started to grow, along with travel agencies that specialised on organising pilgrimages to Mecca. The arrangements for the practice of Islam in Europe did not evoke any opposition in the host societies as long as it happened quietly and remained unobtrusive. Since religious activities were initially centred in flats that had been converted into prayer rooms they remained largely invisible. However, problems started when Muslims began pursuing the construction of purpose-built mosques, which of course was a much more complicated effort than converting existing premises for the purpose of prayer. In order to construct a separate mosque, one naturally needed a piece of land and a series of permits issued by the city planning office. In addition to practical matters, this kind of a mosque also carried a much stronger symbolic value. In a sense, what Muslims were aiming at was to raise up visible Islamic symbols in the symbolic environment of European cities (see Karlsson Minganti 2004: 155). In most European countries, there were grave objections to building mosques, and in many cases the planning permission for their construction was denied to Muslims.13 In Britain, however, mosques were constructed with little or no opposition. This may be partly due to the fact that most Muslims in Britain had already acquired citizenship (see Nielsen 1995; Vertovec 13 For the Netherlands, see Waardenburg 1988, and for Sweden, see Karlsson & Svanberg 1995.

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1997). Moreover, the construction of some central mosques in the capital cities of Europe have proceeded rather smoothly, such as the one in Paris which was built by the French government already in the 1920s. In more recent times, however, several mosques have been built with the financial aid of Saudi-Arabians, who have close diplomatic relations with those European governments, which in turn are dependent upon the oil states of the Persian Gulf. Thus, during recent decades the Saudis have financed new mosques and Islamic cultural centres all over Europe. For instance, in Brussels the central mosque, opened in 1969, is situated just a few hundred metres away from the headquarters of the European Union. Moreover, in subsequent years central mosques were opened in London in 1977 (Nielsen 1995); in Geneva in 1978 (Mahnig 2002: 141); in Vienna in 1979 (Strobl 2002: 14); in Madrid in 1992 (Moreras 2002a: 49), and so forth. Consolidation The 1980s saw the gradual consolidation and institutionalisation of Muslims in Europe, coupled with the visibilisation of Islam (Dassetto 1996a: 30). In the 1990s, Muslims have started to demand institutional rights. In respect of schools, some Muslim parents are worried about the effects that mainstream education might have on their children, expressing the fear that their children would adopt cultural habits that went against their own way of thinking. In order to avoid this, they demand that the teaching of Islam in schools be placed on a par with the teaching of Christianity. Gradually, this demand has been conceded in those countries which have national legislation allowing minority religious education at school. Some Muslim parents have gone even further and have established Islamic schools. However, such schools have been objected to by governments in many countries for the reason that it is feared they would become breeding grounds for ‘fundamentalism’. In addition, there are many Muslims who are opposed to Islamic schools because they believe that separate schools would lead to marginalisation and isolation of Muslim minorities in a host society. To date, there are officially recognised Islamic schools in Europe in Denmark, Belgium, and Ireland. During the past decade, Muslims have endeavoured, for the most part, to gain the same legal position in Europe as that enjoyed by other religious communities. (See Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995.)

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The concern of the first generation of Muslim migrants was to establish a religious infrastructure that would facilitate the socialisation of their children as Muslims while living as a minority in a European society, and, to some extent, this institutional concern has been taken up by members of the second generation. All in all, the questions that Muslim communities in Europe are facing to a growing extent necessarily concern the relationships between different generations. The first generation of Muslims were socialised into a society where Islam dominated as the prevalent religion; by contrast, their children are now growing up in a society in which the traditions of their parents represent only a small minority. In a sense these children exist in a place between two worlds. In comparison to their parents, the members of the second generation, and increasingly of the third generation, are in most cases much more competent social actors in a host society and, hence, in a position where they can utilise two types of cultural capital, that of both their homes and the host society. They therefore can be more confident than their parents ever were also in terms of demanding recognition for Islam in Europe, something which is actually taking place in countries such as France and Britain. Moreover, as outlined above, it remains to be seen in which way women will obtain legitimacy as religious experts in Muslim communities. Presently, the growing influence of women is certainly to be felt in the activism of women converts, who often work side by side with men in mosques and Islamic cultural centres, but who, at the same time, organise independent activities for women. One may assume that the appearance of these women in media as well as the growing number of publications produced by them will gradually award them with visibility at least in the wider society. Within Islamic communities, the position of women, in general, is largely dictated by the practice of sexual segregation, which means that the spheres of men and women are somewhat separated from each other. With respect to this kind of an arrangement, it is only natural that women should lead the operation of the women’s section. In sum, it would seem that women own a place in organised Islamic communities that is independent but rather marginal within the power structure of these communities. In a sense the engagement in independent activities by and for women repeats the general mode of organisation which is characteristic to the establishment of Islam in Europe in general; there is

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no ready-made hierarchy or centralised leadership that would dictate the activities of women. Thus, the constraints, that inevitably exist in one form or another, are most likely to come from within a particular community. Notwithstanding the marginality, furthermore, it must be noted that the influence of an individual woman in a community can also depend on her personal ‘charisma’, which she carries because of her long experience as a Muslim, coupled with age, knowledge of Islam, and personal determination. Nonetheless, in similar fashion to their male counterparts, the position of these women is constantly challenged by other women coming to the field, but also by changes in the general landscape of Islamic communities, which might drastically alter the ‘power-balance’ between old and new mosques; this is what happened in Ireland when a large and impressive mosque and cultural centre, raised in Dublin in the beginning of the 1990s, somewhat left in its shadow the ‘old’ mosque, which from the beginning had dominated the field of Muslim establishment (see Chapter Seven). Muslims and Religious Freedom As discussed above, the number of Muslims is growing rapidly in Europe. The Muslim population that is consolidating its presence in Europe is in every respect very heterogeneous, which is also reflected in the variety of ways that individual Muslims identify with and practise Islam. Moreover, Islam seems to hold a different role for Muslims belonging to subsequent generations since the 1960s. With regard to the variation in respect of religion, one may draw some conclusions concerning Muslims and religious freedom in Europe. It is obvious that, for Muslims for whom religion either holds personal importance or not much importance at all, religious freedom is not an issue. In their case, the letter of the law concerning religious freedom as an individual or negative right is fulfilled. Moreover, European societies in general offer freedom to decide one’s personal convictions, and also allow for indifference in religious matters. No doubt, this is important for those originating from Muslim-populated countries who do not identify themselves as Muslims, or who reject religion altogether. In other words, European legislation gives right to apostasy, even though it might run counter to the general understanding of Islam (see Saeed & Saeed 2004).

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However, the institutional development of Islam has brought to light some important issues concerning religious freedom in Europe. In general, the establishment of Islam in Europe can be used as an example of public religion and how it changes our understanding of the role of religion in a secular society (see Chapter One). Muslims, who actively advocate the recognition of Islam in public, shift the emphasis from religious freedom as an individual right towards a more collective understanding of this freedom. However, one should not make hasty conclusions on the meaning of religion and hence the relevance of religious freedom in the case of Muslims in Europe in general. It is obvious from the above that religion can take many roles in the lives of individual Muslims in one’s lifespan, as well as from one generation to another. Moreover, even within the same span of life and among members of the same generation, identifications with Islam can vary significantly. As a result of this heterogeneity, it is very hard to make generalisations concerning Muslim interest in Europe with respect to religious freedom. One could conclude, however, that for most Muslims living in Europe, the European legislation clearly guarantees the necessary rights concerning religious freedom. However, it is equally clear that this statement needs to be somewhat qualified. These qualifications concern, on the one hand, questions that arise on a practical level in living as a Muslim in a European society, as will be shown in the following chapters on Finland and Ireland. Sadly enough, principles, however appealing, do not always translate into practices. On the other hand, these qualifications can be pointed out with respect to interrelations in Muslim communities concerning their tolerance for different ways of thinking and living as a Muslim, and the role of women in particular. Interestingly enough, the events of the 1980s that attracted press coverage in respect of Muslims, prior to 11 September 2001, also had a bearing upon questions concerning religious freedom. Even if it is important to keep in mind what is happening to Muslims on a grass-roots level of a society separate from what we can glean from the coverage of Islam in the media, it is equally important to look into the images that the media uses to represent Islam and Muslims (see Shadid & van Koningsveld 2002b). For Muslims living in Europe, it is not insignificant how they and their religion are portrayed in the media.

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In Britain, the much analysed case of Salman Rushdie, from the Muslim viewpoint, directly concerned the issue of blasphemy. The court decision, however, based its precedent in British law which banned blasphemy only from the Christian point of view. In other words, the law did not concern any other Deity but the Christian one. Muslims could not therefore articulate their concern for the insult to their religion within a British legal framework. From the European perspective, the burning of the Satanic Verses, on the other hand, provoked memories of ‘book burning’ in the European context that took place during the Nazi era. In line with these historical images and sensibilities, the Muslim reaction against the novel of Salman Rushdie was portrayed in the media as an example of Muslim zealotism. No doubt, the actual episode revealed a misunderstanding on both sides with regard to motivations and consequences of such actions as book burning. However, one may ask in what circumstances the Salman Rushdie affair could have been dealt with as an issue concerning religious freedom and, as such, related to the rights of a religious minority for public recognition and respect for its religious convictions. The most ardent defenders of Muslims claim that in contemporary post-Holocaust Europe, where one has to be careful regarding what one says about the Jews, Muslims have become a target of limitless slander, or ‘Muslims bashing’, to use the words of Vertovec and Peach (1997). Even if one would not agree with the view that media coverage of Islam is totally negative, it is appropriate to ask whether, in the case of Muslims, the principles concerning freedom of expression and those of religious freedom are in conflict with one another. No doubt, the recent controversy concerning the presentation of the Prophet Muhammad in cartoons published in a Danish paper is yet another example of a situation where respect for religious values, on the one hand, and respect for freedom of expression, on the other hand, are at odds with one another. In a sense, there are two very different images here of Muslims vis-à-vis Islam. On the one hand, Islam is seen as a threat in Europe, which justifies, as in warfare, any means of subduing the ‘enemy’. No doubt, this image is fuelled by the Huntingtonian vision of the conflicting civilizations of Islam and the West, which was to some extent reinforced by the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon in New York and in Washington D.C. in 2001. On the other hand, Muslims constitute a religious minority in Europe, whose

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rights as such should be protected according to the European directives and national legislation. As is apparent from the above, Muslims constitute a very heterogeneous population in the various countries of Europe. They live, study, and work in these countries and thereby contribute to building the economies of these societies, in similar fashion to the generations of European immigrants before them. In place of the image of a universal Islamic threat, one can therefore depict an image of ordinary people going about the business of their everyday life—of which religion constitutes one aspect, though for many a decidedly essential one. Most Muslims, both in Britain and elsewhere in Europe, were critical of the way some Muslims dealt with the Rushdie affair, but also definitely condemned any terrorist attacks in the name of Islam. However, it is not clear to what extent critical views expressed by Muslims on measures taken in the name of Islam gain publicity. In rhetorical terms, Islam as ‘a threat’ is such a powerful terministic screen that it easily ironises any other way of looking at Islam— even if these ways happened to be available. This no doubt can be defeating for those Muslims who seek to voice their opinions in public concerning their religion. However, there is a variety of ways and the extent to which Muslims are given voice in the media from one country to the next. Nonetheless, a basic question remains pertaining to both religious freedom and freedom of expression as to who has the right to represent a religion in public: Is it the members of that religion themselves, and if so, who among them? Or is it those who approach it from the outside? And, if both representations are available, which one should be given precedence and within which forum? Admittedly, these questions carry with them such complexities that it is impossible to answer them in one study. In any event, it is the basic right of religious communities, such as Muslims, to have a sufficient religious infrastructure for the practice of their religion, for the socialisation of their children, and for the religious education of their members. However, these measures are matters of public concern and hence entail at least some sort of visibility. Moreover, neither community establishment of Muslims nor education of their members can be accomplished without the committed output of a host society. With regard to religious freedom, it is here that one can see a critical point, which, however, can be dealt with in various ways, as the cases of Finland and Ireland readily illustrate.

CHAPTER SIX

FINLAND: ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF MUSLIM PRESENCE Muslims in Two Waves With regard to Muslim migration, Finland constitutes an exception in comparison to other European countries in two ways. On the one hand, the first Muslim immigrants in Finland were Turkish Tatars who entered the country from Russia already towards the end of the nineteenth century. Thus, in similar fashion to colonial powers, such as France and Britain, Finland received its first Muslim immigrants already over a hundred years ago.1 With regard to migration to western Europe after the Second World War, on the other hand, Finland received immigrants from Muslim-populated countries in visible numbers only as late as in the end of the 1980s, and hence some thirty years later than European countries in general. Consequently, the Muslim presence in Finland has lasted over a hundred years and arose in consequence of two distinct waves of migration to Finland. To be sure, the socio-political situation of the country was very different when the Turkish Tatars arrived, as compared to the contemporary situation. At the end of the nineteenth century, Finland was still occupied by Russia, but the beginning of the 20th century saw a gradual process of nation building as well as the formation of the Finnish state after gaining national independence in late 1917. In this process, the position of religious minorities was regularised by means of legislation, as was discussed in Chapter Three. The Freedom of Religion Act, issued in 1922, gave the right for religious minorities to be organised as registered religious communities in similar fashion to that of the Lutheran Church, which encompasses the majority of Finns, and to that of the Orthodox Church which, as a minority church, enjoys special protection by the law. Consequently, the Tatar community readily acquired this 1 It is in the late nineteenth century that the first Muslim immigrants also arrived in the United States and Canada (Haddad & Smith 2002: v).

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right and in 1925 was registered as an Islamic community. Hence, in western Europe, Finland was one of the first European countries to recognise a Muslim community in its legislation, along with Austria and Belgium where it took place in 1906 and 1974 respectively (Hallenberg 1996: 109; Leitzinger 1999: 28; Bastenier 1988: 139–140). Moreover, in Poland, Tatars were permitted to form the Muslim Religious Union by a special legal act in 1936 (Szajkowski 1997: 95). Due to their long presence in Finland, Tatars are today considered not as immigrants but rather as a traditional minority in similar fashion to Jews (Sakaranaho 2002b; see also Otterbeck 1998). However, recent decades have witnessed a development in Finland marked by a general process of internationalisation, which to an important degree has been intertwined with the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 and membership in the European Union, since 1995, as well as entering the global world market (Laakkonen 1997).2 Consequently, recent immigrants entered Finland at a time when the country was, in its external relations, seeking closer contacts with the rest of Europe and, in its internal affairs, coming to terms with a growing multiculturalism, which these newcomers have simultaneously pushed forward (see Lepola 2000). From the historical perspective one can note, however, that multiculturalism as such is not a new phenomenon in Finland. In fact, Finland was far more ‘multicultural’ at the turn of the twentieth century than what it is in contemporary times. Nonetheless, the sociopolitical reality in Finland has drastically changed in the span of one hundred years which, in turn, has had a profound effect on the conditions for the establishment of Muslims in this country. Consequently, it lies well within reason to take a look at the rooting of Muslims in Finland, in light of the above-mentioned focal points in Finnish history and, with reference to this dual periodisation, focus first on the formation of the Tatar community in Finland and second on the recent immigrant communities introduced in recent decades.3 An 2 The current industry leader in mobile phone production, Nokia, is a Finnish company by origin but functions as a worldwide business and is probably a pristine example of a global economic development that Finns are very proud of. 3 Due to their long presence in Finland, the history of Muslims in this country is very different from that in Ireland. For the same reason, there is also research available on Tatars, and to a growing extent also on the immigrant Muslim communities, in Finland while in Ireland research on Muslims is almost nill. Consequently, the presentations in this book of Muslim communities in Finland and Ireland are constituted somewhat differently.

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additional factor in this general development includes, however, Finnish Muslim converts, whose numbers have grown significantly during the recent decade. Irrespective of their Finnish background, converts tend to work in Islamic communities founded by immigrants rather than by Tatars. This is understandable since Tatars, in spite of being Muslims, emphasise their ethnic exclusivity, whereas the immigrant communities are more inclusive due to their multiethnic character. Turkish Tatars from Russia With regard to the general history of Islam in Europe, the first phase of rooting Islam in Finland can be seen as an extension of the settlement of Muslims in the eastern parts of Europe and in Russia in particular (Hallenberg 1996: 109). Towards the end of the nineteenth century, some Turkish Tatars extended their trading from Russia to Finland, which marks the beginning of the permanent Muslim settlement in this country. However, even before this date in Finnish history, already as early as the sixteenth century one comes across some sporadic references to Tatars as soldiers in the Russian army. Ethnically these soldiers were mainly Kazan Tatars or Bashkirs (Halén 1999: 317), whereas the civilian Tatars, who came to Finland in the latter half of the nineteenth century, were mainly Mishars.4 The above-mentioned civilian Tatars were smallholder farmers whose primary source of income was agriculture but who made extra income by trading finished goods such as textiles, fur, and soap. In other words, they operated as peddlers, while their families were settled in small villages in the area of Nizhni Novgorod, today known as Gorki. At the time, the Grand Duchy of Finland was part of the Russian Empire, which meant that there were no barriers to Tatars extending their trade from St. Petersburg to Helsinki. The accounts of how the first Tatars ended up trading in Finland in the 1880s varies according to different sources. However, it seems that their arrival was more accidental than planned, and that they did not

4 The Tatars of the Volga region are generally divided into Kazan and Mishar Tatars, whose ethnic history, however, is to a large extent unknown. See Räsänen 1941: 66–67; Halén 1999: 317, 323–324. Cf. Nielsen 1995: 1; Vertovec and Peach 1997: 13. For the ethnic identifications of Tatars, see Sakaranaho 2002b: 134–8.

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intend to stay at first. (Mustanoja 1982: 8–11; Halén 1999: 316–318; Leitzinger 1999: 27.) At the time, the Finnish economy was booming, local self-sufficiency was declining, and consequently there was a growing demand for finished goods (Mustanoja 1982: 9).5 Thus, Finland offered Tatars a new and promising field for selling their wares. Their trade spread rapidly from Helsinki to other parts of Finland and, for instance, the new railroads facilitated peddling as far north as Oulu and Kemi. Gradually some Tatar men started to bring their families along with them and settle down in the main urban centres. Moreover, they encouraged others to join them because they felt that they were treated much better in Finland than in Russia. (Idris 1932; Räsänen 1941: 65; Lauha 1963: 8; Halén 1999: 322.) Unfortunately, there are no reliable records of the number of Tatars in Finland at that time because they were not registered separately, unlike Russians and Jews (Mustanoja 1982: 10–11).6 Tatars continued to immigrate to Finland on a fairly regular basis until 1917. After the political and social turmoil caused by the Russian Revolution, they entered the country both as legal and illegal refugees, the majority of them coming in 1921. At the time, a refugee designated those persons who had fled from their homeland and hence no distinction was made between political refugees, on the one hand, and immigrant workers who migrated for economic purposes, on the other hand. For the most part, however, Tatars who migrated to Finland counted themselves as labour migrants (Leitzinger 1996: 126). For most of the 1920s, it was possible for Tatars to cross the FinnishSoviet border as legal immigrants; hence, this was the period of family reunification for most of them (Halén 1991: 73–74; Leitzinger 1996: 106–109). As a result of family reunion, Tatars settled down in Finland. They established themselves in business so that by the 1940s practically the whole community gained its income from trading. In Finland Tatars also became urbanised so that, in 1977, 99% 5 For centuries the Finnish economy and international trade has depended on forests, which have produced various types of goods in different periods of time. These include furs in the medieval period, tar in the seventeenth century, timber and wooden ships in the eighteenth century, and finally, pulp and paper since the late nineteenth century. See Kuisma 1999. 6 However, see Leitzinger (1996: 130–133), for the list of the first-generation Tatar men with information concerning their former home places, the year of their immigration to Finland, as well as the year of their naturalization, whether as Finnish or Turkish citizens.

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of them were living in towns or cities. Thus, as a result of the immigration to Finland, the Tatar community underwent a drastic change with regard to its social and economic situation, from that of rural farmers with meagre means to that of wealthy urban merchants. Today Tatars are on average a reasonably wealthy and well-educated group that politically tends to be conservative (Lauha 1963: 80; Mustanoja 1982: 9–11: 49; Halén 1984: 344; Leitzinger 1996: 102–157). In addition, the Tatar community is extremely well organised with respect to both religion and culture, a matter that is readily emphasised by members of the community as well (see Daher 1991: 125). Religious institutionalisation It is said that language and religion are the main cornerstones of Tatar identity (Halén 1991: 76. Cf. Hairedtin 1996: 46). In general, Tatars are Sunni Muslims who follow the Hanafi Law School. In respect of living as a Muslim in Finnish society, one can argue that the attitude ‘do in Rome as the Romans do’ is characteristic of both the cultural and religious activity of the Tatar community. This attitude has been underscored by the fact that Tatar religiosity has traditionally been fairly liberal. In their view, religion is a natural way of living which is not in conflict with the Finnish way of life (Mustanoja 1988: 6; Halén 1991: 78; ibid. 1999: 327–328; Leitzinger 1996: 172; Hairetdin 1996: 29, 34). However, this liberal and open-minded attitude towards Islam has not always been understood by Finnish people. Consequently, each generation has had to engage in an effort to play down in one way or another the majority’s fear and suspicion of Islam, as the below-discussed experiences of different generations of Tatars clearly indicate. The first generation of Tatars identified themselves primarily as Muslims. Understandably, it was this generation that also laid the institutional foundations for religious activities.7 The first Islamic association registered in Finland was Helsingin musulmaanien hyväntekeväisyysseura r.y. (The Charitable Musulman Society of Helsinki) in 1915, which

7 It should be noted that already since the beginning of the nineteenth century there was an imam in Helsinki who operated as a spiritual guide for Muslim soldiers, most of whom were Tatars. Imams also kept an account of the Muslims living at the time in Sveaborg and Viborg. See Räsänen 1941: 64; Lauha 1963: 5; Halén 1979; 1984: 341–344.

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was founded in order to create some kind of institutional base for the promotion of cultural and religious traditions in the new environment.8 However, this association was not registered as a religious society as such for the reason that non-Christians at the time were not allowed to organise themselves officially (see Chapter Three). However, after Finland gained its independence, the Freedom of Religion Act passed in 1922 sanctioned the establishment of religious communities also for non-Christians. Tatars were quick to make use of this new legislation and Suomen muhamettilainen seurakunta (The Mohammedan Congregation of Finland), with 528 members, was entered into the Register of Religious Societies in 1925 (Idris 1932). Later in 1963, the name was changed to Suomen Islam-seurakunta (The Islam Congregation of Finland). (See Halén 1984: 346. See also Lauha 1963: 11; Andergård 1975a; Leitzinger 1999: 28.) In addition to Helsinki, the Congregation has a small but organised community in Järvenpää and in Turku. Moreover, in 1943 Tatars in the city of Tampere founded an independent registered religious community with the name Tampereen islamilainen seurakunta (The Islam Congregation of Tampere). During the first decades of the independent Finnish state the growth of religious freedom caused worry and concern among some Christians. They feared that Muslims would use this liberty to engage in Islamic missionary work among Finnish people, thereby providing Islam a stronger foothold in Finland. Consequently, the plans by Tatars to build a mosque in Helsinki were seen as a clear sign of these missionary aspirations. Tatars, however, denied there were any grounds for such fears. Nevertheless, the public expression of such fears made them realize that a prejudice against Islam existed among Finnish people as it did in other European countries. Moreover, it was felt that this prejudice originated in ignorance of Islam and that spreading information about it would help to alleviate unnecessary concern. (See Leitzinger 1996: 160–161.)

8

However, already in 1907 and 1910 Tatars asked for special permission to slaughter animals according to Islamic tradition. The National Board of Health, nevertheless, did not grant this permission. For media coverage on the issue, see Den muhammedanska slaktmetoden, Huvudstads-Bladet 17 September 1910. See also Halén 1984: 344. This issue was raised again in 1995 in relation to a new draft of the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Act. According to this Act, cutting the throat of an animal has to be conducted simultaneously with the stunning of the animal. See Leitzinger 1996: 175; Lepola 2000: 220–222.

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The desire to calm opposition was to some extent apparent also in the charter of foundation that was drafted by the Islam Congregation. The order of the Congregation is explicated in the list of the basic tenets of Islamic doctrine and practice. These consist of ten principles, of which the first five are generally associated with the Islamic faith, whereas the latter five express the concerns of Finnish Muslims at the time. These ten principles are as follows:9 1. Believing in One God and His Prophet Mohammed 2. Praying five times a day and officiating at a public religious service in the mosque every Friday 3. Fasting once a year for one month 4. Donating the fortieth part of one’s property to the poor 5. Making a pilgrimage to Mecca once in a lifetime, if one was a wealthy Mohammedan 6. Respecting all religions 7. Observing physical and spiritual purity 8. Observing truth in everything 9. Respecting fellow people and endeavouring to benefit society 10. Wishing good to all people (Ali, Karatau & Daher 1975: 9.) It is obvious from the above principles that Tatars identified themselves as Muslims but in such a manner that would not disturb the rest of the society. On the contrary, the emphasis on good will towards others and having respect for all religions and people portray Tatars as law-abiding citizens who want to put themselves at the service of the general welfare of society. (See Lauha 1963: 11; Mustanoja 1988: 6; ibid. 1990: 6; Leitzinger 1996: 162–163; Halén 1999: 326.) The first translation of the Qur’an into the Finnish language, initiated by Ahsen Böre and completed in 1942, caused some concern among Tatars themselves who feared negative reactions from Finnish officials. It is illustrative of this fear that Böre (1942) begins his preface to this edition of the Qur’an by stating that his aim was not to do any kind of missionary work in Finland but simply to give a more balanced picture of Islam to the Finns.10 In retrospect, however,

9

Translations from the Finnish language are the author’s. The translator of this version of the Qur"an did not want his name to be published (IntF 04:1). 10

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the fears of Tatars concerning Finnish reactions proved to be unfounded. (See Leitzinger 1999: 30.) However, there was an actual accusation at the time made against the Islamic faith that concerned polygamy. In 1932, the Congregation applied for permission to officiate marriages, but it was felt among some representatives of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Finland that such permission, if granted, could lead to sanctioning polygamy in Finland. It was generally acknowledged, nonetheless, that the Congregation did not harbour such motives and that none of its members actually practised polygamy. Finally, permission to marry its own members was granted to the Congregation in the end of 1932. Moreover, the Congregation operated as a registrar of its members until 1971, when census registration of those who were not members of the Lutheran or Orthodox Churches was concentrated in a general population registration centre. (Lauha 1963: 14; Ali, Karatau & Daher 1975: 25–26; Mustanoja 1982: 12, 31; Leitzinger 1996: 163.) During the following decades the institutional development of the Congregation was extended by the establishment of a primary school, as well as efforts to construct an independent House of Islam. A five-story building in the centre of Helsinki was finally completed in 1961 and two of its upper floors now house a prayer room, festival hall and kitchen, kindergarten and school rooms, library and offices. The lower floors of the building are rented for use as offices.11 As such, the Congregation has proved to be a source for a strong sense of unity among the members of the Tatar community. It is also financially very secure because of the wealth accumulated over the years, so it has never had to seek financial support from the Finnish state—no doubt a source of pride among the members of the Congregation. The leadership in the Congregation has traditionally been in the hands of the wealthiest families, whereby imams are generally invited from Turkey. Moreover, Tatars have had a cemetery in Helsinki already since 1870, which was enlarged in the 1950s and complemented with a catafalque in the 1970s. This cemetery also contains the graves of the Finnish Tatar war dead and the Pro11 The construction of this building was financed by individual efforts and donations of theTatars themselves; by donations of foreign countries, i.e. Turkey, Morocco, and Pakistan, but most of all by a generous bank loan of 90 million Finnish marks. See Ali, Karatau & Daher 1975: 30–32; see also Lauha 1963: 21.

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Finlandia Memorial in their honour erected by the Congregation in 1956. (Ali, Karatau & Daher 1975: 28–37; Leitzinger 1996: 163–165; Halén 1984: 345–346; ibid. 1999: 327–328.) The Tatar soldiers who died in Finnish wars are also commemorated in the House of Islam owned by the Tatars. When entering the hallway that leads to the mosque one encounters a striking detail. On one of the walls in the hallway, there is a memorial plaque listing the names of the Tatar men who fought and were killed in the Winter War (1939–1940) and the Continuation War (1941–1944), fighting for Finland against the Soviet Union. At the time, there were around a thousand Tatars living in Finland, of which 156 men enlisted and fought side by side with their Finnish compatriots in the war. (See Räsänen 1941: 65; Leitzinger 1996: 241–245.) The significance of this involvement of the Tatars in these two wars becomes apparent when perceived within the framework of the Finnish nationalist ethos, which was very much evident, for instance, in the recent commemoration of ‘the miracle of the Winter War’. In this war, Finland, a small nation, fought for its independence against its big neighbour in a struggle that united men and women whatever their political—or religious—differences. Moreover, in addition to the participation of Tatar men in the Continuation War, seventeen Tatar women contributed to the war effort by undertaking support and service duties in an auxiliary defence organisation known as LottaSvärd. It is said that without the mobilisation of such voluntary help Finnish troops would not have lasted as long as they did (Hentilä 1999). One can argue that to commemorate their men and women who defended Finland is an explicit display of Finnish patriotism shown by Tatars.12 However, this is not a solitary sign of their Finnish loyalties as a minority that has lived in Finland for over a hundred years. In fact, Tatars are often referred to as a perfect example of integration since they have managed, on the one hand, to preserve their own Tatar culture and Islamic faith and, on the other hand, have adjusted to Finnish ways and society without experiencing any visible problems. (See Mustanoja 1982; Leitzinger 1999.) This is also stressed by members of the community, as the following statement shows: ‘Our grandparents adjusted themselves perfectly here [in 12 It should also be noted that Tatars in Poland are known for their fervent patriotism during the First World War. See Szajkowski 1997: 95.

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Finland], but at the same time they preserved their distinctiveness, identity, and all their traditions’ (Daher 1991: 127). All in all, Tatars are an example of a Muslim community which has fully integrated into Finnish society in the sense that they very much practice religion in the privacy of their homes, or in an institutionalised form, which fits well into the Christian model of a churchlike institution, with a priest-like spiritual leader of the Congregation. However, the imams of the Congregation are nominated and hired by the board of the Congregation, which is run by members of some leading families of the community. Ultimate power in the Congregation is thus in the hands of the leading members rather than religious personnel. With regard to this institutional structure, the Tatar community has an interesting resemblance—even if on a smaller scale— to the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland, as will be discussed in Chapter Seven. Language and ethnicity In spite of the fact that most Tatars in Finland are Mishars and many of them are even related to each other, the question of a common ethnic identity has proved to be a controversial one. According to one observer, ‘a certain kind of rootlessness’ has been characteristic of Tatar identity in Finland (Halén 1991: 76; see also Mustanoja 1982: 43). One reason for this might be that Tatars constituted a minority already in Russia and therefore had no natal country to look back on as ‘home’, unlike many recent migrants whose activities are geared to family and relatives in the old country, even after spending many years in Europe (see Gerholm 1988: 6). In the case of Tatars, moreover, closed borders under the Soviet rule severed contacts that had earlier flourished with relatives who had stayed behind. As a result, the sense of belonging to a particular place or people suffered, as internal debates on Tatar identity readily show. One of the issues that has been hotly debated among the members of this community has been whether they should be considered as Turkish or Tatar. The first generation of Tatar immigrants identified themselves mainly in religious terms as Muslims and for many of them the designation Tatar was mainly a term of Russian abuse.13 13 See Arifulla 1941: 110–111. Cf. Idris 1932, who refers to his people in Finland as Turco-Tatars. See Mustanoja 1982: 52.

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Even though the term ‘Tatar’ no longer carries any pejorative meaning, it is, nonetheless, avoided by many members of the contemporary Turkish Tatar community. As such, the controversial nature of this term reveals a basic difficulty in finding a common term for the members of this community. This problem was already present in Russia, and it became a political matter after the Revolution in 1917 when the Turkic people of the Volga region convened in order to prepare for an autonomous Volga-Ural Republic. This meeting decided on a compromise and chose the term Turkish Tatar (türktatar).14 (Räsänen 1941: 64; Arifulla 1941: 8.) Interestingly enough, this is a term that is also used by the contemporary Tatar community in Finland. In similar fashion to earlier generations this recent usage can be seen as some kind of historical compromise. Among the second generation of Tatars religious identification lost its importance and was replaced by a kind of double identity. In this respect, one can make a comparison between Jews and Tatars: in similar fashion to Finnish Jews who looked towards Israel, some Tatars considered themselves as Turkish (Leitzinger 1999: 41). Turkey as a nation literally constituted an ‘imagined community’ for them, as a point of reference for their sense of belonging (cf. Anderson 1983). They were inspired by the Ataturkian Revolution in 1923 and the image of a secular and westernised nation-state associated with the Turkish Republic at the time.15 As such, they followed the general international trend of rising national feeling based on common language and citizenship, rather than on religion. In time, some of the members of the Tatar community travelled to Turkey, acquired Turkish citizenship, and entertained Turkish visitors in Finland as guests in their homes.16 In addition to individual interest in Turkey among Tatars, the national day of Turkey was recognised by the Finnish Turkish Association (Finlandiya Türkleri Birligi, FTB ), which was founded for cultural purposes by Tatars in April 1935.17 (Räsänen 1941: 66; Leitzinger 1999: 41.)

14

For more on the failed attempts for autonomy in Russia, see Ramstedt 1919. For the change in the ideological scope of public life in Turkey, see Sakaranaho 1998: 97–101. 16 Turkish loyalties were also encouraged by the Turkish Consul Ibrahim Grandi Bey, whose arrival in Finland in June 1925 on a Turkish ship Karadeniz has been considered as a turning point for the development of the Turkish connection. See Leitzinger 1999: 28, 40–41; Halén 1991: 76. 17 The association has published two collections of folk songs and four records. 15

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However, a tension remained between the proponents of Turkish and Tatar language so that the language question became a source of division among the second generation. Those Tatars, mentioned above, who did not identify with Turkey subsequently orientated towards Tatar populations in Idel-Ural and Tatarstan in the Soviet Union, hoping that they might gain independence one day. The memory of the Mishar villages and relatives still living in these villages was kept alive in stories and in reminiscences by the older generation. Hearing these stories and recollections, the images of the ‘home villages’ were thus passed on to the younger generation, as one member of the community recounts. (Daher 1991: 125; see also Hairetdin 1996: 17.) Since the end of the 1950s it became possible for Tatars to renew their contacts with their surviving relatives in the Soviet Union. Since the 1960s there has been an active cultural exchange between the Russian and Finnish Tatars, and some Tatars have turned especially towards Kazan in search of their roots. (Leitzinger 1999: 48–50; AndergDrd 1975a.) The active interest in Tatar culture also had a bearing on the public image of the community in Finland. In 1974, for the first time, the Tatar community organised a cultural event that was open to the public. The aim of the event was to familiarise the Finnish public with Tatar history, culture, and music.18 (See Marjamäki 1974; Leitzinger 1999: 49.) This event proved to be successful and as a result Tatar culture attracted a fair amount of media attention (see Marjamäki 1974; Rantala 1975; Andergård 1975a; ibid. 1975b; Malmberg 1982). Moreover, the term ‘Tatar’ also gained a footing within the community so that from 1984 onwards it was a term in general use in the vocabulary of the Finnish Turkish Association (FTB). With regard to the FTB, there were even suggestions of changing the name of the association. However, those identifying with Turkey expressed strong criticism against the rising sympathy with Tatar identity, which was becoming more and more popular in the 1970s and the 1980s. Nevertheless, this same trend continued into the 1990s. It has a choir and an amateur theatre that is performing plays written by Tatar and other writers. Tatars also have an athletic association, Yolduz, which was founded in 1945. See Ali, Karatau & Daher 1975: 18, 20. 18 For research on Tatar music, see Marjamäki & Kolehmainen 1980.

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A television programme on Aynur Nisametdin is an example of the upsurge of interest in places in Russia that Tatars originally came from. ‘Tatar language is seldom heard on Finnish television’ (Malkamäki 1992). This statement begins a newspaper review of a television program about a woman in her twenties called Aynur Nisametdin who, as the first western Tatar, was accepted to study Tatar language in Kazan University. During her stay, she visited Mishar-villages, met her long-lost relatives, and took part in Tatar weddings and funerals. In a photograph accompanying the review she smiles and the text lets us know how proud she is of her roots as a member of the small Tatar community in Finland, which speaks the Mishardialect at home, professes Islam as a religion, and which has kept a tight hold on its culture. After returning from Kazan in the beginning of the 1990s, Nisametdin became an active proponent of Tatar culture in Finland, and was a driving force in the organisation of the second public Tatar cultural event in 1992 comprising entertainment and a photographic exhibition (see Leitzinger 1999: 50). For the most part, identification as a Tatar seems to be succeeding among the third generation. However, there are signs among the fourth generation that identification with Tatar culture is becoming more limited in scope, focusing more on being Mishar rather than on being Tatar in general. (Mustanoja 1982: 14–16; Hairetdin 1996: 54–55; Halén 1991: 79; Leitzinger 1999: 50–51.) Between assimilation and integration Nowadays, however, the crucial question of Tatar identification no longer concerns successful adaptation to Finnish society, but concerns rather ethnic and religious acculturation, or even assimilation, as shown in the following remark in a publication of the Congregation: Even though the Islam Congregation of Finland is clearly distinctive in its religion, language, and traditions, and as such a unique and even exclusive community, natural assimilation of its members into the rest of society is taking place as a result of mixed marriages. (Ali, Karatau & Daher 1975: 45; emphasis added.)

Interestingly enough, the attitude ilation is expressed in the above something that is more or less However, in order to protect its

of the Congregation towards assimquotation in very neutral terms as a normal course of development. distinctive identity, the community

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has traditionally opposed mixed marriages. As against such opposition, the small size of the community and especially the fact that most Tatars are to some extent related to each other has made it necessary to look for spouses from outside the community. Thus, the number of mixed marriages, whether with Finns or foreigners, has been growing steadily during recent decades so that already among the third generation a good half of the marriages are contracted with non-Tatars.19 In spite of the seeming vitality of Tatar culture its future seems precarious. According to a 1996 survey done by the Congregation on members of the community, a full 30% of the total number (734) constitutes those over sixty. Hence the number of elderly people in the Congregation was twice as high as that of the average among Finns in general. At the same time, the number of those under twenty years of age was only some 16%, which is significantly lower than the Finnish average in general. With regard to the latter age group, it was also pointed out in this survey that the number of those under twenty years of age had dropped 10% since May 1994. In light of the receding birth rate in the community, it was therefore estimated that, if the development proceeds at this rate, in 2050 there will be no members under twenty years in the community. (SIS 1996; cf. Statistics Finland 2003b: 32.) Thus, the members of the Tatar community are getting scarcer, older, and more mixed as a result of marriages with non-Tatars. It is readily admitted in the community that it is facing a ‘problem’ in a similar fashion to other minorities, such as Jews, Romanies, and Russians, in that it takes an effort to keep one’s culture vibrant (Daher 1991: 127). There is no denying the fact that the influence of the Finnish language is very strong, and that with each new generation the identification with Finnishness has grown stronger and stronger. Children and young people in Finnish society are increasingly like ‘fish in water’, as a member of the community has remarked (Andergård 1975b). With respect to the capital city of Helsinki, with its concentration of a more emphatically multicultural population in an otherwise fairly homogeneous society, Tatars are already more original to the place than those Finns, who have moved there from 19 See Lauha 1963: 78–79, 91; Ali, Karatau & Daher 1975: 45; Mustanoja 1982: 58–59; Halén 1984: 348; ibid. 1991: 80; Leitzinger 1996: 184–185, 1999: 32; Hairetdin 1996: 56–57.

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other parts of Finland in the more recent past. In short, one might assume that the fourth and especially the fifth generation of Tatars are facing the threat of assimilation in a similar fashion equivalent to those generations of other ethnic communities. Interestingly enough, there is, however, a difference in the outlook concerning the survival of the Tatar culture between the older and younger Tatars. The former are often pessimistic of the future and fearful of the extinction of the Tatar community, whereas the latter are positively assured that their language and culture will persevere. For young people the situation is not necessarily as bad as it looks. As one of them exclaimed: ‘Ah, sure, after all we know who we are.’ (Mustanoja 1982: 53. See also Maunula 1988; Halén 1991: 78.) In light of the research on third and fourth generations of ethnic minorities, this ‘knowing who we are’ might form a key towards understanding the above-mentioned difference in the outlook of the older and younger generations. What actually is emerging among the third generation is a kind of ‘symbolic ethnicity’.20 In other words, for them being a Tatar means thinking, knowing, and feeling rather than actually being or doing something. In other words, being a Tatar Muslim concerns identification and a feeling of belonging rather than actual practice. Thus, younger Tatars hold their language in high esteem, even if they also acknowledge that in actual fact they use more the Finnish language than Tatar in everyday life, and that their Tatar vocabulary is not as extensive as it could be. Moreover, they appreciate family gatherings and traditional festivities and hope to transmit the knowledge of traditional Tatar food, music, and poetry to their own children. As mentioned above, they also have a feeling for their ‘roots’ among Tatar people in Russia, whom they can now visit on a tourist visa without any hindrance. Thus, the ethnic identification for the third, and particularly for the fourth generation, is mainly a question of voluntary life-style, a choice they are 20 See Gans, who has launched the concepts of symbolic ethnicity (1979) and symbolic religiosity (1994) in relation to third-generation Jews, Armenians, and Catholics in America. See also Smith 1981: 156–157. Interestingly enough, as will be discussed below, similar ideas have been presented in recent literature on younger generations of Muslims in Europe (see Cesari 2003: 260). In my view, some of Gans’s findings are, in moderation, relevant also in relation to third and fourth generation Tatars. In addition, one has to remark in respect of Finland in general that Lutheran religiosity in this country is all in all very much ‘symbolic’, i.e. it is a question of belonging rather than one of believing. See Davie 2000, for Europe in general.

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willing to make. Perhaps it is the conviction brought by a conscious choice to side with Tatar culture that gives the younger generation a feeling of control over their lives and the future of their community. In addition, the younger generations are completely at home in the Finnish social environment and therefore have a multicultural competence that enables them to live flexibly as Tatars and as Finns. (See Mustanoja 1982: 42–45; Halén 1984: 350–351; Hairetdin 1996: 57; Leitzinger 1996: 253.) In addition to a high esteem for language, family traditions and a return to ‘roots’, the third and fourth generation of Tatars do not celebrate their culture and language solely in the private sphere of home, nor among their community members, as the earlier generations tended to do. As already noted, some of them are active in making their traditions known to the Finnish public at large. In other words, they are happy to display their ethnicity particularly in the public realm and hence to render it visible. Media coverage and publicity in general are obviously an additional factor in the construction of symbolic ethnicity (Gans 1979). However, whether this recent development can be interpreted as a renaissance of authentic Tatarness (Halén 1991: 79), or whether it is ‘the emergence of a new form of acculturation and assimilation that is taking place under the gaze of the rest of the society’ (Gans 1979), remains to be seen. What is obvious, however, in respect of young Tatars is that it is the ethnic identification rather than the religious one, which is brought to light in public. In this sense, the younger generations of Tatars can also be seen as an example of ‘symbolic religiosity’, which is secularised, privatised, and individualised identification with Islam instead of a daily practice of any religious code in everyday life (cf. Cesari 2003). In other words, Tatars are involved in a ‘secularization process, which is repositioning Islam into the private sphere’ (Cesari 2003: 253). However, among the Tatar youth, this process is not so ‘new’ as it might be among the offspring of the recent Muslim migrants in Europe. In their religious identification, Tatar Muslims in general hold a clear resemblance to Finnish Lutherans, for whom belonging is more important than believing or practising what the church teaches about Christianity (see Chapter One). The survey done in 1996 by the Tatar community states that it is more or less the same people who seem to attend the events of the Congregation but that their number, moving somewhere between 50 and 200, is very small

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in comparison to overall number of the members of the community (734). Thus, there are around 500 people who are members of the Congregation but do not take part in the activities of the community on a regular basis, if ever. (SIS 1996.) However, there is another, more general factor that might have a bearing on both the survival and public display of the Tatar community. It must be noted that what is created in parallel with the recent recognition of multiculturalism in contemporary Finnish society (Liebkind 2000), is a legitimate basis for minorities to enhance their distinctive way of life. However, this new policy does not only encourage maintaining minority identification but also their public display as a part of Finnish society. In sum, one may conclude that the development of Finnish multiculturalism might pave the way for more public Tatar identifications, whether in the form of ‘symbolic ethnicity’ or not. The same, of course, concerns other ethnic groups of Muslims as well. Silence, visibility and relations with new Muslims The Tatar community is an illustrative example of plural ethnic identifications that vary in time and place (cf. Hutchinson and Smith 1996: 7–8). These intra-community variations notwithstanding, it is the ethnic distinction which separates Tatars from the recent Muslim immigrants and refugees. It is obvious that the situation of the Tatars as sole representatives of Muslim interests in Finland has drastically changed since the 1970s. Until 1987 Tatars, as an organised Muslim group, were the only one of its kind in Finland. The growing numbers of Muslims during recent decades from about 1000 to some 30,000 has changed the scene completely so that in 2002 there were 18 registered Islamic communities in Finland. Among these communities Tatars are still one of the largest and certainly the most wealthy and best organised group, but with a membership of only around 700 Tatars have been clearly outnumbered by these ‘new Muslims’ as a whole. (See Sakaranaho 2002b: 144; Martikainen 2005.) The changed situation has also affected the attitude of the Congregation towards non-Tatar Muslims. During earlier decades the Congregation welcomed Muslims coming from abroad, and from Turkey in particular. Moreover the Congregation collaborated with the first non-Tatar Islamic community founded by Arab Muslims in

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1987 so that, for instance, the imam of the Congregation gave Islamic instruction to the children of the Arab community (Åback 1994: 20). However, in the recent rhetoric of the Congregation it is stressed that, even if other Muslims are allowed to attend religious and festive occasions of the Tatars, as non-Tatar speakers they do not fully benefit from them. The actual membership of the Congregation is nowadays restricted solely to Tatars and therefore for instance the spouses of mixed marriages are not admitted as members and neither does the Congregation accept Finnish converts. (Lauha 1963: 23, 86; Mustanoja 1982: 13; Leitzinger 1996: 164, 181; Hairetdin 1996: 34–35.) This tendency towards restricted membership is apparent also in the opinion of the Congregation concerning the draft of the new Freedom of Religion Act (2003). In this draft, it was proposed that individuals can be members of several registered religious communities at the same time (Uskonnonvapauskomitean välimietintö 1999: 5; see Chapter Three). However, the Islam Congregation of Finland expressed its opposition to this and wished that parallel membership would be restricted in the new Act as it was in the old one, or at least that communities could decide on this matter with regard to their own members. Moreover, the Congregation was of the opinion that each religious community would be responsible for burying only its own members and that communities could themselves decide to allow or not to allow the burial of non-members in their graveyards. (Yhteenveto välimietinnöstä 2000: 12, 37.) All in all, Tatars are very much ‘Finnish born and bred’. Among other things, their physical appearance or life-style does not distinguish them from Finnish people in general. Moreover, they are born in Finland, get their education in Finnish schools, and speak the Finnish language for the most part as do other Finns.21 As a result of their long-standing presence in Finland, Tatars have hence become ‘competent actors’ (Gerholm and Lithman 1988: 6) on the Finnish scene to the extent they are de facto Finns. Islam practiced by Tatars is liberal and unobtrusive, and it has found its own Finnish modes of expressions (Åback 1994: 21). As against this background it is perhaps understandable that the Congregation would identify more strongly with the wider society than with recent Muslim immigrants, 21 According to the figures given in the source Population Structure (2001: 70), there were only 114 Tatar speakers listed in Finland at that time.

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who can be as culturally foreign to Tatars as they are to Finns in general. As one member of the Congregation noted: ‘We are Finns, and in the Congregation we take a very cautious attitude towards these other Muslims; we do not want to be mixed up with some affairs of women’s circumcision, or politics, or the demands of veiling’22 (Åback 1994: 21). As a result of their smooth integration into Finnish society Tatars have been fairly invisible in public, even though they have from time to time figured in the media as far back as the turn of the 20th century. In fact, most Finns do not even know of the existence of the Tatar minority in Finland. (Lauha, 1963: 1; Marjamäki 1974; Mustanoja 1982: 8; Hairetdin 1996: 5). However, this lack of publicity has also operated in the interest of the community as one of its members recounts: We have, for the most part, kept to ourselves, lived amongst ourselves, and thereby endeavoured to cherish our own culture as far as Finnish society has allowed us to do. (Daher 1991: 127)

All in all, the Tatar community has traditionally evaded publicity in the Finnish media, and, for the most part, remained, as one journalist points out, ‘a silent minority that does not make much noise about itself ’ (Andergård 1975a). Moreover, it is obvious that contemporary Tatars have actively avoided being associated with the ‘Muslim factor’ in Europe, but neither have they wanted to be seen as victims of the general feeling against Islam. (Cf. Nielsen 1995: ii; Vertovec & Peach 1997: 5.) The Congregation did not, for instance, take part in the discussion concerning the Rushdie affair in the 1980s, and neither did it comment on the attacks in the United States on 11 September 2001. In other words, Tatars have not followed the general trend among Muslims in Europe to engage with the public sphere that has taken place since the late 1980s. (See Vertovec and Peach 1997: 6.) Being silent, however, proves to be exceedingly difficult because of media coverage on other parts of the world. Moreover, the coming of new Muslim groups in Finland has also increased the pressure on the Tatars to become more public as Muslims. For instance, the arrival of Somali refugees in Finland in the beginning of the 1990s

22

Translated from the Finnish.

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brought Muslims to the headlines, which meant that Tatars were also exposed as Muslims. Moreover, as Muslims, Tatars are at times expected by the media to give reasons for practices falsely associated with Islam such as female circumcision. (Leitzinger 1996: 187; Sakaranaho & Pesonen 1999: 10.) As a result, the present situation challenges the hitherto low-profile policy of Tatars and puts pressure on them to become more visible and outspoken as Muslims: The stir around the Islamic faith as well as the arrival of new Muslims, who have moved to Finland with their peculiar habits, has led Tatarspeaking Muslims into an awkward position. Tatars are pressured to account for individual changes in the Islamic world. (Haapavaara 1995)

One of the developments in the Islamic world that threw the Tatar Congregation into an ‘awkward’ position was the Iranian revolution of 1979. Even if the larger audience in Finland does not offhandedly identify Tatars with Islam, there were some individuals who discovered Tatars to be Muslims and held them personally responsible for what was happening in Iran to such an extent that they even sent death threats to the Congregation (Mustanoja 1982: 40). Another incident that brought media attention to Tatars occured in 1995 when a Finnish nurse working in Saudi Arabia was accused of having alcohol in her possession, while travelling in a car with a strange man, and as a result was publicly flogged as a punishment. The media coverage of this case was sensational inducing big headlines expressing fear and terror of Islam. In addition to some specialists on Islam, the imam of the Islam Congregation of Finland, Ahmet Naim Ataveser, was asked to comment on such cruel practices as the severing of limbs and public corporal punishment that took place in the name of Islam. Ataveser spoke for his community and complained of the identification that is constantly made between Tatars and these, for them, so horrible incidents of cruelty and terror. In his opinion, ‘authentic’ Islam does not sanction such punishments. (Haapavaara 1995.) Tatars often emphasise that Finnish people have generally treated them and their religion well. However, in the beginning of the 1990s a Tatar home in Tampere was attacked by a petrol bomb; this happened at a time when asylum seekers and immigrants from Muslim populated countries in the Middle East and Africa started to arrive at Finland in more visible numbers (Sakaranaho & Pesonen 1999: 10). Thus, in similar fashion to other Muslim populations resident

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in Europe, Tatars were affected by the fear, suspicion and hostility that Europeans at times show towards Islam. (Cf. Vertovec & Peach 1997: 4.) The growing irritation felt by Tatars in regard to this matter became more and more apparent towards the end of the 1990s. There were even discussions as to whether the name of the Congregation should be changed so that it would reflect the Tatar rather than Islamic nature of the community. It was felt that the present name of the Congregation which emphasizes Islam, was too broad and hence led to unwanted inquiries. In a survey conducted among the members of the Congregation less than half supported keeping the old name. However, the initiative to change the name of the Congregation was finally dropped because of lack of support for an alternative name that would have been accepted by the majority of the members. (Leitzinger 1999: 53.) Discussions on the ‘proper’ name for the Congregation comprises but one example of the tendency for the community to close ranks by shifting the emphasis from religious identification with Islam towards ethnic identification as Tatars. In general, Tatars can be taken as an example of an interplay between religious and ethnic identifications of which one or the other can take precedence at different times and places as the main point of reference. Moreover, one may note that Islam can undoubtedly work as a unifying factor within a heterogeneous community such as the Tatar Congregation but, nonetheless, Islam as an appellation of an identity is by far not the only point of reference, but simply constitutes one factor in the chimera of ethnic considerations as well privileges gained in a host society. Certainly, in relation to publicity, it is the ethnic rather than the religious identification that has been displayed by Tatars for the larger Finnish audience. In the face of the negative publicity that Islam is prone to attract in the media, the Islam Congregation has chosen to remain silent and refrain from public discussion. Thus, one can conclude that until recently the public appearance of Tatars as Muslims has focussed on institutions such as the Islam Congregation of Finland and its physical location in the House of Islam, which as a building is, however, a rather inconspicious feature of the general city environment. (Wilenius 1961: 34.) Situated in the centre of Helsinki, it is a physical sign of the stability and wealth acquired by the Tatar community in Finnish society. Moreover, it houses an Islamic establishment which is very much ‘there’ but in such a way

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that it does not readily attract public attention. In fact, this house integrates perfectly into the general scene and hence as a building it is as Finnish as Finnish can be. Thus, one could use it also as a metaphor for the identification of Tatars that concerns their loyalty to Finland as a country. The earlier generations expressed their Finnish affiliations by their patriotism, but among the younger generations the feeling of Finnishness is so strong that the crucial question in relation to this group is no longer how to integrate into Finnish society but how to survive as a distinctive ethnic and religious community. In recent research, the Muslims of the second and third generations in Europe have been grouped as ‘assimilationists’, ‘traditionalists’, or as ‘new type of Muslims’, who want simultaneously to be Europeans and Muslims (Hunter 2002: xiv). The Tatars, who live in Finland already in the fourth or fifth generation are, admittedly, fully integrated into Finnish society and therefore could be called ‘assimilationist’. Moreover, as mentioned above, the Tatar community has opted for an adamant policy of keeping a low profile, resulting in reasonable invisibility in public. It goes without saying that, with respect to their ‘policy of low profile’, Tatars fit very well into the Finnish conception of a ‘good immigrant’ as a ‘harmless and silent observer’ (see Chapter One). Perhaps, this actually is one of the reasons why Tatars have not, in their own experience, suffered from discrimination in Finnish society. Instead, they have consciously and smoothly adapted to the expectations of the wider society. Recent Muslim Communities In Finland, the awareness of the Islamic presence in the country awoke as late as the 1990s, which was thirty years later than in western Europe in general (see Nonneman 1997: 4; Hunter 2002: xiv). As mentioned above, the long-standing Tatar Muslim minority had not attracted much media attention and therefore it remained invisible so that, until very recently, many Finnish people outside the capital city area hardly knew that a community like this existed in Finland (see Sakaranaho 2002b: 133). However, when the first Somali refugees began arriving in the beginning of the 1990s, the situation in Finland changed and gave rise to what has at times been called a ‘Somali shock’ (Aallas 1991; Alitolppa-Niitamo & Ali 2001). With

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the arrival of Somali asylum seekers, Islam rose to the headlines as something very alien and threatening to the Finnish way of life (see Tiilikainen 1999: 60; cf. Cesari 2003: 252). In practice, the Finnish state and its people were forced to meet Muslims with a very different cultural background and to decide on the policies of integrations with regard to these new-comers. The visibility rendered to Somalis, but also to refugees from Kosova in the 1990s, however, easily conceals the fact that there were recent immigrants to Finland from Muslim populated countries to a varying degree already since the 1960s, even if only in small numbers. These immigrants were mainly young men from Arab countries, coming for the most part from Egypt, who were also the ‘founding fathers’ of the first non-Tatar Islamic community in 1987 (see Åback 1994: 22–23). In similar fashion to Tatars, these men hold a reasonably high level of education, and work in specialised professions, which might, as in the case of Tatars, explain their invisibility in the public debate (cf. Pietikäinen & Luostarinen 1996). Whatever the case may be, Tatars and the first generation of immigrant Muslims in Finland constitute a fairly well-educated and professional group of people in comparison to most recent Muslim arrivals of whom many are refugees with a varying degree of education and professional skills. In this respect, Muslims in Finland would seem to negate the argument that, in Europe, recent immigrants tend to be better educated than their forebears (see Smith 2002: 4).23 Instead, these men of the first generation of contemporary Muslim immigrants could be seen as an example of Muslim students, even if in a very small number in comparison to the European colonial countries, which, in their time, opted for staying in Finland instead of returning to their country of birth and, in the process of settling down in Finnish society, engaged in the establishment of Islam in this country (cf. Smith 2002: 5; Modood 2002). However, with regard to different phases in the Muslim migration to Finland, one can note a similarity with the general course of development in Europe so that the first wave of Muslims to arrive to this country, namely Tatars and the men of Arab origin, were

23 Undoubtedly, this might be the case in the United States and Canada, as stated by Smith (2002: 4).

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mainly migrating to Finland for the purpose of employment, whereas the 1990s bore witness to the arrival of asylum-seekers and refugees fleeing their country for various reasons (Smith 2002: 4). With time many Muslim immigrants have been naturalised and therefore Finnish Muslims are either citizens, or legal residents, whereas the number of illegal and undocumented persons is very small (cf. Smith 2002: 5; Sakaranaho 2002a). With regard to different decades, one can encapsulate the development of Muslim migration to Finland as follows (see Martikainen 2000a: 207): Table 1. Muslim migration to Finland 1830s–1910s 1870s–1930s 1960s–1980s 1990s–

Muslims in Russian Army, merchants and families Tatar immigration to Finland Individual immigrants, mainly from Arab countries Immigrants from the Middle East, North Africa, Asia Asylum-seekers and refugees: Somalia, former Yugoslavia & Bosnia-Hertzegovina, Irak and Iran

It is obvious from the above that the establishment of different generations of Muslims has a particular pattern in Finland so that, until very recently, a Muslim population was ethnically very homogeneous, consisting at first almost entirely of Tatars, and then from the 1960s to the 1980s coupled with Arabs, whereas recent decades have seen a rapid process of pluralisation among this population and thereby an increase, for instance, in the number of Muslims coming from Somalia and the former Yugoslavia. Moreover, in addition to immigrants, the ethnic and linguistic plurality of Muslims in Finland has also increased due to the growing number of Finnish converts, who are mainly women, becoming visibly active in the 1990s.24 All in all, the pluralisation of the Muslim population has been linked to a substantial increase in the number of Muslims in this country, which in turn has been reflected in the institutional flourishing of Islamic communities in the 1990s. 24 It must be noted that there have been some active Finnish converts to Islam already since the 1980s, of whom Mikko Telaranta is perhaps one of the best known. As a Muslim intellectual, he has lectured and published on Islam for many years, and has also been interviewied in the media every now and then. In his own words, he does not feel a need to collaborate with other Muslims but he does not deny the necessity for a dialogue between different Muslims.

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Figures As in other European countries, it is impossible to give an exact number of Muslims in Finland. However, as mentioned already, the overall number of Muslims in Finland can be estimated to stand near 30,000 and hence Muslims represent less than half percent of the population, which in 2002 was a little bit over five million, that is 5,206,295 (Statistics Finland 2003b: 7). This estimate of 30,000 can be reached by looking into the figures provided by the Statistics Finland on the country of birth, citizenship, and mother tongue.25 According to the country of birth, the largest groups of Muslims in Finland in 2002 originated from Somalia (4,554), Iraq (3,803), Turkey (2,614), Iran (2,526), Morocco (1,133), Afghanistan (939), Bangladesh (503), Algeria (464), Pakistan (494), Egypt (443), and the former Yugoslavia (4,570; 70% Muslims) (Statistics Finland 2003b: 53). The problem with the numbers concerning the country of birth is that not all refugees and immigrants from the above-mentioned countries are Muslims by upbringing. For instance, there are Christians who have fled from Iraq to Finland, but it is quite impossible to know their exact number. Therefore one can only assume that if a person is coming from a country with Muslims as a vast majority of the population, he or she is most likely a Muslim. Moreover, those Muslims who are Finnish citizens do not figure in these statistics. In Finland, the Finnish citizenship can be acquired after an immigrant has stayed in the country for five years but in addition to this, the processing of an application can take a few years. Among the 30,000 Muslims, roughly five to six thousand are Finnish citizens, who consist, first, of Tatars (726), all of whom are Finnish nationals, second, of some six to seven hundred Finnish converts,26 and third, four to five thousand immigrants, of which Somalis (2,673) constitute by far

25 In the Population Structure concerning immigrants and foreigners in Finland, the country of birth has been given since 1980, but the mother tongue in detail only since 1999. The Statistics Finland has started to publish information on foreigners and immigrants in a separate publication since 2001. (Personal communication with Erja Ahokas, Statistics Finland, 22 May 2003.) 26 Undoubtedly, it is difficult to know the exact number of converts, in similar fashion to Muslims in general, because they are not necessarily active in Islamic communities but rather operate as individual believers. However, with regard to the readership of the journal An-Nur, one can estimate that, in addition to around four hundred converts, who subscribe to this paper, there are at least a couple hundred converts who do not come forward (Int F03:1).

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the largest ethnic group,27 and fourth, children of mixed marriages, which might amount to a few hundred (see Martikainen 2000b: 209; Statistics Finland 2003a: 17). Due to the process of naturalisation, one can get a more precise picture concerning the amount of those who most likely are Muslims by upbringing by looking into the numbers of different language groups. Thus, in 2002, there were over seven thousand Somali speakers (7,332), around five thousand six hundred Arabic speakers (5,641), around four thousand Albanian speakers (4,261), of whom 70% are Muslims, nearly four thousand Kurdish speakers (3,926), and nearly three thousand Turkish speakers (2,864). Moreover, there were around one thousand five hundred Persian speakers (1,547), and nearly four hundred Urdu speakers (385). Thus, in comparison to some of the other language groups in Finland, besides the national languages of Finnish and Swedish, the overall number of those who, on account of their language, might be counted as Muslims is twice the amount of the estimated Estonian speakers (11,932), but somewhat less than that of the Russian speakers (33, 401). (Statistics Finland 2003b: 71.) With regard to the ethnic composition, Somalis constitute by far the largest ethnic group among Muslims in Finland, as well as that of refugees, but also those coming from Africa (Tiilikainen 1999: 59). Morever, the overall number of Somalis (7,332), all of whom are Muslims, is on a scale similar to that of registered Catholics in Finland (7,643). Interestingly enough, the prominent presence of Somalis makes Finland an exception with regard to the ethnic composition of the Muslim population in comparison to European countries in general, but also to other Nordic countries (see Maréchal 2002). However, in addition to Somalis, there are Muslims in Finland also from the Middle East and North Africa, and, on a smaller scale, from the Indian subcontinent, namely Pakistan and Bangladesh, in addition to recent arrivals from the former Yugoslavia. (Statistics Finland 2003b; Sakaranaho & Pesonen 1999: 8; Martikainen 2000b: 208–211; Martikainen 2005.) In respect of age, the Muslim immigrant and the refugee population, in particular, is very young in comparison to the wider soci27 According to Statistics Finland on foreigners and international migration in Finland, the largest groups of Muslims naturalised in Finland come from the following countries: Somalia (2,673), Iraq (1167), Turkey (674), Iran (666), and Morocco (515). (Statistics Finland 2003a: 17.)

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ety. The Finnish population structure in 2002 according to age was divided into 17.8% of children under the age of 15; 66.9% of adults between the age of 16 and 64; and 15.3% of the elderly over the age of 65 (Population Structure 2003b: 32). However, among those who speak Somali as their mother tongue, more or less half (47%) are under 15 years of age, and 73% are under thirty years of age. Morever, the number of children is very high also among the Albanian (39%) and Kurdish (35%) populations. Among the Arabic speakers, the number of children is a quarter (26%), and among Persian speakers more or less the same (22%), whereas among Turkish speakers the percentage of children, being only 14%, is even lower than the Finnish rate in general. All in all, the majority of immigrants and refugees are in their best working age, i.e. between 25 and 39 years of age.28 Contrary to the recent immigrant and refugee population, the Tatar community is aging rapidly. In general, one can therefore draw a rough age pyramid in which the elderly are represented mainly among Tatars, people in their (late) mid-life among immigrants from Arab countries and Turkey, whereas children are prominent among recent refugees from Somalia, Albania and the Kurds. In respect of geographical distribution, the vast majority of Muslims live in southern Finland. According to the figures of the largest linguistic groups among Muslims in Finland, the majority of Somali, Arabic, and Turkish speakers are located in southern Finland, while the second largest numbers are in western Finland, with only a small number in the eastern and the northern parts of the country. (Statistics Finland 2003b: 70–71.) Thus, understandably enough, Muslims are located in the areas which are economically most affluent, whereas they are scarce in the so-called developing areas in Finland, characterised by the lack of industry and a high rate of unemployment. However, it must be noted that the domicile of Muslims changes constantly since immigrant families travel from one town to another. In southern Finland, Muslims are centred in the metropolitan area of Helsinki consisting of three cities, namely Helsinki, Vantaa, and Espoo. According to their mother tongue, Muslims are divided into these cities to the extent that Muslims amount to: 7,978 in Helsinki,

28 The immigrants over age 65 come from Sweden (22%), the USA (14,6%) and Canada (13,4%), being mainly Finnish ex-patriots returning in order to spend their pension years in Finland. (Statistics Finland 2003a: 11).

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being 1.4% of the total population of the city (559,716) (City of Helsinki 2002/2003), 3,130 in Vantaa, being 1.7% of the total population (181,890) (City of Vantaa 2002/2003), and 1,776 in Espoo, being 0.8% of the total population (221,517) (City of Espoo 2002/ 2003). Thus, the relative number of Muslims is largest in Vantaa, which is the least affluent of these cities, whereas the number of Muslims is lowest in Espoo, which has a relatively well-off population. In these cities, Muslims tend to live in suburbs, which are less affluent and, to some extent at least, are considered as housing areas with social problems. One cannot, however, talk of ghettoes in this regard. As such the growing numbers of Muslims have for their part contributed to the rapid rise in the 1990s of the numbers of foreigners in Finland overall, which in general evoked some negative reactions in the wider society. These reactions were, to some extent at least, linked to the fact that Finland was trying to recover from a severe economic recession that hit the country in the beginning of the 1990s. It is usual that economic recession, accompanied by widespread unemployment and cutbacks in the social welfare system, generally hardens the attitudes of the host society towards refugees and immigrants. As mentioned in Chapter Five, this was clearly the case in the 1970s when Europe suffered acutely from the oil crisis. In this respect, Tatars were in a better position than recent Muslim immigrants since they moved to Finland at the time of a rising economy. No doubt this was the incentive in their pursuit of trade in Finland at the time, as was discussed above. Moreover, those Muslims who came to Finland as labour migrants or students in the 1960s and the 1970s also had time to settle down before the recession of the 1990s. It is here that one finds another difference between the above-mentioned two waves of Muslim migration to Finland, which has had repercussions for employment in particular. While Tatars and Arabs came to Finland in small numbers and as labour migrants, the most recent arrivals in the 1990s entered the country for the most part as groups of asylum-seekers and refugees. Moreover, the Finnish labour market was more or less closed to foreign labour in the post-war period, and consequently Finland had very little experience of a foreign labour force (Laakkonen 1997: 124–132; Martikainen 2000b: 213). Therefore, in the 1990s Finland faced a steep learning curve in coming to terms with refugees and immigrants who needed to be integrated into the Finnish labour market. Thus far, the rate of unemployment among foreign citizens

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has tended to be much higher than that of Finnish nationals, even though there is a great ethnic variations in the rates of employment among those who originate from Muslim populated countries (see Forsander 2002). In sum, one may note a difference in economical status between the Tatar and recent Muslims in Finland; the Tatar community is reasonably wealthy, whereas refugees and immigrants often need to depend on the welfare system of Finnish society. In a nutshell, these ‘old’ and ‘new’ Muslims tend to cluster at opposite ends of the social and economic scale in respect of education, employment and general wealth. However, those Muslim immigrants, who entered the country between the 1960s and the 1980s, and work in different professions, are located somewhere between these two extremes. Institutional blossoming The vast majority of recent Muslim immigrants are, in similar fashion to Tatars, Sunni Muslims, with the exception of small communities of Shi’ites from Iraq that are organised in the city of Turku and in Helsinki29 (see Martikainen 2000a). The founding of the communities seem to some extent at least to be in the hands of a particular ethnic group, but in actual practice mosques are multi-ethnic. The pluralisation of the Muslim population in Finland is apparent in figures which show the speed by which new Islamic communities and associations have been registered during recent decades. In 2003, there were some 27 local Muslim mosque communities in Finland, including the mosques run by the Tatars.30 All in all, it appears that the 1990s witnessed a rapid growth in the number of local mosques and prayer rooms. These mosques are situated in some fifteen localities, of which there is more than one mosque each in the bigger cities, such as Helsinki, Turku and Tampere. Turku forms in interesting case in the sense that there are two Sunni and two Shi"ite mosques in the city (see Martikainen 2004a). In eastern Finland, there are two mosques in Kuopio, in northern Finland, there is one

29

The Shi"ite mosque in Helsinki was started in Spring 2004. www.islamopas.com [Accessed 14 May 2003]. Cf. the figures between 15 and 17, given by Isra Lehtinen in An-Nur in October 1996, and the figure of 26 by Martikainen in 2000. Thus, there was a considerable growth in the number of mosques in the end of the 1990s. 30

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mosque in Oulu and one in Rovaniemi, whereas in western Finland there is one mosque in Vaasa. (See Martikainen 2000a: 216.) However, it is almost impossible to give an accurate number of mosques functioning in Finland because the situation changes so quickly. Because of this change, any figures are bound to become outdated in the short run. The difficulties in studying the institutionalisation of Islam in contemporary Finland, is brought about, among other things, by the rapid creation of new communities, power struggles inside the existing ones, the lack of a viable national Muslim organisation, and the general suspicion of the authorities felt by immigrants (Martikainen 2000a: 219; see Liebkind and Jasinskaja-Lahti 2000: 82). However, it is possible to outline some general trends in this development by looking into the formation of the registered Muslim community organisations, which are listed by the population register. This register notwithstanding, one faces some problems of gaining exact information concerning these communities as well, as will be shown below. As mentioned above, Tatars formed the sole Islamic community that was registered in Finland until the 1980s. However, the situation started to change towards the end of the 1980s, and in the beginning of the 1990s the number of Muslim communities began to rise rapidly, as shown in the following table. Table 2. Numbers of registered Islamic communities in Finland 1925 1943 1987 1995 2002

1 2 3 8 18

Thus, in 2002 there were altogether 18 registered Islamic communities in Finland, of which more than half (10) are in the capital city area. The reasons for the rapid growth in the number of Islamic communities has been explained by the sudden increase in the Muslim population, but also on account of having the need for organisational structures that support founding new mosques (see Martikainen 2000b: 217). As was discussed in Chapter Three, in Finland the practice is to register a religious group as a religious community organisation. It is obvious from the table above that Muslim immi-

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grants have been quick in recent years to take advantage of such a practice. As justification for founding a registered Islamic community, the need to organise Muslims for gaining hold of rights in Finnish society comes to the fore, as the following quotation readily shows: As a Muslim, it is important to belong to an Islamic community organisation because it is difficult to ask for rights as a Muslim if one is in the civil register. When applying for planning permission for a burial ground or a mosque, the state encourages one to start a religious community organisation first. This is Finnish law. One must found a religious community or a congregation. (Islam ja Rakkaus Yhdyskunta)31

To be sure, the increase in the number of Muslims in Finland, and their consequent ethnic pluralisation, affected the way Islam was institutionalised in Finland. Unlike some other European countries, Muslim immigrants in Finland entered a situation, whereby an established Muslim community already existed. Before the 1990s, the Tatar community, as mentioned above, was fairly open for Muslims of different ethnic backgrounds and offered them a possibility to attend Friday prayers and other festivities in their mosque. At that time the numbers of Muslims were rather small and hence they provoked no alarm in the Tatar community. Towards the end of the 1980s, however, Muslim immigrants began to feel that there was a need for a separate Islamic community organisation that would better serve the needs of those coming from Muslim-populated countries. The first immigrant-based registered Islamic community was founded in Helsinki and officially registered as Suomen Islamilainen yhdyskunta (The Islamic Society of Finland) in 1987. The members of this Society, numbering between 50 and 80 at the time, consisted mainly of Arab men with Egyptian nationality, living in the Greater-Helsinki area (Åback 1994: 19). As one of them commented, these young men, when entering Finland, were not very much interested in religion but rather in matters that concerned success in studies, work, and in relations to the opposite sex.32 However, with time they settled down in Finland, many of them married Finnish women and had 31 This is a leaflet about the Islamic community, Islam and Love, but there is no information concerning the year the leaflet was written or who the writer is. However, I received it from the community in 1995 and, because the community was registered in 1994, the leaflet was most likely written in 1994 or 1995. 32 A personal communication with one of the founding members of this Society.

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a family. At the time, for a non-Scandinavian to obtain a permanent residence permit in Finland required employment or marriage to a Finn, of which the latter was far more common in the applications (Martikainen 2000a: 332; Laakkonen 1997). When children of the second generation started growing up, it became necessary to organise a means for transmitting their cultural and religious heritage to their offspring, whereby the Society organised celebrations and provided older children and the young with instruction in religion and Arabic. (Åback 1994: 22.) Thus, similar questions concerning the socialisation of the second generation of immigrant children became acute in Finland in the end of the 1980s, as had been the case in other European countries in the 1970s. In Finland, as in Europe in general, the socialisation of children was hence one of the main motivations behind founding a new immigrant-based registered Islamic community, and thereby develop the core institutions of an Islamic community, namely family, mosque, and education (see Ahlberg 1990: 32; Vertovec and Peach 1997: 22). As mentioned above, the founders of the Islamic Society were mainly Arab men and therefore the ethnic composition of the Society was very homogeneous at first. However, with the arrival of Muslim immigrants and refugees in the 1990s, the ethnic composition of the Society started to change so that today the majority of the active members are, in addition to Arab countries, also from Somalia, including some active Finnish converts. Along with the changes in the membership of the Society, the leadership has also changed to that extent that its ‘founding fathers’ are no longer active members of the Society. There are around five hundred members in the Society but only some fifty families of the total who pay the membership fee. The Society does not have an imam who would retain a salary and therefore some of the members take turns in performing the tasks of an imam. The Society has changed its location several times due to overcrowding, or as a result of complaints by neighbours because of extensive traffic to the mosque. Presently, the Society is located in the centre of Helsinki, in Lönnrotinkatu, in an apartment that has been converted from a previous dance hall for the use of a mosque, a cultural centre, and an office. Among Muslims, the mosque is known as Rabita.33 There is also a café, a small library, and a grocery 33

See www.islamopas.com/popuptjanster/moske.html.

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store. A school class can also be found on these premises, in which some five to ten primary-school children are taught by a Finnish teacher. These new premises were financed by an organisation that is connected to the Society, entitled Suomen Moskeijoiden säätiö (The Mosque Foundation of Finland), which has been active collecting finances from abroad during recent years. However, it also receives donations from Muslims who are members of the Society or otherwise use the mosque. To raise funding in Finland, the Foundation has organised a project by which individual members of the Society can, in a sense, buy a square metre of the mosque. (See Åback 1994: 22–23; Karikoski 2001: 25.) With regard to international connections, the Society houses on its premises the Finnish section of an international aid organisation, that of the Islamic Relief. It is also a member of the Islamic Organizations in Europe and has some contacts with the Muslim World League. In addition to Friday prayers and the celebration of the main Islamic feasts, the Society organises Islamic lessons in Finnish for adults on a weekly or fortnightly basis, which are given by a male and female teacher, and of which the latter is a Finnish Muslim. Finnish converts have published a Finnish-language monthly paper since March 1994 called An-Nur (The Light).34 The paper is distributed to around 500 individuals who consist of Muslims, teachers, and researchers, in addition to some immigrant Muslims. Undoubtedly, the Finnish language limits the readership especially in respect to immigrant Muslims. The paper is presently attached to the Islamic Society of Finland but, this institutional link notwithstanding, it is very much under the influence of the editor-in-chief, a Finnish female Muslim, who has been the principal force behind the paper from the very beginning. The main aim of the paper is to enhance general knowledge about Islam in Finland, but also, and perhaps more importantly, to operate as a platform for ‘Finnish Islam’. One of the primary questions dealt with in the paper concerns the two-way adaptation of Islam with Finnish society, and hence the problems

34 There was another paper called Al-Iman, which was published in Helsinki from 1995 to 1997, and was in similar fashion to An-Nur edited by Finnish Muslim women. The reason for running two different papers, directed mainly to the same readership, was grounded in the conflicts and strife between Finnish Muslims at the time. A similar kind of paper to An-Nur, named Salaam, has been published in Sweden already since 1986 (Otterbeck 2000b).

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which arise to hinder this process. Thus, an issue for constant discussion in the paper concerns how to live as a Muslim in Finnish society. (See Kurvinen 2003.) In addition to this paper, the Islamic Society has a web page (www.rabita.fi), which provides information about the Society and notifies members regarding current events concerning Muslims. The above-mentioned paper An-Nur and the web pages already indicate the general attitude of the Islamic Society towards the wider society. Unlike the Islam Congregation of the Tatars, the Islamic Society is very active in informing the Finnish public about Islam. In addition to the printed word and the Internet, the Society has also organised public lectures and discussions on various themes concerning Islam already since the beginning of the 1990s. It also organises international seminars on the regular basis to which it invites visiting lecturers from abroad. Some of the members of the Society are also active in religious dialogue, which has taken place between Muslims and the Evangelical Lutheran Church for over ten years. Moreover, panel discussions between representatives of different religions are organised once or twice a year, and the panel usually takes places in the University of Helsinki.35 To date, the Islamic Society of Finland is the largest immigrant-based registered Islamic community in Finland, which therefore easily gains visibility also in the media when Islam is discussed. In addition to activities in Helsinki, the Society functions also in Oulu, where Muslims managed to procure a piece of land for building a mosque—as the most northern mosque in Europe—but the main problem has proved to be that of financing the project (Åback 1994: 20). Muslims in Turku have run up against similar problems, where, in addition to financial problems, they have also met with fierce opposition against building a mosque in the city centre. In similar fashion to Tatars in the 1960s, contemporary Muslims provoke, in their attempts to introduce Islamic buildings into the Finnish landscape, fears and feelings of insecurity among some sectors of the Finnish public. (See Sakaranaho 2002b; Martikainen 2001.) Indeed, 35 The Muslim–Christian dialogue in Finland is certainly a topic which should be researched in the near future. It has lasted quite a while and is presently taking so many forms that, in order to get a proper picture of it, a thorough study of it would be in order. In short one may note that, in addition to the Islam work group organised by the Lutheran Church, there is a society called URI, which is active in Muslim-Christian dialogue both nationally and internationally.

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this kind of a reaction against the construction of purpose-built mosques seems to be characteristic to other European countries as well and hence Finland is not an exception in this matter (see Waardenburg 1988; Karlsson & Svanberg 1995; Karlsson Minganti 2004; see Chapter Five). In the middle of the 1990s, there were three new Islamic community organisations functioning mainly in Helsinki. Interestingly enough, a community organisation called Islam ja rakkaus (Islam and Love), registered in 1994, was not associated with the recent streams of immigrants but was an offshoot of the Tatar community, augmented by some Turks and Finns. The predominant force behind starting the community was a family which split away from the Islam Congregation of Tatars and was led by a charismatic Turkish man, by all accounts, who was married into a Tatar family. At the time of its registration, the community had twenty-six registered members and, concerning their religious identification, it followed a ‘Sufi Way’. It was run by a board consisting of nine members and the first chairman was a Finnish man who was elected as the Sheih-yl Islam of Finland in 1994. In addition to him, there were two other muftis who were both from Turkey. One of them operated as an imam in the Islam Congregation of Finland from 1976 to 1994, but after getting involved in this new community, he was finally expelled from his position in the Congregation. In 1994, he was chosen as the Sheih-yl Islam of Finland in the Islam and Love community organisation (Pohjoisruusu 1994, vol. 1, no. 6). This community held meetings in private homes, which they called medrese, and produced a paper called Pohjoisruusu (Northern Rose), which included writings both in Finnish and Turkish. According to some observers, the community was still functioning in 1997, but for a survey done on Islamic communities in Finland in 2001, no information was available on this group (Karikoski 2001: 31). One can therefore assume that it has ceased to function before the end of the 1990s, even though it is still in the register of religious community organisations. The nomination of the first Sheih-yl Islam by the community of Islam and Love was proceeded by an invitation to all Muslim communities to come together and to decide on who should operate as Sheih-yl Islam of Finland. It was also intended that, on the same occasion, a Muslim Parliament of Finland, with three representatives from each of the Muslim communities would be initiated. The motivation behind the invitation was to create unity among Finnish Muslims;

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the Sheih-yl Islam would make decisions and give fatwas concerning the Muslim way of life in Finland, and all Muslims should follow his decisions. The impetus for creating this kind of unity among Muslims was explained by the recommendation from the Ministry of Social Affairs and Health as well as Ministry of Education to create a representative body for Finnish Muslims, but it was also justified by the effort to bring all Muslims in Finland together. No Islamic community, however, reacted to the invitation. (Pohjoisruusu 1994, vol. 1, no. 5: 1; Pohjoisruusu 1994 vol. 1, no. 7; Islam ja Rakkaus Yhdyskunta). The reaction, or rather the lack of one, to the invitation presented by Islam and Love community is of course understandable since, at that time in the middle of the 1990s, the Islamic communities consisted mainly of the congregations run by Tatars, who most likely perceived this new community as a deviance from their ranks. Moreover, this community was also alien for the immigrant-based Islamic communities functioning at the time (Int F03:1). Even if this group served more as a curiosity in the history of Muslims in Finland, the effort of Islam and Love to create unity among Finnish Muslims is interesting in the sense that it was overtly justified by the need of Finnish officials for someone who could represent Muslim interests in relation to the Finnish state. Thus, it was an effort to produce a Muslim establishment which would fit in the system of representational democracy in Finland. Another important matter in the above-mentioned effort is the call for unity among Muslims, which is an issue constantly arising in discussions among Muslims both in Finland and in Europe in general. Especially with regard to organised Islam in Europe, one of the contentious issues concerns the question of whether the religious communities should reinforce or transcend ethnic bonds, and hence decide on their priorities between ethnic and religious loyalties (see Cesari 2003: 257). As was discussed above, for the Tatars, it is the loyalty for their ethnic group which definitely takes precedence over a global view of Islamic umma. However, for the immigrant Muslim communities, which are highly heterogeneous, such ethnic exclusivity is practically rather impossible to achieve. With regard to the foundation of the Islamic Society of Finland and Islam and Love one can note an ethnic base in these community organisations, which was linked in the case of the former to Arab culture and language and in the case of the latter to Turkish influence. Religion, ethnicity and language were clearly intertwined

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also in the foundation of another Islamic community, Suomen Islamkeskus (The Islamic Centre of Finland), which was started by Pakistanis in 1994. The number of Pakistanis in Finland was and is fairly small in comparison to Somalis and Arabs, but it was felt among them that there was a need for an Islamic community which would function in Urdu and would cater for the cultural interests of the Pakistani community. However, the mosque run by this Centre is also open to Muslims other than just Asians. In similar fashion to other Islamic communities, the Centre runs a mosque in Helsinki as well as organises prayers and the major Islamic feasts. However, there is no Islamic instruction for children in the mosque, and Urdu is taught to children in a state school after the school hours. (Karikoski 2001: 28–29.) Concerning the geographical base, there is also an Islamic community, namely Islamilainen Al-Huda Yhdyskunta Suomessa (the Islamic Al-Huda Community in Finland), which is mainly run by African Muslims. Al-Huda, as it is usually known among Muslims,36 happens to also house another Islamic community, called the Helsinki Islam Keskus (Islamic Centre of Helsinki), which was registered in 1995. At that time, this community had a Sudanese imam and the members of the community were mainly from West Africa and Somalia. They had formerly been members of the Islamic Society of Finland, but had left it due to a growing lack of space. Al-Huda was registered in 1998, but it is practically the same as the Islamic Centre of Helsinki. Presently, it is run mainly by Somalis even though the visitors to the mosque are also from other countries; the languages used in Al-Huda are Somalia, Arabic, English, and Finnish, in similar fashion to Rabita (the Islamic Society of Finland), as well as to Al-Rahma, which was registered in English as the Islamic Rahma Center in Finland in 1998 and has members from Somalia, Egypt, and Algeria. Towards the end of the 1990s there were also other smaller communities registered in the metropolitan area and in other parts of Finland, such as Vaasa, Jyväskylä and Joensuu. In the beginning of 2000, Islamic community organisations were registered in Vantaa (Al-Risala Islamic Community), in Kuopio (The Islamic Community of Savo) and in Oulu (the Islamic Community of Northern Finland), of which the latter two are clearly the regional centres of Muslim activity in the

36

See www.islamopas.com; Karikoski 2001: 28.

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eastern and northern parts of Finland, respectively.37 Turku, as mentioned above, has four Islamic community organisations of which two are run by Sunni Muslims and two by Shi’a Muslims (Population Register Centre 2002; Martikainen 2000a: 231–237). The above-mentioned Al-Huda, coupled with the Islamic Center of Helsinki, is interesting in the sense that it shows how ‘fluid’ the organisation of Islamic communities can be. In Al-Huda, it seems that most of those who visit the mosque do not know which registered religious community is the one that runs the mosque, but neither are the leaders necessarily aware of this because they change at such a rapid pace. This might be partly explained by the fact that the actual services, which a mosque can provide, are more important for most Muslims than the organisational structures which it involves; neither is the Finnish organisational culture concerning religious organisations necessarily very well known among those who visit mosques. After all it is a very small minority even among the practising Muslims who are interested in the organisational work concerning Islam. Moreover, it seems that the idea of having to be registered according to religious affiliation is strange for most people coming from Muslim populated countries. (Cf. Chapter Three.) One can conclude that for most Muslims religion is a part of everyday life and a personal matter which has not got much to do with organisations. In itself, this argument is very much in contradiction with the usual idea that Islam is a religion of collectives whereas Christianity, especially in its Lutheran form, is a religion of individual privacy. However, the observations concerning Islamic adherence among Muslims in Finland clearly defy this generalisation and present Islam as a personal conviction and practice. Therefore, it does not come as a surprise that only a small faction of Muslims are registered as members of Islamic communities so that the numbers of membership in these organisations is somewhere around ten percent of the total Muslim population. (See Sakaranaho & Pesonen 1999; Martikainen 2000a; Karikoski 2001; Sakaranaho 2002a; www. islamopas.com.) Consequently, Finnish Muslims seem to fit into the general finding, dealt with in Chapter Five, that the majority of European Muslims are cultural or individual Muslims, and those who are active in the organised forms of Islam amount to some ten to

37

For Joensuu, see Samsudin 2003.

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twenty percent at most (Dassetto & Nonneman 1997; Sakaranaho 1999b: 217; Karikoski 2001: 21). Thus, one can note that in the end of the 1980s a new development in the establishment of Islam in Finland began, while the actual mushrooming of registered Islamic communities took place in the 1990s. The 1990s can therefore be called the decade of Islamic institutional blossoming in Finland. It is very likely, however, that the rapid rate at which registered Islamic communities and other religious associations have been founded in recent years will gradually slow down. The potential for creating new Islamic community organisations in the metropolitan area has most likely reached its peak, and to date the main regional centres have also been established. In the new millennium, when the growth in the number of Muslims will level out and the communities find their place in Finnish society, one can therefore expect to see a gradual stabilisation of Muslim communities in this country. It is obvious that those communities that have a fare of amount of support also have a better chance to survive, whereas communities that have been founded mainly on the account of an individual initiative have much more meagre prospects to remain vital. In sum, one may note that the new Islamic communities, dealt with above, more or less function in similar fashion so that the basic requirements of religious practice can be fulfilled. Consequently, they run a mosque, coordinate the daily prayers as well as the Friday prayers, and offer religious instruction in the form of lectures to adults and that of Qur’an schools for children. Moreover, these communities organise religious festivities of which the main events are the end of Ramadan and the great feast of sacrifice. (See Karikoski 2001: 22.) The celebration of the major feasts in Islam also attracts large numbers of Muslims for prayer and therefore large enough venues have been required to accommodate all participants. Long rows of several hundred Muslims, both men and women, kneeling in prayer on an open-air field in Helsinki, as happened in 1993, easily attracts media attention and provides Muslims visibility also to those Finns who are not otherwise familiar with Muslims (Åback 1994: 22). It is these kinds of publicised events which bring home to Finnish people that a Muslim population is established in Finland with its own religious habits. In a survey done among Muslims in Finland, it is further noted that, for a Muslim who is a newcomer, a Muslim community can

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constitute a safety net that is comparable to that of extended families in the countries of origin. Admittedly, it has been pointed out in studies on the acculturation of immigrants that immigrant communities, which enhance one’s ethnic or religious identity, can play a significant role in the process of integration (see Liebkind 1994). Even more so, religion can gain new significance in the immigrant life, when one is forced, perhaps for the first time in his or her life, to reflect upon his or her faith and hence to be more explicit about it vis-à-vis a new society with a different culture and religion; being in the minority, one cannot take a religious identification for granted when it is constantly contested by the majority. (See Martikainen 2004a: 77; Ebaugh & Chafetz 2000: 325–336). Therefore, religion can become one of the main points of reference with respect to one’s identity in a new environment (Ahlberg 1990: 26). In addition, religious identification can prove to be important psychologically in a situation where everything else in life is in a process of change. In other words, religion, as a familiar tradition, can function as an anchor that one can cling to in order to feel safe in a strange environment. (Karikoski 2001: 18; see Chapter One.) However, there exists among the above-mentioned new Muslim communities various differences of opinions, which tend to concern relations with the wider society. What seems to divide the communities is the question of whether they should direct their efforts to internal affairs of Muslims rather than participate in the public sphere and hence actively interact with the host society (Karikoski 2001: 22). In this respect, Finnish Muslim communities seem to fit into the general pattern that is characteristic of religious traditions which face global challenges (see Sakaranaho and Jonker 2003: 6). With regard to these challenges, there are, within a religious tradition, groups that aim at exclusivity and hence withdraw from the outside world, whereas some other groups are expansive and also aim at social and public influence. (See Beyer 1994.) Thus, one can conclude that institutionalisation of Islam entails a constant self-reflection concerning the boundaries between one’s religious tradition and the surrounding society, or world at large (see Luhmann 1982: 238–9). As such, this self-reflection is a vital part of constituting religious memory in contemporary secular society.

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Adaptations and paradoxes In similar fashion to Tatars in Finland, who admittedly have had over a hundred years of history in this country, one can anticipate the institutional integration of recent Muslim immigrant communities in this society. The Freedom of Religion Act (2003) in Finland offers an equal opportunity for organising a religious community organisation as long as there is a constitution drafted for the community and a minimum of twenty people listed among its members (see Chapter Three). In this sense, recent Muslims have actively availed themselves of the right which is articulated in Finnish legislation. As such, one can take this as a sign of the fact that recent Muslims, as Tatars before them, have become accustomed to the Finnish organisational and legislative culture (see Martikainen 2000b: 217; ibid. 2004a). However, in spite of the recent changes in the field of Islamic institutionalisation, the Islam Congregations of Tatars have a long history in this country and furthermore the immigrantbased Islamic Society of Finland seems to have firmly established itself during its nearly twenty years of functioning. Concerning Finnish society, Muslims need to organise themselves if they want to forward their interest in a system of representative democracy. In a sense, Muslim communities gain rights in following the organisational structure of the Christian model of a congregation, which operates as the representative of Muslim interests within the host society. It is within these kinds of institutional structures that the rights of Muslims can best be justified within the wider society. However, these kinds of representational structures are clearly forced on Muslim communities and therefore they do not fit with ease into the flexible organisational structure which is characteristic of Islam. With regard to figures concerning the Muslim population in Finland, it was mentioned above that only some ten percent of Muslims are registered in religious communities. Moreover, even among this ten percent only a minority is active in the institutional work concerning Islam. Therefore, a question arises as to who, if anyone, can allegedly negotiate in the name of Muslims in Finland with Finnish officials. Even more so, it is not only numbers which reveal the problem but also the heterogeneity among Muslims concerning different interpretations of Islam, which is not characteristic of the Muslim population at large but also to the small, active minority of Muslims.

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In Islamic communities, moreover, leadership does not have institutional backing, as in Christian churches, but instead needs to be earned by personal charisma and therefore it can also be lost (see Dassetto 1999). Since there is no ‘ordination’ of imams, it is at times unclear who can actually call himself an imam; one often hears critical remarks expressed by Muslims themselves on ‘self-appointed imams’ who do not have any legitimacy on a wider scale in a Muslim community. However, for the Finnish authorities it is important to find suitable partners among Muslims with whom to discuss issues concerning health, education, or other matters. Since for the Finnish officials this partner cannot be an independent individual but needs to have some sort of an official standing as a community or as a leader of such a community, Muslims are compelled to create such structures; they have to have something which they can call an official representative of their community. (See Sakaranaho et al. 2004: 6; Martikainen 2004a.) Moreover, it is in the process of negotiations with the wider society that imams can gain a new type of authority, which is not justified in religious terms but rather with reference to their competence as social actors in Finnish society. In this sense, Finnish women converts, with their cultural competence vis-à-vis Finnish society, easily challenge immigrant men who are foreigners to the country. Among Muslims this can cause friction. In any case, it is not uncommon to find personal friction and enmity between individual Muslims, who are often very much at loggerheads with one another on several issues. The reason for these discrepancies must be, to some extent at least, in the diversity of Muslims representing different nationalities, ethnic groups and religious orientations, which easily leads to power struggles among them. However, these power struggles can be seen as a fundamental part of a constant negotiation on the legitimacy of one’s right to speak for and about Islam in a religious community, still very much in the process of formation. With respect to this ‘power struggle’, one can note that in Finland it is mainly fought between individual Muslims, whereas in Ireland it clearly involves mosque institutions (see Chapter Seven). In spite of such personal strife, it is, furthermore, emphasised by Muslims that there are no doctrinal factions among Muslim communities in Finland, and neither has there been any enmity between different groupings of Muslims. The reason for this ‘unity’ is attributed to the position of living as a religious minority, which results in similar interests for getting organised in an unfamiliar social

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context. It is also emphasised that the ethnic mix of Muslim communities does not cause problems because the religious community shares a belief in the same basic pillars of Islam concerning faith and lifestyle. (Karikoski 2001: 22–23.) As against discrepancies and diversities, one can observe in Finland a process of negotiation ongoing between Muslims to create some sort of ‘general Islam’ as a grounding, which all Muslims could share and accept. As will be discussed in Chapter Nine, this process of finding some form of ‘general Islam’, as a common point of reference, is necessary in practical terms, for instance, when Islamic instruction is organised in Finnish schools. In other words, materialising Muslim interests in Finnish society forces some kind of unity among Muslims who, with regard to their ethnic and religious identifications, are a multicultural grouping. Thereby, the representational system of democracy thus appears to reinforce monoculturalism in a society, which is, in fact, becoming increasingly multicultural and recognised as such. (Sakaranaho 2000: 308; Sakaranaho et al. 2004: 4–6; see also Chapter One and Nine). Hence, this is yet another example of the way mono- and multiculturalism are unavoidably intertwined (see Chapter One). To be sure, such a paradox is unavoidable in a society which is in a process of continual change under the weight of different global, national, and local pressures. The same, of course, concerns immigrant communities, such as Muslims, who, as transnational actors, are starting from scratch in setting down roots in a new society. Thus, with regard to Muslims, there are two forces at work: on the one hand, Islamic communities are very much organised according to ethnicity but, on the other hand, there are efforts to find a common point of reference for Muslims in general. It has been assumed that perhaps some networking will take place among Finnish Muslim communities so that their disagreements would give way to some sort of umbrella organisation(s), which could operate as representative of Muslims in relation to the wider society. Undoubtedly, such an organisation could pull more weight in matters concerning Muslims and for the advancement of Muslim interests than, for example, the unorchestrated voices of scattered interests. (See Palva 2001a: 537; see Chapter Three). However, at present it is hard to recognise any organisational unification among different Muslim communities (cf. Ahlberg 1990: 24). In Finland, no such issue has appeared which would have united Muslims for a common purpose and neither have

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the municipalities or the state undertaken an effort to create a representative body for the Muslim population as a whole (cf. Bastenier 1988: 140; Shadid & van Koningsveld 2002a). Concerning multicultural developments in Finland particularly with regard to the visibility of cultural differences, one can see a general social change to be reflected in the names under which Islamic communities are registered. The influence of the wider society is most explicit in the name given to the Islamic community organisation founded by the Tatars, who call it an Islamic Congregation, according to the Christian vocabulary. As is obvious from the above, the immigrant-based Islamic communities have not followed suit but usually call themselves ‘communities’, and not only this but recently have started, to a growing extent, to also employ Arabic in their names, such as Al-Huda or Al-Rahma. As mentioned above, the mosques often have both the official name and an Arabic name, of which the latter is the one which is usually known among Muslims. With regard to religious sites in the cities of Finland, Muslims therefore create, in addition to the official vocabulary used in the Finnish registry, a parallel vocabulary which is faithful to the Islamic tradition. Another matter is how public they can, or want to, be about this parallel vocabulary. A name, even if a small matter as such, can be a powerful signifier when used in a certain context. Comparing the 1990s, when most of the recent Muslims communities have been set up, to the 1920s, when Tatars organised as Muslims, one can certainly see a change in the general atmosphere of the society. This change, in fact, has a consequence for how readily one can bring such distinctive cultural features, such as using Arabic, to the public. In the 1920s Tatars, as shown above, had to curtail doubts regarding their activities and to conform to the nationalistic ethos which was being created and upheld in the process of founding the Finnish nation-state. However, in the Finland of the 1990s, internationalisation and multiculturalism have become popular catchwords and tolerance for different cultural habits is the order of the day. Perhaps, it is in the aftermath of this multicultural ethos that different religious communities can become visibly distinctive and publicly celebrate their difference. To date, however, the difficulties of Muslims in respect of building mosques, or women wearing headscarfs, are but some examples which show that multiculturalism as a genuine diversity is so far more of a discourse than of actual practice.

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In sum one may note that, the above-mentioned institutional developments notwithstanding, the field of Muslim communities is still in constant flux. The free organisational patter among Muslims, pointed out in Chapter Five, is thus very much evident in Finland also, even though one can, nonetheless, agree with the observation that in recent years Muslims have increasingly become accustomed to the Finnish organisational and legislative culture (Martikainen 2000b: 217). This somewhat contradictory observation can be explained by noting that Muslims adopt formally to institutional patterns of religious organisational structure characteristic to Finland, but not in the actual practice of members and visitors to these institutional sites. It is obvious therefore with regard to the observation that Muslim communities in the West opt for a congregational model from Christianity, that one needs to qualify this argument: Muslim communities, rightly enough, create some representative structures, in similar fashion to Christian churches, in order to function in a host society, but such structures, however, do not necessarily translate into the intra-communal functioning of these communities. In this respect, it is interesting that the new Freedom of Religion Act in Finland legitimises the practice of flexible membership and parallel usage of institutions by granting a right to belong to more than one religious community organisation at the same time. Thus, the Finnish legislation legalises a practice which is, at least on the organisational level, more characteristic to Muslims than to Christians.38 This said, however, one needs to note that the law admittedly enough goes much further than the Muslim flexibility in membership. Muslims allow the multiple membership only in different Islamic communities but do not accept a parallel membership, for instance, in a Christian and Muslim registered religious community.

38 Undoubtedly, the impetus behind this new regulation is not to legalise the above-discussed Muslim practice but rather to make it possible for Christians to belong to more than one registered Christian community.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MUSLIMS IN IRELAND: ESTABLISHMENT AND VISIBILITY Respect for Religion The contemporary history of Ireland, and especially the history of Irish migration, has been closely intertwined with that of Britain. On the one hand, the British rule had a decisive impact upon Irish culture, society, and politics but, on the other hand, the Irish migrants had an important role to play as those who ‘built Britain’ (Cowley 2001). However, it is hard to estimate to what extent the migration of Muslims to Ireland has been intertwined with the growing numbers of Muslim population in Britain, which received immigrants from the Commonwealth countries since the nineteenth century.1 At least with regard to the Pakistani population, there has been a rather close link between Britain and Ireland already since the 1950s and hence some of the Pakistani population in Britain has moved over to Ireland (IntI 01:5).2 In itself this is not surprising considering that Pakistanis, with their numbers at nearly half a million, constitute by far the biggest ethnic group of Muslims in Britain (Nielsen 1995: 41; Rex 1996: 55). During recent decades, however, it is the booming economy of the Celtic Tiger which has started to operate as a pulling factor for immigration to Ireland. With such economic growth, the 1 Unlike in Finland, very little is known about Muslims in Ireland before the 1950s. The documented presence of Muslims in Britain and Ireland is therefore of relatively recent origin, even though some records have survived that indicate an interaction between the Celts and Muslims already since the seventh century. An interesting anecdote in the history of Islam in Britain is that Queen Victoria was very proud to rule over so many Muslims in her country. (See Rosser-Owen 1997.) Moreover, there are some anecdotes of a Muslim scholar, who visited Ireland six centuries ago, admiring the beautiful colours of Irish clothing and their kind hospitality (Muslim Guide: 1). Moreover, Abu Talib ibn Muhammad Isfahani, born in India, visited Ireland in the end of eighteenth century. From 1861 to 1898, Mir Aulad Ali was appointed as a Professor of Arabic and Persia at the Trinity College Dublin, and has a statue erected in the College. However, the references after Mir Aulad Ali concerning the history of Muslims in Ireland are from a time in 1959, when the Dublin Islamic society was founded. (See Zaidi 2003: 2.) 2 IntI. refers to interviews done in Ireland from 2001 to 2003.

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Irish labour market is in need of supplementary labour force, which has attracted skilled workers to this country. Moreover, the fast growing number of asylum-seekers and refugees during the 1990s has increased the numbers of Muslims as well. In his survey on religious and ethnic minorities in Ireland, Maurice Ryan (1996: 48) argues that ‘the followers of Islam both in Britain and Ireland have succeeded in maintaining their distinctive Muslim identity while becoming generally well integrated into their adoptive societies’. However, Irish Muslims see a clear difference between these two countries in respect of religion: Leaders of the small but growing Muslim community also speak warmly of their good relations with the Irish state and public, emphasising their preference for the respect paid to religion in Ireland compared to the secular atmosphere of a country like Great Britain. (Boyle & Sheen 1997: 348)

All in all, one can hear Muslims in Ireland say that Ireland is more friendly, more religious, and more respectful of others than Britain. It is emphasised that the Irish in general, and the representatives of the Catholic Church in particular, are willing to listen to the members of other religions. (Int 02:2.) Recently, in an interview with Dr. Nooh Al Kaddo, who is the Executive Director of the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland (ICCI), David Quinn from The Irish Catholic asked if it surprises Muslims ‘how welcome they have come to feel’ in Ireland, which after all is known to be a deeply Catholic country. In his answer Dr. Al Kaddo retorts that this did not surprise him at all because, in his view, ‘those committed to their religion are most likely to cooperate with those of other religions’. (Quinn 2001.) Due to its small size, it is pointed out that Ireland is more flexible in practical matters concerning foreigners, and that it is easier to gain access to officials and politicians in Ireland than it is perhaps in some other European countries. (IntI 02:2.) No doubt, the faceto-face-culture, which is still rather prevalent in Ireland, is evident in this comment. Dr. Al Kaddo also remarks in the above-mentioned interview that ‘Muslims in Ireland are very fortunate compared with other [European] countries’, because the Muslim community in Ireland enjoys ‘the best relations with both the Government and the people’, and hence there is a harmony which has been emerging in Ireland for a long time. Moreover, he stresses that ‘the Muslim/Arab world do appreciate

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what the Irish government has given to the Muslim community and to every minority community here’, so that, all in all, ‘Ireland has a good reputation in the Muslim world’, and ‘the good work of the Irish government’ sets Ireland apart as exemplary. (Quinn 2001.)3 Similar statements concerning the satisfaction that Muslims feel about Ireland were also made by Imam Al-Hussein of the Islamic Foundation of Ireland (IFI), who commented on the gratefulness that Muslims feel for the help of the Irish people and government for the community, for instance, in education and with Muslim refugees from Bosnia, Somalia, Kosova (McGarry 2000c).4 Furthermore, in addition to these general matters, which help one to live as a Muslim in Ireland, a closer affinity between the Irish and the Arabs is also sought, among other things, in a similar kind of past, which in both cases is characterised by colonialism. Moreover, it is said that for both, the Irish and the Arabs, family and roots are important. Eventually, these cultural similarities are encapsulated in calling the Irish ‘the Arabs of Europe’. (IntI 02:2.) Hence, it is concluded that: The awareness of us in this country is pretty new. There were Muslims in this country of course but, as Ireland developed and the economy was booming, more Muslims started coming here. A good majority of Irish people understand us, and know that we are just human beings like anybody else. We can maintain our religious beliefs in this country. (IntI 03:4)

Whatever the case may be, the respect for religion is publicly emphasised also by Irish politicians. For instance Mr. Brian Lenihan, TD of Fianna Fáil, pointed out in relation to the views on abortion expressed by Muslims in Ireland that under the Constitution, the state: honours and respects religion and [this] particular pledge is not restricted to the Christian religions. It extends to other faiths as well. (O’Halloran 2000)

In light of the Rushdie affair and the decision made by the British court to deny reference in its legislation to any gods but the Christian one, the Irish approach is certainly much more inclusive in this sense

3 One could rightly ask how much the thriving Irish-Arab business relations add to this harmony. (See ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Aug. 99:1.) 4 See Chapter Ten for the state-funded Muslim national schools, operating in Dublin.

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than the British one. As was mentioned in Chapter Four, in The Irish Constitution used to contain an Article recognising the special position of the Catholic Church in Ireland, which, however, was deleted from the Constitution in 1972. Presently, the state does not, according to the Constitution, recognise any religion as such. However, it has been argued that, in practical terms, the state recognises Christianity in the form of Catholicism, which is the religion of the majority, but also in the form of Protestantism. Moreover, however, the state also recognises Islam and Judaism with respect to education and marriage, as well as participants at the official state functions (see Islam in Dublin: 6). Undoubtedly, for Muslims who as a religious minority aim at establishing their own communities in Ireland, the public recognition of religion is commendable. The strong position of Catholicism has certainly influenced the views on the significance of religion in Ireland both for the lives of individuals and for society in general. In spite of the decline in religious adherence that has been taking place among the Irish during recent decades, one can argue that religion in Ireland has been, most of all, a communal matter that has effected all courses of life. In this respect, Ireland constitutes an exception among the countries of western Europe, where religion has been held much more as a matter of individual conscience. This emphasis on religion as an individual concern in Europe can be problematic for those Muslims who understand religion as a guide for both private and public life (Alwall 1998: 125). Consequently, one may assume that the Catholic legacy of public religion in Ireland is very much in accordance with the needs of the Irish Muslim community whereby Ireland constitutes a distinctive case, for instance, in comparison with its neighbouring country, Britain (see Sakaranaho 2003b; cf. Berns McGown 1999: 24, citing Modood 1994.) Settled Community with Newcomers ‘Fastest growing minority’ Muslims are said to be one of the fastest growing ethnic minority in Ireland (McGarry 2000b; see also Hijmans 2005). This expansion of Muslim population is obvious when comparing the numbers of those identifying themselves as Muslims according to the Irish Census from 1991 and 2002; in 1991 there were 3,875 Muslims whereas in

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2002 the number was 19,147 (CSO 2003: 82).5 Thus, the number of Muslims in Ireland has grown five times over ten year period from 1991 to 2002. However, it is hard to give any precise statistics concerning the ethnic composition of the Irish Muslim population because ethnicity is not addressed in the census. It is interesting to read how, in Ireland, the inclusion of ethnicity in the census is considered to be a very sensitive and controversial issue and that there have even been fears of someone ‘hijacking’ this information in order to use it as ‘some kind of a whipping tool’ (Hepojoki 2002: 6). For research, the lack of comprehensive statistics concerning ethnicity provided by the state causes problems of accuracy. Without these numbers, one has to depend on the estimates given by Muslim representatives who operate locally in different mosques. In light of these estimates, in any case, one can see some general trends in the demographic development of the Muslim population in Ireland and also note the impact that the recent increase in numbers of migrants to Ireland has had on Muslim communities. The lack of precise numerical information notwithstanding, one can therefore outline some sort of general picture of the demographic and institutional development of Muslims in Ireland. According to the Muslim sources, over half of Muslims in Ireland live in the Dublin area, which perception also corresponds with the latest census (see CSO 2004a: 23), and around 300 are Irish Muslims, the majority of them women, in addition to some British and other European converts living in Ireland. The other half of the Muslims, living outside Dublin, are centred in Cork (1,387), Galway (895) and Limerick (673). Moreover, there is growing activity also in Waterford (395) and Cavan (185). In addition to the Republic of Ireland, there are also around 3,000 Muslims living in Northern Ireland.6 (CSO 2004a: 23; see Ryan 1996: 48–49.)

5 However, Muslims themselves estimated the number to be at the time around 6,000 in 1991. The figure includes Muslims who do not participate in local mosques, many of whom are students. (Islam in Dublin: 7.) 6 The recent estimates concerning the numbers of Muslims in Northern Ireland vary from 1,500 by Ryan (1996) to about 2,500 by the BBC pages on religion in Northern Ireland (www.bbc.co.uk /northernireland /religion /faithandbelief /islam.shtml [accessed 4 June 2003]), or to around 3,000 by an association called Al-Nur (www. al-nur.co.uk/ireland.htm [accessed 4 June 2003]). Moreover, 3,000 is the estimate given also on the web pages of Islam in Dublin [accessed 4 February 2003].

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Muslims in Ireland represent 36 to 40 nationalities, the largest numbers coming from the Gulf states, North Africa, Iraq, Iran, Nigeria, Sudan, South Africa, Pakistan and Malaysia. (See Ryan 1996: 49.) However, as will be discussed below, one can notice a particular impact of Arab and Pakistani Muslims in contemporary Ireland. The first Muslims came to Ireland in the 1950s and since then the number of Muslims has steadily grown, reaching its peak in the 1990s. A new factor on the Muslim scene in the 1990s includes the arrival of refugees, fleeing their home countries, for instance, because of war. Thus, the first group of Muslim refugees to arrive in Ireland in 1992 were Bosnians, who entered the country as programme refugees, together with some injured persons brought to Ireland for medical help, but also due to family (see Cullen 2000: 6). Most of the Bosnians in Ireland have obtained Irish citizenship and only a few have returned to Bosnia after the war ended. The next group, coming to Ireland in 1994, consisted of asylum-seekers from Somalia. Moreover, in 1999, approximately one thousand Abanian refugees from Kosovo arrived in Ireland and were distributed in five cities outside Dublin; nine months after the NATO forces had driven the Serbian army out of Kosova 80% of them were still in Ireland. (See McGarry 2000b; Islam in Dublin: 7; cf. Cullen 2000.) In respect of this increase in numbers of refugees and asylumseekers, however, the fastest growth took place during the latter half of the 1990s. Between 1995 and 2000 the general increase in asylum-seekers and refugees, totalling up to 10,000, according to some estimates also doubled the number of Muslims. It is furthermore estimated that the number of Muslim asylum-seekers in 2000 was around 3,500, including women and children (Islam in Dublin: 7). At present, Muslim refugees and asylum-seekers come mainly from Nigeria, Somalia, Afghanistan and Sudan, which figure among the top-five countries of origin among new asylum applicants.7 In addition to refugees and asylum-seekers, whose numbers add to the total number of Muslims in Ireland, there has also been some increase in the number of businessmen and students, but also in the number of newly born children in Ireland (Islam in Dublin: 7). The above-mentioned numbers concerning Muslims in Ireland are inevitably rough estimates because the majority of Muslim do not 7 See the statistics by the Irish Refugee Council (http://irishrefugeecouncil.ie/refugee_ stats/july05.html).

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necessarily participate in the organised form of Islam. (Int 01:3.) In fact, in similar fashion to Finland, the vast majority of Muslims in Ireland are not necessarily attached to any particular Islamic group, which is one of the challenges which Muslim communities in Ireland need to face (Islam in Dublin: 8). As was already mentioned regarding Finland, the idea that one should be registered as a member of a religious community is often strange for Muslim migrants, but the reluctance to register can also reflect cautiousness and even distrust for the authorities, in particular among those newly arrived in Europe. (IntI 01:3.) In respect of age groups, the Muslim population in Ireland is fairly widely spread with the exception of elderly people. Their numbers are very small since the only groups that have brought members of the older generation with them are, in addition to Pakistanis, people from Kosova and Bosnia. The age structure of the Muslims hence corresponds to the general age profile of Ireland, where 20% of the population is under twenty (CSO 2004a: 35–6). From the viewpoint of those Muslims who are active today, one can roughly distinguish three generations, so to speak, namely those who are in their forties and over, those in their twenties and thirties, and the young. (IntI 01:3.) With regard to these age groups one can speak, in general terms, of the settled community and the newcomers and, in this respect, take note of a clear resemblance between recent Muslim immigrants in Ireland and in Finland. As in Finland, the integration of these two groupings of Muslims in Ireland seem to happen under very different conditions and in a very different atmosphere within the wider society. The members of the settled community, most of whom are in their forties, came to Ireland in the 1970s or 1980s when the overall number of Muslims, and foreigners in general, in the country was very small. It is said that before the 1990s ‘Muslims were made extremely welcome in Ireland’ (McGarry 2000b). Probably, due to their small number, foreigners were not perceived at the time as a problem or a threat and there was no overt racism in the Irish society to complicate the matter further. Looking back it is felt in the community that ‘years ago there was yet more tolerance because there were so few foreigners in the country at the time’ (IntI 01:2; IntI 01:3). As such, these observations confirm the general argument that it is in recent years that Ireland has seen a visible growth of racism and intolerance in parallel with the growing number of

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foreigners in the country (McGarry 2000b; Cullen 2000; Kiberd 2001). Members of the settled community of Muslims have adapted themselves well in Irish society and many of them have now also acquired Irish citizenship. Consequently, they are very settled in society and confident about being a part of this society. In addition to having been received positively by the wider society, what also helped this generation to settle down in Irish society was no doubt linked to their level of education and professional competence. On average, they are highly educated and many of them tend to work as doctors or in business. Concerning the doctors, many of them were educated in the Royal College of Surgeons, in Dublin. As a matter of fact, doctors being so prominent among foreigners until the mid1990s, it was taken for granted by Irish people that a foreigner would be working in one of the hospitals; thus, the always sociable Irish would automatically ask a foreigner, not where they came from or what they were doing, but which hospital he or she worked in. In addition to doctors, however, a substantial number of this wave worked also in businesses connected with the food or textile industry. With regard to ethnicity, it seems that Muslims of Pakistani and Arab origin are best established both in medicine and in business, including many students from Malaysia. (IntI 01:3; IntI 01:5; IntI 03:3; IntI 03:8.) The above-mentioned Muslims, with relatively high levels of education and professional expertise, also know English well and are, for all practical purposes, competent actors in Irish society. One can also include in this group those native Irish who became Muslims nearly twenty years ago and hence have a long experience of living as Muslims in Irish society (see Ryan 2001). It is these Muslims who have gradually built up the Islamic infrastructure that exists in Ireland today. For instance, their role has been central in funding the premises for mosques and cultural centres both in Dublin and in other cities of Ireland (IntI 03:5). As will be discussed below, it is also these experienced ‘older’ Muslims who are able to operate as a kind of cultural translator for the new groups of Muslims who have come to Ireland during recent years, whether as immigrants or as asylumseekers and refugees. (IntI 01:2; IntI 03:8.) The Muslim in Ireland who are relatively new to the country, mainly in their twenties or thirties, differ in many respect from the members of the settled community. To begin with, they did not for

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the most part come to Ireland to study or set up a business as the former generation did but rather due to being asylum-seekers and refugees have been compelled to leave their country of origin. Moreover, many of them do not have much education, nor the accompanying language skills, and hence their employment outlook is necessarily more unfavourable than among the members of the former group, unless of course they are employed by their countrymen running businesses in Ireland. However, Muslims in the age group of those in their twenties are most likely the children of those in their forties and over. In particular, the children of the Irish Muslims have sustained what the Muslims would call ‘progress in education’. The third age group of Muslims, i.e. children and the young are well situated in the educational system and moving into the higher levels of education. Understandably enough, one may say that the children of the older group of Muslims follow in their parents footsteps and benefit from their integration into Irish society, whereas the problems that arise with the growing multicultural scenes at schools hit mostly the children of the newcomers. (IntI 01:3.) These problems are to some extent also met in the Muslim National Schools in Dublin, which will be dealt with in Chapter Ten. All in all, the growing numbers of foreigners in Ireland have caused a change in the attitude of the Irish people, as was discussed above. Thus, the new Muslims can be said to be both the reason but also the victims of the increasing hostility towards Muslims in the streets in Ireland (see McGarry 2000b). It is obvious from the above that there is a visible cleavage between those Muslims who have settled down well in Ireland and the recent arrivals, especially asylum-seekers and refugees, who are often dependant both on the Irish state but also on the long-term Muslim residents in Ireland. In this respect, the development concerning the Muslim population in Ireland seems to correspond with that of Finland, where, not to mention the Tatars, the first generation of recent Muslims are better off than those who are new to the country. Hence, in similar fashion to Finland, the case of Ireland would also seem to be in contradiction with the argument that most recent Muslims in Europe would be better educated than their predecessors (cf. Smith 2002: 4). This said, however, the above-mentioned argument might be true for Ireland and Finland in the sense that information technology and computer science are both drawing young professionals to these

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countries. Indeed, both of these countries have been quick in developing these areas of expertise, of which perhaps the Finnish Nokia telecommunications firm, operating world-wide, is a pristine example. Moreover, in the recent years of the economic boom in Ireland, there has been a new opening for young professionals who work in the field of information technology, which has attracted people to Ireland especially from Malaysia, Pakistan and India (IntI 01:5; IntI 03:3; IntI 03:4). It is hard to know, nonetheless, what proportion of these young professionals are Muslims, or identify themselves as such, but certainly they somewhat alter the picture drawn above on the two ‘waves’ of Muslims, both in Ireland and in Finland. Morever, these people tend to change a country easily; for instance, in Ireland, problems regarding both high cost of living and finding reasonable accommodation have turned some of those working in the information technology to Britain (IntI 03:1). However, there is a growing number also among the younger generation of Muslims of the settled community who choose computer sciences and information technology. Thus, in addition to medicine and engineering the educated Muslims are spreading also into the domain of IT as an alternative field of expertise.8 (IntI 03:3.) Formation and establishment A vast majority of Muslims living in Ireland are Sunnis (Ryan 1996: 49), but there are also around 1,000 Shi"a Muslims organised in Dublin, whereas the overall number of Shi"a Muslims in the North and South of Ireland is from two to three thousand.9 Concerning Sunni Muslims, the institutional development of Islam presently culminates in Dublin in two main mosques, which also operate as multifunctional Islamic cultural centres, namely the Islamic Foundation of Ireland in South Circular Road and the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland in Clonskeagh. Concerning Shi"a Muslims, their activities are centred in the Ahlul Bayt Islamic Centre in Milltown. Hence, there are presently three major Islamic centres in Dublin (see Zaidi 8 Perhaps this is also reflected in the new development concerning several new web pages, opened in Ireland in recent years, for instance by the ICCI and IFI in Dublin, but also by the Islamic Society in Galway. 9 See the home pages of the Ahlul Bayt Islamic Centre, Ireland: http://homepage.tinet. ie/~ahlulbyteassociation [accessed 4 June 2003]. As pointed out by the Imam of the Shi"a community Abu Hasan, in general, it is estimated that the Shi"a constitute from fifteen to twenty percent of all Muslims (IntI 03:8).

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2003: 1).10 As it happens, all of them are located in the south side of Dublin, which in general is more affluent than the north side of the city. In itself this might reflect the professional composition of the Muslim communities in Ireland, which will be discussed below. In general, for religious communities in a minority position an important part of adaptation to a host society is becoming acquainted with the organisational structures of a country and the ability to function within such structures in order to forward their interests. Such adaptation, however, takes time, as the establishment of Muslims in Ireland clearly indicates; it took some twenty years in Ireland to establish the first Dublin mosque after the initial arrival of the first Muslims in the 1950s, with some sort of ethnic concentration and in somewhat bigger numbers. In the early 1950s, some Muslim students, mainly from Malaysia and South Africa, started to arrive in Ireland, followed by students from the Gulf states (Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, and Oman). Later some of them settled down in Ireland by marrying Irish nationals and having children (Muslim Guide: 1; Islam in Dublin: 7). In addition to students, there were also businessmen, mainly of Pakistani origin, who moved to Ireland from Britain and were rather well organised, running restaurants and so forth. (IntI 01:5.)11 The arrival of these Muslims to Ireland in the 1950s coincides with the general labour migration to Europe after the Second Word War. Thus, Ireland had its share of the first wave of Muslim migrants, who came to Ireland in order to study or to conduct business. Unlike Finland, where Muslims in the 1960s entered into an already existing well-organised Muslim community, the first Muslims in Ireland were still very much in the initial stages of organising Islamic activities in the country. The first group of students did not have any organised meetings but they did celebrate the end of Ramadan as a social event bringing different people together. In this sense, they were similar to the first generation of Muslims both in Europe in general and the first group of recent Muslims in Finland. (IntI 03:5.)

10 In addition to these major centres, there are of course several other Muslim organisations operating in Dublin (see Zaidi 2003). 11 In Dublin, there are some Muslim graves, dating back to the 1960s, in the Mount Jerome graveyard, Harold’s Cross, where all buried there, except one, are of Pakistani origin. (Int 01:3; IntI 03:5.)

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The Dublin Islamic Society was established in 1959 to serve a community of about three hundred, consisting of mainly medical students at the Royal College of Surgeons in Dublin. The main function of the Society was the Friday prayer and hence its immediate aim was to organise a place for prayer. At first the students came together in the basement of the hostel where the students were staying. Then, at the request of the students, the College of Surgeons allowed them to have their prayer in one of the halls of the College. This concession made by the College was significant in the sense that it actually bent its rules because religion was not allowed in the College according to its constitution. Moreover, the Society also celebrated the end of Ramadan. Gradually the number of Muslims in Ireland grew with more medical students coming from the Middle East, the West Indies, and East Africa. Moreover, the number of active Muslims grew from around forty to around one hundred. Undoubtedly, the rise in the numbers of Muslims was due to the fact that there already existed a nucleus of Muslims and those coming to Ireland could join this community. Thus, approaching the 1960s, it was acknowledged by the Society that meeting in private homes was no longer a functional option for the growing community of Muslims. It was then decided that a permanent mosque and Islamic centre was needed. Therefore, donations for this purpose were collected from relatives, some Islamic organisations, and Muslim countries, such as Kuwait, which have since sponsored a full-time imam for the mosque in South Circular Road. In 1969, an appeal was made for this purpose and finally in 1976 a residential two-storey house was bought at Harrington Street, Dublin, and converted into the first mosque in Ireland. In this premises also functioned the first Qur’anic school, which was mainly run for children of mixed marriages. At the time, many children of the mixed marriages were generally brought up as Catholics in accordance with the religion of their mothers, and the aim of the school was to open up an opportunity to socialise children in Islam. (IFI Info 1; ibid. 2; Muslim Guide: 1; Islam in Dublin, a; Ryan 1996: 50; IntI 03:5.) In addition to the existing Muslim population, the first mosque in Harrington street also catered for the needs of those Muslims new to Ireland in the 1970s, who consisted of doctors arriving in Ireland in order to specialise in medicine, but also of trainees in aircraft engineering coming mainly from Algeria, Libya, Saudi Arabia and

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Malaysia (Islam in Dublin: 7). At the time, the number of Irish Muslims was very small. However, some of the first Irish Muslims acquired their initial experience of Islam at that time in Harrington street, as one of them reminisces: I went to Harrington Street. The mosque on the South Circular Road wasn’t even there at the time. I was very nervous and was expecting to see these guys praying with swords because that is what I was told Muslims did. I expected them to throw me out, but they were really nice and that first impression has lasted to this day. (Ryan 2001)

This society, which was the first Islamic organisation in Ireland, was registered as a ‘friendly society’ in 1971 (see Registrar of Friendly Societies, Dublin; Friendly Societies Act, 1896, Section 17), and later as a charitable organisation. During the end of 1970s and the beginning of the 1980s the numbers of Muslims continued to grow to such an extent that the Harrington Street facility was no longer sufficient. Thus, in 1983 the Society moved to new premises on South Circular Road, where it is housed to the present day. The growing numbers notwithstanding, the Muslim community at the time was still relatively small and therefore the mosque in South Circular Road was set up jointly by the Sunni and Shi"a Muslims. As such, the separation of the Sunni and Shi"a activities took place gradually, finally culminating in the building of a purpose-built centre in Milltown, which will be discussed in more detail below. (IntI 03:8.) The new mosque in South Circular Road was converted from Donore Avenue Presbyterian Church. The building has a nineteenthcentury church architecture, with a facade of granite and red sandstone and stained-glass windows. Moreover, the facade is dominated by a large round stained-glass window that spells out the name of Allah. Naturally, after the building was converted into a mosque, the Christian symbols were replaced with the crescent moon. On the front, there is a signage of ‘Dublin mosque’ in Irish, English, and Arabic. (See Ryan 1996: 50–51.) The building on the Harrington Street was sold, and the money accrued in this transaction was used to acquire property in the area of the new mosque. The only donation that the Society receives from abroad is for part of the salary of the imam, sponsored by the Ministry of Endowment and Islamic Affairs in Kuwait. After moving to the South Circular Road, the name of the Dublin Islamic Society was changed to that of the Islamic Foundation of

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Ireland (IFI), which is at times called ‘the mother Islamic organisation of Ireland’ (Islam in Dublin). The Foundation has a written constitution and is run by a council called Majlis ash-Shura. According to the first rule of the Constitution the Islamic Foundation ‘is a Specially Authorized Society for Muslims in Ireland’ (IFI Constitution: 1). This aim was naturally enough reflected also in the name of the Foundation, which aims to represent Muslims not only in Dublin but all over Ireland (Islam in Dublin). Therefore, all of those resident in Ireland are considered as honorary members of the Foundation. However, in order to acquire a full membership one needs to be registered. Being a full member of the Foundation accords one the right to nominate and vote for the council (Majlis ash-Shura), which is elected every year. In order to be eligible for election or co-option for the council one needs to be a resident in Ireland a minimum of six months. The imam of the mosque is the President of the Islamic Foundation of Ireland, who will be nominated by the Council and the Trustees, and confirmed by a Special General Meeting of the Society. (IFI Constitution: 3.) The present imam, in any case, is of long standing in his post. In 2000, there were 1,384 registered members of the Foundation from all over Ireland. (IFI Info 2; Islam in Dublin.) The council is the representative of the Foundation, whereas the Foundation claims, as mentioned above, the authority as ‘the official representative of Muslims in Ireland’ (IFI Constitution: 3; IFI Info 2). Stated on the very first page of its Constitution, the aim of the Islamic Foundation of Ireland is ‘to cater for the religious, cultural, and social needs of Muslims in Ireland’. In accordance with this aim, the premises of South Circular Road serve multiple purposes. In addition to organising the basic functions of Muslim life, i.e. daily prayers and religious celebrations, the Foundation also takes care of the education and general welfare of the community. Thus, it fulfills educational purposes by organising separate Islamic study circles in Arabic and English, for men and women. It also takes care of children’s education and houses a women’s section. In addition to Muslims, courses in Arabic are also made available for Irish people in general, including non-Muslims. In addition to spiritual and educational services, the Foundation runs a shop selling halal-meat and other foods. It also houses a restaurant serving daily meals as well as meals for functions and special occasions of the Islamic centre, or otherwise organised for private purposes. (IFI Info 1–2; see also

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Muslim Guide; McNamara 1999.) Furthermore, an important initiative undertaken in 1990 by the Foundation was to start in its premises a Muslim national school which presently, however, is located in permanent premises in Clonskeagh (see Chapter Ten). The Foundation also used to publish a newsletter, called Al-Risala, which mainly contained teachings of the imam, such as ‘Friday Khutbah’, and advice concerning the proper practice of Islam. In this sense, it resembled more of a pastoral letter than a general newsletter designed to keep members apprised of the activities of the mosque. The Foundation holds itself accountable for the general welfare of the Muslim community. This is in accordance with the aims and objectives of the society, which according to the IFI Constitution (p. 1), tries ‘to alleviate all difficulties of Muslims in distress’, and ‘to provide, within the limits of its capacity, such services as may be required for the welfare of Muslims in hospitals, prisons and elsewhere’. For instance, its active members help students new to the country in finding accommodation. Moreover, they give counselling to the newly immigrated Muslims, or Muslims who in general need help with the Irish bureaucracy. These members also operate as translators between Muslims and Irish officials. In addition, South Circular Road also houses a library with books in Arabic, English, and Urdu, as well as an audio-visual library that lends recordings of the Qur’an and lectures. (IntI 01:1; IntI 01:2.) What helps running the centre is the fact that it is financially sound and, therefore, it does not face similar problems which other small mosques have experienced, wether in Ireland or abroad. The centre is financially independent in running its own shop and a restaurant as well as owning some houses. Thus, functioning with a low budget the centre does not face financial problems. However, the image of financial wealth also operates in the way that the members of the centre do not feel obliged to give financial aid to it. Thus, there are only some twenty or thirty families which donate money to the centre as a standing order. In addition to the centre in Dublin, the IFI has also financially helped the Muslim community in Cork. (IntI 03:1.) Concerning the role of a mosque as adopting functions which are not to be found in the Muslim populated countries, it is noted that this is unavoidable in a European country where Muslims live as a minority. In Muslim populated countries, the governments or other

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community institutions look after the individual needs of Muslims, such as the education of children, but in Europe there are no such structures and, therefore, the mosque or the community needs to operate instead of the governmental institutions. In principle, the position of the imam is for lay-persons but, for practical reasons, there are full-time imams in Europe. Admittedly, the same development is also taking place in Muslim populated countries, such as Saudi Arabia, where there is enough wealth to employ an imam to work full-time in a mosque in order to look after the community and help the members of the community with their problems. In similar fashion to Europe, there are mosques adjoined with a library, or a clinic etc. These developments notwithstanding, forming a cultural centre around a mosque is largely a phenomenon taking place among Muslims in a minority position. Moreover, in a European country, the religious instruction in particular is solely in the hands of the Muslim community. (IntI 03:1.) The host society has also a large effect on the younger generation of Muslims who are born and grow up in Ireland. As for any minority, it is not an unproblematic issue for Muslims to find the right balance between keeping one’s identity, on the one hand, and integrating into a host society, on the other hand. In general, the problem does not concern the first generation of Muslims but rather the second generation who have lived all their lives in Europe. It is not all that easy to make them see what is right and wrong according to Islam. In recent decades the Irish society has changed rapidly and the change has brought an increased sense of freedom for young people. With the growing individualism of the host society, it is hard to teach children to be dutiful to their parents and loyal to their families. However, even among the younger generation there are those who are dedicated to Islam enough in order to take an active role in the mosque. This is apparent, for instance, in the a council of the centre where a gradual change of generation is starting to take place. Naturally enough, the children of those parents who are already active in Muslim organisations often follow in their parent’s footsteps in opting for a leading role in running a mosque. (IntI 03:1.) To date there are no women taking part in the council. According to the Constitution of the IFI, there are no obstacles for a woman to be nominated as a member of the council. In practice, however, there is quite a lot of ‘conservatism’ in this matter (IntI 03:1).

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Moreover, women themselves mainly prefer to operate separately among other women in the centre; they usually come together on Saturday afternoons. According to the former head of the women’s section in the centre, she did not see any reason to take part in the meetings of the council because she felt that she had enough influence through personal contacts. (Int 01:2.) However, in respect of public duties, women seem to prefer taking part in matters concerning the education of children. In Ireland, the rules concerning the management of national schools require that a parent of both sexes should be a member in the Board of Management. Accordingly, there are women representatives in the Board of both Muslim national schools, and few times a woman has also acted as a chairperson of the Board. (IntI 03:1.) Moreover, as mentioned above, the Principle of the North Dublin Muslim National School is a woman. In addition, more or less half of the religious teachers in both of the Muslim national schools are women. (IntI 03:1.) The Shi"a community In addition to the Islamic Foundation of Ireland, the last thirty years also saw the development of a Shi"a community in Dublin. As mentioned above, there are around a thousand Shi"a Muslims in Ireland. In similar fashion to the Sunni community, the centre of Shi"a activity was also initiated by medical students in the Royal College of Surgeons, of whom many settled down in Ireland and married. These students, coming mainly from Iraq, Kuwait, and Iran, first started to gather together in the 1970s, hiring one house after another for their activities while their numbers kept growing. In the 1980s, the community was joined by Indian Pakistani and Iraqi Muslims, complemented by the families of the newly opened Iranian embassy in Ireland. Finally, in the middle of the 1990s, the Shi"a community constructed, using their own resources, a centre in Milltown, which was officially opened in September 1996. This Ahlul Bayt Islamic Centre, usually known as Hussiania, aims to serve the socio-cultural and religious needs of the Shi"a community in Ireland. However, it is also open to other Muslims.12 The Centre has not faced problems 12 See the home pages of the Ahlul Bayt Islamic Centre, Ireland: http://homepage.tinet. ie/~ahlulbyteassociation [accessed 4 June 2003). The Shi"a community is not mentioned in the Muslim Guide to Ireland, provided by the ICCI and IFI, whereas it is mentioned on the web pages Islam in Dublin, which gives the information that

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with neighbours due to noise and traffic, as some other Muslim centres have done. This is partly helped by the fact that the Centre is detached from the other buildings in the area, being surrounded by a river on one side and by a wall and a road on the other. Moreover, the cars are parked in the yard or in a nearby parking place. All in all, the members of the Centre experience friendly relations with their few neighbours; they send Christmas cards to their neighbours, and, for instance, received flowers from them after 11 September 2001. (IntI 03:8.) Undoubtedly, the central figure in the centre is Imam Syed Ali Al-Saleh, known as Abu Hasan, who first came to Ireland in 1985 on a fellowship as a medical student in the Royal College of Surgeons. However, after specialising in medicine he undertook theological studies in Iran. After returning back to Ireland in 1997, he has dedicated himself to the service of the Shi"a community. (Zaidi 2003: 1; IntI 03:8.) He is one of the eldest members in the community, which shows that the Shi"a community fits well into the age categories of Muslims discussed above. The general growth in numbers of Muslims due to asylum-seekers and refugees has also had a definite impact on the Shi"a community, which gained newcomers mainly from Iraq but also to some extent from Pakistan. Thus, the community expanded dramatically from 1996 onwards. At present, more or less half of the families are members of the settled community while the other half consists of the families of the recent arrivals. Altogether fifty or sixty families attend the centre regularly, of whom more or less half of the men work as doctors. Around six of these doctors operate in the area of Milltown. With regard to the place of residence, the main bulk of the Shi"a community live in Dublin whereas the rest is scattered around Ireland, living mainly in Cork and Belfast, and in smaller numbers in Dundalk, Naas and Kilkenny. Those living outside Dublin usually use the local mosques run by the Sunni Muslims but some of them also visit the Centre in Milltown, if not once a week or once a month, then at least at the time of the high seasons of the Eid-festivals. Especially the time of Ramadan exhibits a special Shi"a Muslims in Ireland mainly come from Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, some Gulf states, and Pakistan (p. 8). However, the history of this community is presented as one of the three major Islamic Centres in the city of Dublin in the first edition of the Muslim paper The Friday Times (20 September 2003).

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atmosphere during which time the numbers of those attending the prayers in mosques visibly increases. Even those who would not regularly pray tend to keep their fast. (IntI 03:8.) As mentioned in Chapter Five, the same also concerns other Muslims communities, where during the fasting month of Ramadan the mosque gains a specific significance as a centre of religious and community activities. In addition to religion, this month is loaded with cultural and social meanings which makes it important for the Muslims worldwide. In addition to the previously or newly settled members of the Shi"a community, there are also around four to six female and three male Irish Muslims who visit the mosque on regular bases, in addition to students who mainly come from the Gulf countries. All in all, it is noted that mosques seem to be more successful in attracting people than churches, and particularly so in the case of those with education; the more highly people are educated the more often they seem to enjoy coming to the mosque and practising their religion. (IntI 03:8.) From very early on, the community used to come together on Saturday evenings. This tradition was set up twenty-five years ago by students who wanted to organise some alternative activity for Saturday nights, instead of going out to pubs and discos as did Irish students. Undoubtedly, this arrangement fitted well in more ways than one with the surrounding society, where Saturday is generally a day off. The same custom is followed also today and hence the Centre organises a community event followed by a dinner every Saturday night. Otherwise, the main activity of the Centre is the Friday afternoon prayer ( Juma-prayer), which is considered as the central religious event of the week. Some of those working on Fridays try to fit it into their lunch hour, which in Ireland is usually from one to two o’clock in the afternoon. As such, this weekly prayer in the mosque is not considered as compulsory but highly recommendable. Even if in principle a Muslim can pray anywhere, attending the mosque is, in addition to being a religious duty, also a social duty; a joint prayer together and shaking hands in the end of it signify a responsibility that one feels for the others and for the community at large.13 On Fridays, also a group of around twenty women 13 In order to fit into a western country, the Shi"a Muslims conduct five prayers a day, in similar fashion to Sunni Muslims, but they pray only three times so that there is one prayer in the morning, two at midday, and two in the evening. (IntI 03:8.)

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meet in the Centre on regular bases in order to socialise and make food together. Moreover, ceremonies attached to the Shi"a Muslim calendar are also organised. The Centre used to run a Qur’anic school for children but presently the children attend the school organised in Clonskeagh mosque. (IntI 03:8.) The Centre is financially well supported by its members who, due to their high-status professions, are in a position to distribute their wealth to the organised activities of the Shi"a community. Moreover, the Centre is not a very large building and hence without any salaried staff its running costs can be kept at a minimum. However, during the time of Ramadan the Centre collects donations, which are considered as membership fees but in fact are some sort of charity. In addition, those running the Centre also pay some costs of the Centre whenever necessary. (IntI 03:8.) In similar fashion to the IFI, the financial base of the Centre is therefore very sound. The Shi"a community gained a fair amount of publicity after 11 September 2001 with their outspoken support for the American war against Iraq,14 which was understandable taking into consideration the persecution that Shi"a Muslims have suffered at the hands of Saddam’s regime. In addition to criticism of the Iraqi government, they also blame some Muslim movements, originating from Saudi Arabia, generally known as the wahhabi or the salafi, for causing division among Muslims. The representative of these groupings intervene in the faith of other Muslims and, by pressing upon Muslims a duty to practise Islam in a particular way, interfere in the privacy of one’s faith. With respect to Shi"a Muslims, the salafi go as far as attacking them not only as ‘non-Muslims’ but as dangerous ones. For these groupings one can only be with them or against them; those being against them are condemned as infidels (kaffir) who therefore can be killed. Thus, they do not only attack non-Muslims but also Muslims with views different from their own. Consequently, these groupings are dangerous not only for Islam but for the world at large. (IntI 03:8.) In other words, these groupings abridge the religious freedom of their fellow-Muslims. One can understand the importance of this matter for the Shi"a Muslims when looking at the history of these people who have often been discriminated and even persecuted for

14

See, for instance, The Irish Times, 21 March 2002.

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different political reasons by the majority Muslims. What historically and politically separates the experience of Shi"a Muslims from that of Sunnis is their overall position as members of a minority—whether numerically or politically, or both—not only in Europe but also in their countries of origin. As mentioned in Chapter Five, the Shi"a Muslims constitute more or less fifteen percent of the world’s Muslim population.15 Perhaps their age-long experience as a minority has taught the Shi"a Muslims the art of flexibility in respect of the host society. Moreover, it has taught them to appreciate human rights and religious freedom, which to a large extent are prevalent in western Europe. Therefore it does not come as a surprise that for those living in Europe a new way of expressing their religiosity is opened up. In Europe, the freedom to practice one’s religion can spark an interest in being a Muslim in a more active way and with a deeper understanding of Islam. Thus, Europe can represent an opportunity rather than a threat for living as a Muslim in one’s everyday life. With regard to Ireland, three things are emphasised: First, Muslims are a small community but can freely organise their religious activities in this country; second, their relations with the government are good; and, third, they have a Muslim school in order to educate their children. (IntI 03:8.) The minority experience has taught the Shi"a the art of flexibility in matters of religion, but also with regard to the cultures of Muslim populated countries. Therefore, it is emphasised that Islam provides a wide range of movement for an individual believer, and that the most important thing for a Muslim is to believe and only after that to fulfill his or her duty in everyday practice. Moreover, it is stressed that the second generation of Muslims, growing up for instance in Ireland, should not be culturally pressed in to being Iraqi or Pakistani Muslims, but rather being Irish Muslims. The generational differences is illustrated, for instance, with respect to a football match between the Iranian and the Irish team: While the parents raise the flag of Iran, their children cheer for Ireland, because they see themselves as Irish and hence want to support the Irish team. In sum, the argument goes that Islam does not demolish a culture but colours it. (IntI 03:8.) 15 See ‘Religion.’ Britannica Book of the Year, 2003, in Encyclopaedia Britannica Online, http://search.eb.com/eb/article-9389861. [Accessed 14 October 2005.]

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Admittedly enough, the opinion of separating culture from religion is of course constantly expressed also by other Muslims in Ireland, as it is by Muslims in Finland. Undoubtedly, within a multicultural community of European Muslims this is one of the key questions especially with respect to the second generation, which has not however yet arisen in any visible manner in Ireland or in Finland. Whatever the case may be, one might assume that for Shi"a Muslims the culture of their country of origin is reified to the same extent as it is for those who represent the majority. Naturally enough, this is not to say that the Shi"a would not have ‘cultures’ of their own. The research on matters concerning the cultural identifications of those representing a majority or minority of a country of origin now sharing the membership of a European host society is simply lacking to a large extent. In conclusion one may note that as the Shi"a are a minority among Muslims they also seem to be invisible to a large extent in research on Muslims in Europe, or perhaps even in research on Muslims in general. The fate of invisibility is often conferred to those who are a minority among the minority. In this respect, in Ireland, where the Shi"a community has recently been recognised as one of the Muslim centres in the country, the situation is far better than in Finland, where the Shi"a Muslims are organised but remain largely at the margins of the Muslim community at large (cf. Zaida 2003: 1; Martikainen 2004b). Moreover, participating in the joint prayer after 11 September 2001, conducted by the leaders of different religions in Ireland, as well as organising demonstrations in support of the war against Iraq in the centre of Dublin, have in recent years also brought the Shi"a community to public attention. Presently, the relations with the Irish media are considered to operate very well. (IntI 03:8.) In this respect, the Muslims in Ireland clearly seem to have the upper hand in comparison to Muslims in Finland, who are not to the same extent paid heed to in the Finnish media. Recent developments In the 1990s the community of Sunni Muslims continued to expand to such an extent that the facilities in South Circular Road were proving to be too small and thereby demonstrating a need for bigger premises. In the first half of the 1990s the construction of a new cultural centre got underway at a site in the southern suburbs of

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Dublin, at Roebuck Road, Clonskeagh, adjacent to the Campus of the University College Dublin. This four acre site had an existing single storey training centre which, however, was originally designed as a primary school. In 1993, before the construction of the Cultural Centre, it was converted back to its original use, when the Muslim National School moved to its premises. (IntI 01:1.) The construction of the Islamic Cultural Centre in Clonskeagh was financed with a generous donation of five million Irish pounds by Sheikh Hamdan Al Maktoum, Deputy Governor of Dubai and Minister of Finance & Industry in the United Arab Emirates, and opened on 14 November 1996 by President Mary Robinson. Presently, all the activities of the Centre are sponsored by the Maktoum Foundation, which is a charitable organisation funded by Sheikh Hamdan Al Maktoum. This mosque follows Oriental architecture, including a dome and a minaret and topped off with a copper crescent. As a reminder of Ireland, however, there is a chandelier, made by Waterford Crystal, suspended from the dome of the mosque. (Muslim Guide: 1–2.) Certainly, with the erection of this magnificent mosque, Ireland started to feel the presence of Islam (see MSA 2000). Surprising as it may sound, however, the purpose-built mosque of the ICCI was not the first of its kind in Ireland; even if small in size, the first one was built in the West of Ireland in Ballyhaunis, County Mayo, already in 1974 (see Ryan 1996: 62). Overall, the mosque constitutes only a part of a more extensive building complex that also houses the Islamic Cultural Centre. Thus, in addition to the mosque, there are different offices, a women’s area, a library, and a very popular restaurant, with a patio for a barbeque, serving Arab and Pakistani cuisine, as well as a shop selling a wide range of Middle Eastern products and, to a limited extent, books on Islam. In June 2000, the ICCI gym was opened with equipment for both aerobic and unaerobic exercises, accompanied with a qualified instructor. The gym is restricted to membership only. (ICCI Newsletter Apr.–Jun. 00:4.) Moreover, there is also a section for accommodation, which consists of ten flats for students and small families plus a guest-house for visitors. The school block houses altogether three different schools: the Muslim National School, which will be dealt with in Chapter Ten; Nur Al Huda Qur"anic School with 126 pupils and eight teachers (in 2001), opened in March 1999 to cater for the needs of Muslim children for learning to memorize the Qur"an and Arabic (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Aug. 99:4; ibid.

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Apr.–Jun. 00:4); and a Libyan School following the Libyan syllabus which is accepted throughout the Arabic world. In addition to these schools, the Centre also organises an annual children’s day with games and competitions (see, for instance, ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Mar. 02:1). Concerning education of adults, the Centre organises lectures for Muslims and also Islamic Awareness Courses, with speakers from Ireland and abroad. These events dealing with different topics concerning Muslim life are usually covered in the ICCI Newsletters. In addition to educational functions, the Centre naturally organises annual celebrations of Ramadan and the two Eid-days. The emerging problem, however, is that, in spite of its spacious premises, the Centre cannot easily accommodate all the participants attending these festivities. This problem notwithstanding, the festivities are said to take place ‘with wonderful spirit’ (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Mar. 02:1). In addition to the intra-Centre activities, the ICCI also houses the secretariat of the transnational organ of the European Council for Fatwa and Research. The imam of the ICCI, Sheikh Hussein Halawa, who is from Egypt and was educated in Al-Azhar, is the secretary of the above-mentioned Fatwa Committee. Concerning the aims of the ICCI, it was built as a place of worship but in addition to this primary purpose it is also meant to operate as a focal point for the Muslim community at large. (See Muslim Guide: 4–7.) The organisational structure of the Islamic Cultural Centre is decisively different from that of the Islamic Foundation. Instead of a collectively elected Council, as in the IFI, the ICCI is both funded and managed by the Maktoum Foundation, which provides for the running costs of the Centre, including salaried staff who work in the Centre as its employees. The Maktoum Foundation also appoints the ICCI Committee to oversee the management of the Centre and its activities. Under this Committee, moreover, there are three subcommittees, which take care of public relations, welfare, and youth activities. (Muslim Guide: 5.) With regard to this organisational structure, however, the Centre was not run like this in the very beginning. After the construction of the new premises was finished, a lease for thirty-five years was signed giving the Islamic Foundation of Ireland, which already had supervised the construction process, the right to run the Centre. Hence, at the time, the Foundation managed both the old and new mosques. However, after seven months the Foundation was asked to withdraw from this arrangement and transfer its right in the lease to the Maktoum Foundation, formed

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in 1997. For the Muslim community, this move was in no way unproblematic but ‘caused division and unnecessary trouble’ between the two mosques (Islam in Dublin; IntI 03:1); the division was reflected, for instance, in the increase of those wanting to register as full members of the Islamic Foundation (IntI 01:1). To date, the reassignment of the lease to the Maktoum Foundation has not yet been accomplished. Yet in practice, the headquarters of the IFI moved back to the old mosque and the new mosque is run by the Maktoum Foundation, with all directors from the United Arab Emirates (Islam in Dublin). The administrative structure of the ICCI, with its particular kind of leadership, is not necessarily understood by the Irish people. Hence, the public relations office of the ICCI often gets questions directed at the imam, who is addressed as the leader of the Centre. These kinds of inquiries have increased in recent years due to the introduction of world religions to the Post-primary Religious Education Syllabus (see Barnes 2003). With respect to this course, the pupils are encouraged to do a study on some of the non-Christian religions in Ireland, and many of them choose Islam. In consequence, they send questionnaires to the ICCI, often addressed to the imam in charge but which are usually dealt with in the public relations office of the Centre. Naturally enough, answering these inquiries increases the workload of this office but it is felt, however, that this kind of work gives an opportunity for the Centre to inform Irish youth about Islam and particularly to correct misconceptions that they might have about Islam or Muslims. With regard to the new Syllabus, the Centre also had a chance to do corrections to the third edition of a textbook for the third year (Quigley & O’Reilly 2003), covering Islam in eight pages. (IntI 03:3.) It is interesting to note that in this book, the only Islamic community presented with respect to Muslims in Ireland is the ICCI (pp. 79–80). Moreover, the map of the ‘Islamic community worldwide’ (p. 82) displays only the Muslim populated countries of North Africa and the Middle East, leaving out the majority of Muslims who live in Asia. As such, it reflects the ethnic majority of Muslims in Ireland who, for the most part, come from the Arab countries, and are in a leading position in the ICCI. With regard to the imam, it is emphasised in the ICCI that he has no power in the Muslim community except as a spiritual leader. His main role concerns religious issues. For instance, the imam of

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the ICCI presently aims at organising direct travel from Ireland to the yearly pilgrimage (hajj ) in Arabia. Thus, the imam works in the mosque in order to serve people; his main duty is to lead the prayer and to give a sermon on Fridays in connection with the midday prayer. It is by means of these sermons that he can guide Muslims as to how they should live as a Muslim in a European society, what for them is allowed (halal ) and what is forbidden (haram). Whoever is in need of advice can come to him, but he has no means of forcing any of his views on other people. (IntI 03:4.) The same concerns any fatwa given by an imam; it does not carry any coercive power but is merely a recommendation which the members of a Muslim community follow voluntarily. (IntI 01:4.) The imam is a general adviser to the community, giving marriage counselling and so forth. He would not interfere with the administration, or with women’s affairs, unless they would seek out his advice. Moreover, in recent years there have been two Islamic theologians who have gone to different occasions to speak about Islam, and thereby the message has gone through that it is not only the imam who can speak for Muslims but others as well. (IntI 03:3.) Undoubtedly, the ability to speak English is crucial when spokespersons for Islam are sorted out in the Centre. In political matters, the imam is not the one who speaks for the community. The particular division of labour in the ICCI is reflected in the media where, for instance, after 11 September 2001, and the London bombings in July 2005, it was the Executive Director of the ICCI, Dr. Nooh Al Kaddo, who spoke for his community. However, the imam is often requested to appear at state functions and the Centre tends to go along with it. In the end, somebody has to represent the Centre but whoever it is depends on the particular situation and function in question, as illustrated by the above-examples. (IntI 03:3, IntI 03:4.) Originally the construction of the Islamic Cultural Centre was met with some resistance among the inhabitants of the Clonskeagh area. However, with time the resentment has mellowed and today the building forms a kind of a landmark for the locals: There are nuns coming to Ireland for a kind of a retreat each year. This year [2001] they were in Dundrum and they were speaking to some of the locals yesterday and asked: ‘Where do you suggest that we visit?’ And they [the locals] said: ‘But, have you seen our mosque?’ It was the first time I heard it, the locals expressing it as ‘our mosque’. (IntI 01:3)

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The mosques and Islamic centres on South Circular Road and in Clonskeagh are both situated on the south side of Dublin. However, in addition to these two mosques there are also homes that have been converted into small Islamic centres. Having such centres in different areas of the city is necessary in Dublin, which is widespread and growing at a rapid pace. Moreover, Muslims are not concentrated in one particular area but are scattered fairly evenly across the city. In some cases, there might be a group of Muslims who decide to live in a certain area in Dublin and buy houses there in order to have other families with children around. In principle, those who are active in a mosque, including many of the Muslim newcomers, would prefer to live near a mosque which, unfortunately, is not always possible. For instance, the area around Clonskeagh consists of affluent middle-class suburbs and hence the houses there are rather expensive. (IntI 01:3.) In addition to the above-mentioned centres of Islamic activism some colleges and schools have converted rooms for the purpose of prayer for their students, as some hospitals have done for their doctors as well. These measures are naturally seen as positive progress by Muslims, as so clearly pointed out in the following comment: I am very impressed and thankful that the progress is so positive in this area. People are accommodating the needs of the ethnic minorities, such as Muslims, for the purpose of worshipping. That’s very positive. (IntI 01:3)

In similar fashion to the Islamic Foundation, the Islamic Cultural Centre is actively informing the Irish public about Islam. There is no doubt that the fine premises of the purpose-built mosque help in making contacts with the wider society. For one thing, the mosque is a constant object of interest which draws visitors from all over Ireland; hence, there are frequently bus loads of people, such as groups from different schools and colleges visiting the mosque.16 In addition to schools and institutions, the visitors have also included even Christian missionaries, who were given lectures about Islam, 16 There is a special column in the ICCI Newsletter called Mosque Tours, or Tours and visits to ICCI, which reports on the various groups and numbers of visitors in the Centre. Reading this column one cannot but be impressed by the large numbers of visitors coming to see the mosque. To be sure, one could rightly include this mosque as one of the tourist sights in Dublin, if not only for foreigners then certainly for Irish people themselves.

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and their questions answered in ‘the Islamic spirit of peace’17 (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Mar. 02:2). In Spring 2002, the ICCI reported a large increase in the number of schools, colleges and institutes visiting the Centre, some of them even on a regular basis. Concerning this interest in the Centre, the aim of the staff is to ‘work very hard to dispel the misconceptions about Islam that have long lived in the hearts of the Irish people’. (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Mar. 2002: 1; Pollak 1999b.) However, the Cultural Centre is also active in inviting people to visit its premises on various occasions. For instance, the Centre organises an annual Neighbourhood Week, the events of which have proved to be a success. The aim of this week is to ‘raise awareness of Islamic culture and to dispel myths based on ignorance which can result in prejudice’ (ICCI Newsletter Jul.–Nov. 00:1) and, thereby, it is an important part of the educational programme run by the Centre (see ICCI Newsletter Aug.–Oct. 01:3). In July 1999, there were around a thousand visitors at this event, which also gained a wide media coverage so that the representatives of ICCI had two TV, five radio and three newspaper interviews. This media coverage was interpreted by the Centre as ‘a positive contribution to the dialogue between the Irish Muslim community and the wider Irish society’ (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Aug. 99:2).18 In 2000, 1,200 people visited the mosque during the Neighbourhood Week (ICCI Newsletter Jul.–Nov. 00:1). In 2001, the cultural event was recognised by the government so that it was officially opened by the Minister of Education, Mr. Michael Woods (ICCI Newsletter Aug.–Oct. 01:3). In addition to this cultural week, the Centre also has taken part in issues concerning multicultural developments in Ireland, for instance, by organising a multicultural day, as ‘an expression of solidarity in the fight against racism’, and also an international refugee day (ICCI Newsletter Mar.– May 01:1, 4; see also Jan.–Mar. 02:3). In order to cover the cultural richness among the Muslim students in Ireland, the multicultural day

17

It is interesting that Christian missionaries who, as a rule, aim at converting members of other faiths, including Muslims, come for information about Islam to Muslims themselves. In my view, this reflects the trust felt among Irish people and institutions about the respectability of the ICCI and the kind of Islam it is seen to represent. 18 In Spring 2001, the ICCI Newsletter started a column called Media Interviews, which lists interviews conducted with ICCI staff and members of the ‘congregation’ (sic).

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in 2002 was organised together with the Islamic society from the University College Dublin. As a result, there were country-specific exhibitions from Africa, the Middle East, and Asia taking place all over the Centre. (IntI 03:3.) Moreover, in 1999, the Centre organised events for Irish school children including, for instance, interactive computer programmes, colouring Islamic patterns, and dressing up in Muslim clothes from different parts of the world. Altogether fifty schools attended this event with around seventy pupils from each school, whereas in 2000 there were thirty-one educational institutions with a total of over 1,300 pupils and students attending the event. (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Aug. 99:2; ibid. Jan.–Mar. 00:3.) The role of these kinds of interactive face-to-face events between Muslims and Irish children and youth can be seen as twofold: From the Muslim point of view, such events are hoped to shatter the stereotypes still very much attached to Muslims in European countries, whereas, for the wider society, these kinds of events offer new sites for socialising the upcoming generation of the Irish youth as members of a multifaith society, which Ireland is becoming in a more visible manner. In 2000, the Centre also started to market so-called awareness courses directed at Irish professionals, such as doctors, teachers, and social workers who, due to their work, are in regular contact with Muslims. The aim of these courses or workshops is to give Irish professionals ‘an awareness of Islamic beliefs and culture and the needs of Muslims’. The first group to attend such a workshop was the FAS Asylum Seekers Unit in September 2000.19 (ICCI Newsletter Jul.–Nov. 00:3.) The other group attending these awareness courses consisted of the members of the Equality Investigation Unit, which attended the courses on two different occasions. (ICCI Newsletter Dec. 00–Feb. 01:2.; ibid. Mar.–May 01:2). The ICCI has also attended some of several multicultural meetings, which have been organised during recent years in Ireland, focussing mainly on Dublin. One such meeting was ‘Intercultural Ireland: Identifying the Challenges for the Police Service’, organised in Dublin Castle in April 2000. The Chairman of the ICCI Committee, Dr. Saleh El Harram, spoke at that event on Islam emphasising that Islam is a religion of peace and security and that if the behaviour 19 FAS (Foras Áiseanna Saothair) is Ireland’s National Training and Employment Authority.

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of Muslims is not in harmony with this principle, it is their personal fault. Moreover, he emphasised that education concerning the relationship between An Garda Síochána (the Police Forces) and the Muslim community is needed on both sides. In order to foster a better understanding on both sides, he suggested that educational programs should be organised in addition to some common social events, such as football matches. (ICCI Newsletter Apr.–Jun. 00:1.) In February 2001, in turn, the ICCI hosted a conference entitled ‘The Environment: The Endangered Species: Ecology and the Environment from Christian and Islamic Perspectives’, which was jointly organised by the ICCI and the Irish School of Ecumenics. The aim of the conference was to offer a platform for a dialogue between Christians and Muslims on this common concern.20 (ICCI Newsletter Dec. 00–Feb. 01:1.) In the ICCI, there is a core-group of twelve women in addition to two working in the public relation’s office. These women are divided into different groups concerning English-Arabic classes, weekend study circle, seminars with invited women lectures, connections with Northern Ireland, and bringing in women from different parts of Ireland coming to the Centre for programmes. They are also starting to go out so that the women working for the Centre will travel to other places in Ireland. In other cities in Ireland, the Irish Muslim women are not all that active in the mosques. However, women are getting organised in Portlease, and recently in Donegal as well as in Sligo. Moreover, there is a growing activity in Cavan. (IntI 03:3.) In recent years, women have developed multicultural work in the ICCI. Hence, the women’s cultural group attends a yearly exhibition called the Festival of Cultures and in 2003 they gained a very prominent place in this exhibition. In connection with this exhibition, many Irish people saw Muslim women in action for the first time and were able to talk to them in person. The interest among the Irish public, raised by this participation of Muslim women in the exhibition, resulted in several contacts made with the Centre

20 It is interesting to note that during the first day the speakers of this conference were male, with 200 attending the event, while the second day featured two female speakers, and the number of listeners dropped to 60. (ICCI Newsletter Dec. 00–Feb. 01:1.) With regard to this observation, one may ask whether these figures are related to the fame of the speakers, or to the gender of the speakers, or to other factors.

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with inquires for further cultural exhibitions organised by the Centre itself. (IntI 03:3.) In addition to reaching out to Irish society in general, there have been close links between the Centre and the Irish state from the very beginning.21 The visits of the high-level state functionaries are usually reported in the newsletter provided by the Centre since 1999. As mentioned above, the opening of both the Muslim National School in 1992 and the Cultural Centre in 1996 was undertaken by President Mary Robinson. The contact with the Centre has been kept up also by her successor, President Mary McAleese, who visited the Centre for the first time in April 1999. She was given a tour around the Centre before the reception which took place in the multi-purpose hall, which is used, in addition to sports, for functions like this involving larger groups of people (see Muslim Guide: 5). In addition to the President, the other visitors included three Irish Ministers of State, Egyptian, Iranian, and Turkish Ambassadors, as well as a representative from the Moroccan embassy and the Irish-Arab Chamber of Commerce. In her speech on the occasion, President McAleese drew attention to the experience of migration, which has been shared both by the Irish people and the Irish Muslim community (cf. Mac an Ghaill 2002). Moreover, she expressed her admiration for the beautiful architecture of the Centre and said that it was an asset not only for Muslims in Ireland but also for Ireland as a whole. (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Aug. 99:1.) Thus, the President in her speech put into words the above-mentioned observation by a member of the ICCI that the Irish people have somehow adopted the Centre as a part of the physical and social landscape of Dublin—and something to be proud of. On another occasion, she remembered Ireland’s Muslims in January 2002 by sending ‘the warmest good wishes to all members of the Islamic Community in Ireland’ (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Mar. 02:1). The Taoiseach (Prime Minister), Mr. Bertie Ahern, for his part, visited the Centre for the first time in March 2000 and thanked the ICCI for inviting him to ‘see the beautiful facilities’ of the Centre. He was accompanied by two government ministers and also by the Director of the Equality Authority, Niall Crowley. (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Mar. 2000:1.) He also visited the Centre on his own accord after 11 September 21 In February 2002, the ICCI also hosted an official lunch for Councillors from South Dublin County Council (ICCI Newsletter Jan.–Mar. 02:3).

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2001 in order to show solidarity to the Irish Muslim community. In his speech, held in the Centre, he apologised on the behalf of those Irish people who gave abuse to Muslims in Ireland after the attacks in the United States; he moreover emphasised that there was no room for such people in Ireland. (IntI 03:3.) In sum, it must be noted that until the mid-1990s, the Islamic Foundation of Ireland was the main actor concerning Islam on the public field due to its situation in Dublin and as the only organised mosque there. In this respect, it could, until then, claim to represent the needs of all Muslims in Ireland; it could, and very largely did, hold a position as the main representative of Islam in the view of the Irish public. However, when the new mosque and cultural centre was erected in Clonskeagh, the situation changed drastically. One can rightly say that the oldest mosque in Ireland, run by the Islamic Foundation of Ireland, was left in the shadow of the new and impressive purpose-built mosque with its large grounds, exquisite premises, and reasonably large staff. Thus, from the point of view of the wider society, the Clonskeagh mosque is easily seen as the heart of the Muslim community. Undoubtedly, this mosque, which operates as a landmark in the southern part of Dublin, has become the emblem of visibility rendered to Islam in Ireland. More than this it is, with its beautiful Oriental architecture, a visible sign of wealth and grandeur, which is often associated with the rich Gulfstates. Thus, Dublin houses a large, purpose-built central mosque on the ‘little green island’ of Ireland in similar fashion to the other capital cities in Europe, such as London and Paris. In addition to this general visibility, the Centre has in recent years started to expand its impact also to other parts of Ireland. There are negotiations going on with respect to helping the Muslims of Cork to establish their own mosque. Moreover, the Qur’an schools of the Centre are expanding to other towns in Ireland, in similar fashion to the activities of women, who are in the process of intensifying the contacts between Muslim women of the Centre and those living in different parts of Ireland. (IntI 03:3; IntI 03:5.) Thus, the Centre is widening its influence outside Dublin and thereby seeking a stronger foothold in Ireland as a whole. Undoubtedly, this expansion will also enlarge its representative power both among Muslims and in respect of the wider society. Whatever the difficulties might be facing Muslims in Ireland, one can readily agree with the view that, even though Muslims are

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regarded as a fairly new community in Ireland, they, nonetheless, are firmly established now. (IntI 01:3.) Concerning this establishment, the purpose-built mosque in Clonskeagh is not only a visible sign of the Muslim presence in Ireland but also a base for the social influence and respectability in this country. As a hierarchically run institution, marked by wealth, it offers a clear, and a ‘business-like’ organisational structure when Muslim concerns are discussed and dealt with in Ireland. With regard to representational democracy, the ICCI easily takes, and is given, the position of being a spokesman for Muslim affairs in relation to the wider society. As encapsulated in The Friday Times, the ICCI ‘has become the front and physical face of the Islam in Ireland’ (Zaidi 2003: 1). Last but not least, one could see the two Dublin mosques as different representations of Irish society itself. The mosque run by the Islamic Foundation of Ireland is a small and cosy institution, functioning on a face-to-face basis and run by a democratically elected assembly. As such, it could epitomize the ‘good old Ireland’ as a friendly place marked by informality. However, the mosque run by the Islamic Cultural Centre could be seen to encapsulate the ‘new Ireland’, created by the ‘Celtic Tiger’, which, as an institution, is more formal but effectively organised with a compartmentalised administration and executive leadership. However, both of these ‘Irelands’ do still exist and it is one or the other that one can prefer to call one’s home. Perhaps it is the same for Muslims who stand between these two institutions and must eventually decide to which type of community they want to belong. What is important is that Islam, with its flexible organisation structure resulting in a diversity of communities, makes this choice possible. In this sense, Islam, at least in principle, enhances religious freedom as a freedom of choice within the Muslim community itself. This freedom is also evident when looking at the local mosques in different parts of Ireland outside the capital city area. Mosques outside Dublin With regard to ethnicity, it seems that the Arabs are in a clear majority in Dublin, constituting some 70 to 80% of the population in that area, whereas Muslims of Asian origin, and especially from Pakistan seem to be more prominent in other cities of Ireland,

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Limerick in particular. However, the mosques in Galway and Cork are run by people from the Middle East and therefore there are some internal links between these cities and Dublin. Surprising as it may sound, from the point of view of Muslim communities outside Dublin, the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland does not hold any authority over these communities, but rather is seen only as one actor on the Muslim scene in Ireland. In this sense, the ICCI cannot be identified with a church organisation with institutional power outside the scope of its own activity. The contacts that might be between the mosques outside Dublin and the mosques in Dublin operate not on an institutional but personal level. As a ‘side effect’ of this local independence, one can also note that the wealth, which is evident in the ICCI, is not spread evenly to other mosques in Ireland. Thus, the institutional ‘protection’ does not operate in this manner either, but rather on a personal level as in the case of purchasing a house for the purpose of converting it into a mosque in Limerick, which was financially supported by a substantial donation by Ghulam Bari, Rana Khan and Sheikh Hamdan Al Maktoum, the financier of the ICCI. (IntI 01:5; IntI 03:7.) As mentioned above, the mosque of the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland is not the only place in Ireland that houses a purposebuilt mosque. Already in the 1980s, a small mosque was built in Ballyhaunis, which is a small town with around two thousand (2002) inhabitants in County Mayo, in the northwest of Ireland. The Ballyhaunis mosque, originally established in connection with a meat factory by a local businessman, Sher Mohammed Rafique, has a dome in the centre, with a finish of mosaic inside and outside. Later the founder of the mosque, however, moved to Britain with his family but has since returned to Ireland (Shiel 2004). Yet in Ballyhaunis there is still a small community of Muslims consisting of some 40 members coming mainly from Pakistan, Syria, and Turkey. According to the secretary of the community, Muslims in Ballyhaunis have experienced ‘no lack of friendliness and tolerance’, but ‘enjoy complete freedom in carrying out [their] social and religious activities’. (Ryan 1996: 62–63; Islam in Dublin: 4.) The Muslim community in Galway is more or less the same size as that in Ballyhaunis but steadily growing. Galway, with 65,832 inhabitants (2002), has in recent years undergone a rapid transformation from that of a small town close to the Irish speaking areas in the west of Ireland into that of a buzzing city with famous cultural

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festivals. The Muslim community in Galway was established in the 1980s and there are around fifty people active in the mosque, but the numbers are gradually growing. All in all, there are reported to be around a thousand Muslims in the Galway area (see CSO 2004: 26). The mosque operates in a two-storey semi-detached house in a residential housing area east of Galway. The basement level of the house has been converted for the purpose of worship and for a Qur’an school, whereas the upstairs is reserved for the private quarters of the imam who is from Libya and has been employed in the mosque for some years now. (Ryan 1996: 62; IntI 02:3.) In Limerick, a small number of Muslims started to come together in the beginning of the 1990s. Presently there are around five hundred Muslims living in the Limerick area. Ethnically most of them are of Asian origin but there are also some Muslims from the Middle East. With regard to age most are between twenty and forty years of age, with some children. Moreover, because of the hospital in Limerick many members of the community are doctors by profession. At first, they rented a house in order to facilitate the daily prayers and children’s basic Islamic education, but in the middle of the 1990s they bought a place in a residential area which, however, did not prove to be a successful solution. The local people objected to the Islamic centre in their area, complaining to the County Council about the traffic which disturbed the people living in the area next to the centre. In consequence, the County Council asked the Muslim community to move from the place. The Muslim representatives objected to the complaints at first, and took their case to the media where they met with some sympathy.22 In the end, however, they felt that they had no choice but to co-operate with the local authorities, and so they moved to the Raheen area to their present house, which was afterwards converted for the purpose of an Islamic cultural

22 At the time of its formation, the founding member of the Muslim community went public in order to explain to the local people the motivation behind their activities, but now that the Centre is established he does not feel any need for it. (IntI 01:5.) As such this strategy is interesting in the sense that the media, which quickly reaches a fair amount of people, can be used by new religious groupings for promoting their interests in making themselves familiar to the wider society. Perhaps the media lends these groupings credibility which would be otherwise hard to gain. Whatever the case may be, this is a matter to be investigated in relation to Muslims but also in relation to other new religious groupings in European countries.

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centre.23 The centre houses a mosque and is running Qur’an schools for some thirty children, both boys and girls, attending their separate classes every evening for two hours. It is strictly emphasised that the centre is purely for religious purposes and hence, as a place of worship, it is in no way different from a church. Moreover, the centre also houses the private quarters of the imam, who is from South Africa, and who started working in Limerick some two years ago. He is a mufti who can therefore give fatwas. Consequently there are presently two muftis in Ireland, one in Dublin and the other in Limerick. It is very much felt among Muslims in Limerick that to have a mufti outside Dublin is an advantage and a blessing for the local Muslims.24 The centre as such is run by two trustees and a committee, which is constantly undergoing change, however, because the doctors are regularly transferred from one place to another. (IntI 01:5; see also Ryan 1996: 62.) In future, there are some practical matters which need to be sorted out in respect of the Muslim community in Limerick. First, an attempt has been made to get a separate burial ground for Muslims, in similar fashion to Galway, instead of using some rows separated for Muslims from the Catholic cemetery.25 Second, there is an initiative to start a Muslim shop selling halal-meat as well as some religious items, such as Qur’ans etc. Third, there is a strong wish in the community to have a purpose-built mosque constructed in Limerick and funding is sought from different sources both in Ireland and abroad. The reason for this initiative is the lack of space in the present mosque, which is not big enough for annual meetings and yearly Eid-festivities. On these occasions, parking is a problem because the parking space in the courtyard of the house reaches capacity and therefore people are compelled to park outside on the roadsides, which in turn can cause problems with the local community. These initiatives notwithstanding, the Muslim community in Limerick is more or less established now and it is felt in the community that

23

In addition to the centre, there has been some ongoing Muslim activity in the University of Limerick and in the local hospital, where Muslim students or doctors, respectively, have had some separate rooms for prayer. (IntI 01:5.) 24 With regard to fatwas, one of the important issues for Muslims in this age of IT is naturally the role of computers and microelectronics in Islam. (IntI 01:5; see also First Collection of Fatwas 1999.) 25 As Irish citizens, many Muslims are not obliged to pay for the grave but, however, they need to pay for the burial (IntI 01:5).

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the local Irish people and also the local authorities have been very co-operative. The troubles, such as incidents of vandalism to the centre, are generally blamed upon a few intolerant individuals. (IntI 01:5.) Admittedly enough, it is hard to say what motivates such instances of vandalism but it seems that Muslim centres are occasionally a target of such attacks, both in and outside Dublin. In Cork, the establishment of the first mosque dates back to the beginning of the 1980s. Presently, the Muslim community consists of around two to four hundred members, of whom eighty to one hundred attend the main prayer on Friday. However, the GreaterCork area is said to have as many as around two thousand Muslims, whose numbers are growing steadily. (See CSO 2004a: 23.) Thus, in addition to Cork, the mosque also gathers Muslims from Waterford and Kerry as well as some Kosovars from Killarney. Ethnically the Muslims in Cork are from the Gulf states, Pakistan, and Malaysia, representing different strands of Islam. With regard to their profession, they are mainly involved in medicine as doctors or as students, but also in various business ventures. Some of those who are permanent residents in Cork are married locally and are by now naturalised. As one of the members retorted: ‘We are all legal. We are Irish now and we are very happy to be here’. (Irish Times 1998.) It is estimated that as many as half of the community members are children. (Ryan 1996: 61; Irish Times 1998; Roche 2000a; ibid. 2000b; see CSO 2004a: 68.) With regard to the mosque, the Muslim community in Cork has faced similar problems to that of Limerick. In 2000, the County Council refused permission for retention of a two-storey suburban house in Glasheen as a place of worship after objections expressed by some twenty local Irish residents, who mainly complained about traffic congestion. The problem is not a recent one but dates back to 1994, when the house was purchased by the Muslim community but no planning permission was sought for converting the house into a mosque. Later the community lodged an application for a planning permission but due to the complaints it was not permitted. Consequently, the community decided to look for a better solution to its problem and was hoping to acquire the former Church of Ireland St. Nicholas’s Church, which was deconsecrated three years previously. However, the building would cost one million pounds and the financial backing is sought from the United Arab Emirates as well as donations from the Muslims living in Ireland. In any case,

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the community is also expecting help from the Irish state and Cork Corporation, either to provide the community with land suitable to build a mosque or with a suitable old building to be converted into a mosque. (Irish Times 1998; Roche 2000a; ibid. 2000b.) As against this grim situation, however, the wish of the Cork Society of Muslims is to have an Islamic centre, serving the Muslim community, families and providing for the Islamic education of children, which the Muslim community in Cork—but also all of Cork— could be proud of in similar fashion to the mosque in Clonskeagh, Dublin: ‘Startling initially on the Dublin landscape, its minaret and copper dome are now just part of the south city horizon. In time, the same may happen in Cork.’ (Irish Times 1998; Roche 2000a; ibid. 2000b.) An interesting question, rightly enough, is whether such a development, where local Irish people would proudly adopt a mosque as a part of the physical landscape of their living environment, could actually take place outside Dublin—even if on a smaller scale. All in all it is emphasised by Muslims that there is ‘a genial and mutually respectful relationship between the Muslim community and the local Irish population.’ (Ryan 1996: 61.) As such, this good relationship with the Irish is seen to render the Muslim community some kind of invisibility: ‘Not many people realise how big our community is. That is because we go about our business quietly: we are good neighbours, and that is how it should be.’ (Irish Times 1998.) In sum, what is felt most acutely in the Muslim communities outside Dublin is the lack of sufficient financial means in order to have a mosque, or one big enough, in order to meet the needs of a growing local Muslim community. (See Islam in Dublin: 8). Local Muslims must indeed pay for the Islamic activity of the community out of their own pockets. However, a constant hope in different cities is to construct a local purpose-built mosque with an Islamic cultural centre. Another problem for the local mosques seems to be to find an imam. There is no education for imams in Ireland and therefore the Irish mosques have to look towards England to find one. The problem in getting an imam from Britain, however, is to find a person who would be able or willing to settle down in Ireland; very often the imams have a family in Britain and, leaving it behind, they can feel lonely and isolated in Ireland. With regard to the wider society, it is evident that Irish schools and hospitals do not, for instance, cater to the Muslim diet, and neither is there any efforts in the maternity hospitals to have a female doctor taking care of

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Muslim women. Neither is there any counselling provided for Muslims in the Irish hospitals. (IntI 01:5.) Multicultural Challenges The sudden awareness of multiculturalism is a matter that does not only affect Irish society in general. Indeed it is also felt among Muslim communities even though they, concerning the ethnicity of their members, are already de facto multicultural. In spite of this, the confusion caused by the sudden rise in the number of asylum-seekers and refugees in Ireland has been shared, to some extent at least, also by the first generation of Muslims. As mentioned above, these Muslims settled down in Irish society gradually, peacefully, and without much public notice. They are well integrated and belong mainly to the educated middle class. Now however there is a sudden influx (by Irish standards) of migrants from Muslim-populated countries who have a very diverse cultural and religious background and who, for the most part, do not share the same educational and professional advantages as do those Muslims who are long-standing in Ireland. These newcomers have also been met with a public uproar, and the media coverage especially in respect of Islam is often negative. The welcoming image of Céad míle failte to Ireland does not extend to those who come to Ireland to seek refuge especially from outside the European Union. In its migration policies, Ireland seems to follow the general line of ‘fortress Europe’ in creating what Cullen calls the ‘fortress Ireland’ (Cullen 2000). As in other countries in Europe, the main focus of the Islamic activities in Ireland is situated in the capital city area. It is therefore understandable that also the recently arrived immigrants would want to live in Dublin. Especially for small ethnic groups of Muslims, outside Dublin lurks the fear of loneliness and lack of co-religionists. In addition, it is harder to bring up one’s children as Muslims if one does not have a community to share the faith with: ‘They are afraid to go out of the capital. The Muslims are very much afraid of losing touch with their community and their faith, especially if they have children’. (IntI 01:3.) This worry and concern of Muslim newcomers was publicly recognised by Imam Al-Hussein, who criticised the Government’s asylum-seeker policy and the consequent dispersal of Muslims throughout the country. This policy had been

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defended by the Minister of Justice, Mr. O’Donoghue, on the grounds of a chronic shortage of accommodation in Dublin. However, for Muslims, dispersal resulted in greater isolation as they did not have the community that could offer them a place for worship or religious education for their children. Consequently, Imam Al-Hussein was of the opinion that, while their applications were processed, Muslim asylum-seekers should be allowed to live, if not in Dublin, at least in one of the bigger cities where they would have contact with their fellow believers and countrymen. Moreover, education, prayer facilities, and halal-meat are more readily available in big cities such as Dublin. According to Imam Al-Hussein, asylum-seekers were also most likely to face less prejudice in bigger cities than if they were living in a village or a small town. Moreover, he criticises the deportations of many asylum-seekers, who in his opinion often are genuinely looking for refuge in Ireland because they would be imprisoned or killed in their own countries. In this respect, he strongly identifies with the appeal made by four Catholic bishops for all asylum-seekers in Ireland to be allowed to stay. (McGarry 2000a.) With the lack of research it is hard to know how well Muslims would actually fare outside the urban centres and especially in deep rural Ireland, which as a social milieu is so different from towns and cities. However, one may assume that the impact of living environment is more drastic for newcomers than for the settled community (IntI 03:7). Whatever the case may be, Muslims in Ireland, as in other Western European countries, tend to concentrate in urban areas, unlike in Eastern Europe where Muslims constitute a rural population. The present situation with recent Muslim asylum-seekers and refugees is clearly a challenge—not only for the Irish state but also for the Islamic centres. On the one hand, these newcomers give fresh input into the Muslim communities which, as a result of the growth in numbers, need to expand the scope of their activities and also often need bigger premises for prayer and worship. As a result, these recent groups of Muslims bring new vitality to the Islamic communities. However, they also create a feeling of responsibility in the Muslim community. For instance, in the ICCI, it is felt that as fellow-Muslims the members of Islamic communities should take a more active part in the work of integrating the refugee Muslims: Our work for the refugees is very new. I don’t deny that we should have started years ago. I think it is fundamental to them because when

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The Shi"a community, being smaller and perhaps therefore more close-knit in comparison to the Sunni one, has managed well with helping the refugees. The members of this community, long settled in Ireland, assisted particularly the asylum-seekers fleeing from Iraq in their dealings with the government and provided them with legal aid. Moreover, some of the local businessmen have hired the newcomers for instance in their restaurants but, in addition, they have also helped them to get loans from the bank in order to start their own business, such as a laundry, a grocery store, or a food processing factory. To date, 90% of the Shi"a asylum-seekers are well settled down in Ireland, most of them holding Irish citizenship. Amounting to around twenty-five families, they presently constitute more or less half of the Shi"a community in Dublin. However, at present the problems occur with women, who have stayed at home taking care of their family. Consequently, many of them do not know English and have no working experience in Ireland. The community therefore encourages them to take part in language courses and, once their language skills improve, to join adult courses or start college in order to be employed outside the home. (IntI 03:8.) No doubt, the booming economy of the country supports the efforts of the community to educate their women and to encourage them to enter the workforce. All in all, it is obvious that because of their knowledge of and familiarity with Irish society the present Muslim communities can, as mentioned above, have the capacity to help the newcomers in their problems in coping with the state system which is new to them. Admittedly, the help for those in need in Irish society has often been provided by voluntary forces traditionally represented by religious or lay members of the Catholic Church. So also with Muslims, the religious community can form an important agent in the sector of voluntary social service. In respect of Muslim asylum-seekers and refugees, the Muslim communities can help to balance the lack of wealth or

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education with the sense of social inclusion that is important for the general welfare of a person (see Tovey & Share 2000: 129). In practice, this social inclusion can result in networks that are necessary in settling down in Ireland, for instance, when refugees are seeking employment or a house to live in. Thus, in addition to prayer and worship, mosques constitute important places for making new contacts and exchanging information. In other words, they are essential platforms for adaptation (cf. Martikainen 2004a). It is also recognised that, in addition to work and housing, the Islamic communities could also give psychological support for the asylum-seekers and refugees, who often have gone through very traumatic experiences. In her very moving column, Rabia’a Golden, a women’s coordinator of the IFI, describes the distress and sorrow felt by refugees and asylum-seekers during the time of Ramadan in respect of members of their families whom they have not seen for years. (Golden 2000.) The final day of Ramadan (Eid al-Fitr) is a time for communal celebration with the family and friends in the same manner as Christmas is for Christians and hence it easily brings forth a longing for those who have been left behind. Among refugees and asylum-seekers, the members of Islamic communities are well able to work as councillors because they themselves have first-hand experience of the countries that these people come from. Consequently, their knowledge of these countries is not based on media or some other second-hand sources of information. As Muslims they can also understand the Islamic background that is usually alien to Irish nonMuslims. (IntI 01:3.) In other words, the Islamic communities could well make use of the multicultural potential inherent among their members. However, the newcomers do not only challenge the existing Muslim communities to develop new forms of action but can at times also cause disturbance. With the large numbers of Muslims coming from all over the world, also the number of those who do not adjust to the host society has grown. Particularly those who come as refugees and asylum-seekers often come to Europe with fear of what happened to them in their own country, not to mention the fear of what will happen to them in a non-Muslim country. In a religious respect, many of the refugees and asylum-seekers would also be very staunch practising Muslims who follow a rather narrow interpretation of Islam, which is also reflected in the way they dress and

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behave.26 With time many of them, however, in a sense ‘take up a European carp’ and gradually adjust to the society, which is also reflected in a more flexible attitude with regard to norms and restrictions of behaviour.27 (IntI 03:5; IntI 03:1.) Therefore, the arrival of asylum-seekers and refugees has led to some disputes and disagreements between Muslims in Ireland (Islam in Dublin: 9). In the view of the present Islamic establishment, some refugees from North Africa and Nigeria are so strict and narrow in their interpretation of Islam that their religiosity becomes destructive for the Muslim community at large. For some time in recent years, these Muslims provoked open conflict within the Muslim community by challenging the knowledge and authority of the Sheikh and distributing leaflets against the Islamic Cultural Centre. For instance, they opposed any interaction with the Westerners. Instead, they import their own cultural habits, which might be in contradiction with the laws of the host society but since they do not have respect for this society they do not feel obliged to follow its rules (IntI 03:5). Going against the mainstream European society is undoubtedly in stark contrast with the public policy relations practised in the ICCI, where it is emphasised that to be a Muslim in Europe one needs to obey the laws of a country and follow the regulations of a host society. Moreover, most would aim at adapting to the host society but at the same time keeping their Muslim identity. (See de Bréadún 2006.) It is argued that, on the one hand, the only way for a Muslim to become accepted by a society is to integrate into that very same society. On the other hand, keeping one’s identity as a Muslim is made easier by the growing diversity in Ireland, which allows the celebration of differences. In other words, one must go with the system. However, there are also Muslims who are afraid of becoming

26 Naturally enough this does not concern Muslims from Bosnia and Kosova, who are well organised in separate organisations in Ireland. 27 As such, many of these restrictions concern the interaction between men and women, such as shaking hands and being alone in the same room with the member of the opposite sex. Even though these restrictions are followed at least in principle by many active Muslims, there is a variation concerning the extent and situations in which they are observed. In my experience in Finland, this clearly creates confusion among people who are not Muslims and do not know much about Islam. Changing rules of conduct easily leads to a loss of respect for an individual Muslim but can also result in a generalisation concerning all Muslims as being somehow unreliable. (IntF 03:1.)

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assimilated into the western society and hence losing their Muslim identity. This is a fear felt particularly with regard to the second generation, which is growing up in Europe, and it can result in panic and in over-reactions especially with the protection of girls and women. In contrast, it is felt that giving children an example of a Muslim way of life at home and encouraging them to get involved with the activities of the Centre, while giving them freedom to engage also in other activities and to have also non-Muslim friends, they will not feel that they have been left out. In addition, they learn to appreciate what they are doing in the Centre as the core of the community. The Centre plays an important role especially with the teenagers, who need a community base to relate to; only in this way can the younger generation play their role as children in society and henceforth, when reaching adulthood, can they be confident about who they are as Muslims. However, there are many children who outside school hours are mainly kept at home and, often for practical reasons cannot participate in the Centre. Eventually these children loose out because they suffer some sort of deprivation and lack of awareness concerning society. Moreover, in order to have a younger generation to take over the community activities, the education of the second generation is vital; it broadens the mind and also facilitates education in one’s religion. (IntI 03:3.) In numbers, however, the above-mentioned extremists constitute a very small but at times active group, which seeks legitimation for its actions by referring to fatwas issued by Islamic scholars abroad who do not know the circumstances in Europe. As mentioned above, however, the vast majority of Muslims in Ireland are not actually attached to any particular Islamic group (Islam in Dublin: 9). An interesting feature among those active in the above-mentioned dissenting groups is also the fact that they do not necessarily know, or want to know for that matter, the language of the country, which inevitably reinforces their place along the margins of the society in respect of education and employment. As against this self-exclusion, it is emphasised in the ICCI that, in order to do da"wa, one needs to know the language and set an example in one’s behaviour; in relation to non-Muslims, Islam has to be reflected in one’s conduct because da"wa concern actions and not simply words. (IntI 02:2.) In practice, this kind of an approach unavoidably results in engaging in interaction and in the process of negotiation with the wider society. Consequently, Islam and the Muslim way of life needs to

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be represented in such a manner that it is understandable and, to some extent at least, acceptable by the host society. It is obvious from the above that this is exactly the kind of work that is going on in the Islamic cultural centres in Dublin. In turn: the Muslim community in Ireland, North and South, has experienced very little overt prejudice from the host community. Their problems are essentially those of living in a non-Muslim society, such as those concerned with morals, education, and, to some extent, languagethough this latter does not appear to be a major difficulty for most. (Ryan 1996: 66)

Because of English, the cultural barrier concerning language is most likely to be much lower in Ireland than it is in Finland; should Irish be the main language used in Ireland, as Finnish is in Finland, these two countries would resemble each other much more decisively in this matter. In Ireland, Muslims operate in English, Arabic, and other native languages, whereas in Finland Finnish is an additional factor in this multi-lingual setup. No doubt, it is a matter of research to find out how the balance between different languages is settled within different Muslims communities, and what the possible generational changes are on the language scene.

CHAPTER EIGHT

DIVERSITY OF RELIGIOUS EDUCATION Schools as Multicultural Testing Grounds Of all fields of society, education is the one ‘straddling’ between the private and public realms. On the one hand, schools, as public institutions, are subject to the state with regard to their political function of bringing up future citizens. On the other hand, schools, as a part of the civic realm, are also cultural institutions, attracting the keen interest of members in the local cultural community. (See Parekh 2000: 202–203.) The formal education of state-supported schools, in particular, reproduces the main cultural values of society and reinforces a given national identity. Education, thereby, is crucial when modern societies aim at redefining their unity and identity in the face of rapid global and local changes. (See Maréchal 2003b: 22.) It is not an exaggeration to say that religious education, in particular, is one of the last bastions of national norms and values, which a society is adamant to transfer from one generation to another. With respect to education, schools operate as powerful socialisers, representing and reproducing the dominant conceptions of the wider society. In so doing, they, generally, tend to level out diversity among pupils and hence the main ethos of the state-supported schools often is, to a large extent, monocultural (see Lewis 2002: 70). Particularly in a Nordic welfare state, such as Finland, the state opts for a strong role in providing all members of society with equal rights and opportunities in education. However, the aim to create equality easily leads to homogenising tendencies and hence to a failure to recognise cultural differences. As an example, one can mention culturally insensitive curricula and ethnocentric contents of textbooks in use in schools. (Alitolppa-Niitamo 2002: 278.) Equality breeds uniformity (see Roald 2002: 113). Against this monocultural background, children in school certainly receive ‘subtexts as well as the texts’, as noted by Davie (2000: 95). It is therefore not surprising that education very easily turns into a source of friction, for instance, between the Muslim communities

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and the school authorities. Problems may arise if parents feel that the educational purposes of a school do not correspond with those of the family (cf. Lewis 2002: 69–72, 147–53; see also Otterbeck 1999: 164–70; Roald 2002: 112–15). Many immigrant parents, in particular, easily experience a contradiction between the values and world views of the school and home. These parents generally agree with the so-called instrumental culture of formal education, consisting of ‘skills, competencies, and social behaviors that are required to successfully make a living and contribute to society’ (Suárez-Orozco & Suárez-Orozco 2001: 156). However, the problem lies in the expressive culture of schools, pertaining to ‘the realm of values, worldviews, and patterning of interpersonal relations that give meaning and sustain the sense of self ’ (Suárez-Orozco & Suárez-Orozco 2001: 156), which is seen to contradict the expressive culture of home. (AlitolppaNiitamo 2002: 280.) This is often the case with Muslim parents, who in general have a high regard for European school education but see some fundamental discrepancies between the values of the dominant culture, represented by schools, and values emanating from religious and cultural traditions of the family (Maréchal 2003b: 33). This discrepancy is all the more important because parents often fear that they will ‘loose’ their children to the dominant (youth) culture, which is reinforced not only by schools but also by the peer groups and media (Alitolppa-Niitamo 2004a: 54; Maréchal 2003b: 24, 33; Otterbeck 1999: 163; ibid., 2000a: 105; cf. Lewis 2002: 179–83; Naguib 2002: 167–69; Roald 2002: 114). The cultural discontinuity between home and school, experienced by religious minorities, can operate as a strong incentive for starting schools with a particular religious ethos of overcoming this problem (see Vogt 2002: 98; Roald 2002: 114). However, it has also been pointed out that religious education provided by schools could play an important role in forming the identity of children and in the transmission of religion from one generation to the next. Thereby, religious education could operate as a bridge between school and home in such a manner that the different expressive cultures of home would be recognised by the mainstream system of education (cf. Khir 2000: 87, 105). In contemporary society, there are at least three main parties, namely the state, the school and the parents, who have their respective interests to guard regarding the education of children and youth. Perhaps it is fair to say, however, that, in addition to children and youth, parents are the weakest party of the above-

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three, irrespective of the support given to parents by international declarations concerning human rights and the rights of children.1 These declarations favour the wishes of parents in transmitting their religious and philosophical convictions to their children not only at home but also in the realm of education. Consequently, a question arises as to how the parental rights could best be acknowledged by schools and the state. (Felderhof 2000a: 21–2; see also Johansson 1999: 191). This question is particularly poignant with respect to parents with minority or immigrant background, who generally are in the most vulnerable positions regarding their wish to maintain some of their cultural traditions and values, but who also struggle in order to transfer these traditions to their children (see AlitolppaNiitamo 2004b: 52–53). How to overcome the above-discrepancy is undoubtedly one of the main challenges that needs to be dealt with in the face of growing multiculturalism in the formal education of Finland and Ireland. Indeed, schools—as a barometer of social change—readily mirror the growing cultural and religious pluralism of a society (cf. Davie 2000: 89). Thereby schools have become important scenes for cultural encounter, and a real testing ground for multicultural policies of a country. As noted by educational anthropologists, it is in the successful adaptation to school education where the integration of the newly arrived children and youth to the mainstream society is measured (Alitolppa-Niitamo 2004b: 81). In encountering growing multiculturalism with regard to religious minorities, European states need to decide to what extent they are willing, not only to tolerate, but to respect, sustain or even actively encourage religions other than Christianity. Undoubtedly, decisions made in this matter are also reflected in religious education. (Cf. Rex 1996: 2; Khir 2000: 105; Maréchal 2003b: 22; Davie 2000: 83.) Multireliosity and Religious Education Religious education in any society is a mirror of the society at large, particularly of its views on education and on the place and role of religion in human life. (Khir 2000: 86) 1 See the United Nations’ Declaration of the Rights of the Child, Convention on the Rights of the Child, and the Protocol to the European Convention on Human Rights, Article Two.

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Religious education is an illuminating example of how complicated issues are involved in the negotiation of different interests with regard to education (see Copley 1997: 2). Three factors in particular are at play here, namely the ongoing secularisation of European states, the decline in institutional power and influence of the Christian churches, as well as the emergence and establishment of new religious communities and movements. Together these factors shape the existing religious landscape of a particular country. It is obvious that the way these factors are taken into consideration has a direct bearing also on the policies opted for by European states with respect to religious education. (See Maréchal 2003b: 47; Copley 1997: 9; Schreiner 2000a: 8.) In each European country, furthermore, a particular legal tradition regulates the educational system in general and the religious education in particular. Religious education is also closely linked to the historically evolved relationship between church and state. (See Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 111.) One can, therefore, easily agree with the observation regarding religion that there is hardly any other school subject which would exist under such different educational systems, and would meet such strong expectations from different sectors of society (see Wiberg 2000: 125). In consequence, it is not useful to search for any common European model of religious education but instead to look into the variety of religious education in Europe and outline the main orientations that prevail in this field (see Schreiner 2000a). With respect to growing multiculturalism, religious education is met by new problems but also by new opportunities.2 To date, the education of Christianity has prevailed and is still the norm in most of the European countries (Khir 2000: 99–100; see Holm 2000: 15). Moreover, some kind of Christian ethos often marks the main events and festivities of the school year, for instance around Christmas and Easter. This is so even in countries such as Sweden where schools are characterised as being free of any religious confession. The inclusion of Christian traditions in the school life is justified in Sweden by the argument that, irrespective of the pupils’ religious convictions, it is important for them to be familiarised with the Swedish, Christian

2 In the United States the challenge of religious pluralism and multiculturalism for religious education has been discussed already since the 1980s (see Thompson 1988; Wilkerson 1997).

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cultural inheritance. (Otterbeck 1999: 162.) Similar identification of religion with national culture has come up also in Finland with respect to debates on religious freedom. Moreover, one can also mention Germany and Britain, where some sort of ‘civic Christian education’ has been observed to take place in the state schools (MacNeill 2000). Indeed, the secularisation process notwithstanding, it seems that Christianity perseveres as an important cornerstone of European culture and the values system (Davie 2000: 82–3). Consequently, when looking at the materialisation of religious freedom with respect to minority religions in schools, it is important to look at two things: first, the nature of religious education provided in the ‘privacy’ of a classroom, and, second, the embeddedness of religion in the main events and festivities of the ‘public’ sphere of the school. It goes without saying that, in these two realms, Christian and other religious traditions can be valued and treated differently. With respect to differences in religious education, two main questions, intertwined with each other, stand in the forefront: First, should the state provide religious education in schools, or should it leave this task to religious communities? Second, if provided by schools, should religious education be confessional or should it be the more general education of philosophy and ethics. (See Wiberg 2000: 125.) With regard to the first question, one can readily say that a very strict secularist approach to religious education, such as in France, is not common in Europe (Maréchal 2003b: 42). With regard to the latter question, religious education is clearly at the turning point so that decisions need to be made between different solutions on a spectrum stretching from the strictly confessional religious education, as that of Italy and Greece, to the non-confessional teaching of different religions and world-views, as that of Sweden (see Davie 2000: 94; see also Schreiner 2000a). When discussing religious education, it is, therefore, useful to make a basic distinction between confessional and non-confessional religious education, of which the former fosters commitment to a faith, and of which the latter merely distributes information about different religions. Following one or the other of these options has immediate consequences with regard to questions as to when and where religion is taught, by whom, and how is it perceived on a curriculum map. Moreover, methods of teaching are unavoidably linked to the nature of religious instruction. (Davie 2000: 89.) However, in order to map the field of religious education in Europe, it is also necessary

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to take into consideration that both the confessional and non-confessional religious education can be taught ‘monoculturally’ or ‘multiculturally’. Thus, one can distinguish four different orientations of religious education, discusses in more detail below. Due to its focus on Finland and Ireland, the main interest of this study lies in ‘multi-confessional’ religious education, such as that in Germany, Austria and Belgium, and in ‘multi-non-confessional’ religious education, such as that in Britain and Sweden. However, also ‘mono-confessional’ religious education, such as that in Norway, as well as ‘mono-non-confessional’ religious education, such as that in France and the Netherlands, will also be mentioned. Finland and Ireland will be dealt with in more detail below and in the following chapters on the education of Islam in these countries (Chapters Nine and Ten). For this reason, it suffices simply to note here that religious education both in Finland and Ireland follows some sort of ‘denominational pattern’ even though it is carried out within very different systems of education. In Finland different religions are taught in state schools, whereas in Ireland schools, with very few exceptions, are denominational. Ireland, therefore, is a very clear example of multi-confessional religious education. Finland, however, is far more complex due to some recent changes in the provisions on religious education and, therefore, it is not at all clear where Finland should be placed on the aforementioned map of religious education. In order to have some guidelines for solving this problem, different models of religious education will shortly be discussed in the following first in different European countries and then in Finland. According to the Constitution of Germany, the fundamental right to religious freedom is respected in German education across the country. However, what has to be taken into consideration with regard to the administration of this right in Germany is the interdependence of federal law and regional legislation, but also that of the relative independence of individual federal states (Bundesländer), reflected in the educational system of these respective states. Therefore, in similar fashion to that of Britain, discussed below, the local politics have a direct impact on education in different areas of the country. (See Schreiner 2002b: 53.) Moreover, one cannot ignore the long-standing relationship between the German state and the church, even if they have been officially separated since 1918. This is apparent, for instance, with regard to religious education, which was made compulsory in state schools in

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1946; the state acquired the assistance of the churches in order to implement this education. Consequently, the (Christian) religious education is denominational, and the individual churches license teachers who are trained by the state. All in all, a kind of ‘civic Christian education’ is provided in the state schools, largely justified by reference to citizenship and German identity: to be a German is to be a Christian, preferably of Protestant or Roman Catholic orientation.3 Hence, the vast majority of the federal states provide confessional religious education at school, together with alternative courses in ethics and philosophy. However, a scrutiny on the syllabi of religious education, carried out by MacNeill, revealed that the Protestant courses covered, in addition to Christianity, also other world religions, such as Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, Islam, and Sikhism, together with new religious movements and the occult, whereas the Roman Catholic education strictly focussed on its own religious tradition. (See MacNeill 2000: 348–50.) In this respect, the Catholic education in Ireland differs from that in Germany. Since 2003, the religious education syllabus for Catholic schools in Ireland has covered also non-Christian religions, such as Judaism and Islam (see Barnes 2003). With respect to different religions in Germany, the German Constitution stipulates that religious instruction can be carried out in state schools only by those religious groups which have the status of a ‘corporation under public law’ (Körperschaft öffentlichen Rechts). To date, no Islamic organisation based in Germany has obtained such a status and, therefore, they are not legally entitled to provide German schools with Islamic education (see Jonker 2002). However, in the 1980s the federal states started to offer Muslim children supplementary instruction of Islamic culture from a non-confessional perspective (Islamkunde), together with the education of their native language. As such, this general knowledge of Islam has not been satisfactory for many Muslim organisations which, therefore, have sought to bring their views forward in this matter. Consequently, the nature of Islamic education in German schools has been vigorously debated over the past decade and has, in practice, resulted in the new

3 At the unification of Germany in 1990, the Eastern federal states had to adopt the constitutional right to religious freedom and also provide schools with religious education. (MacNeill 2000: 349.)

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implementation of Islamic instruction carried out by different federal states. (Mohr 2002: 149–50; Schreiner 2002b: 54; see also SpulerStegemann 2002: 250–54.) The above-mentioned Islamkunde is taught in German schools as a supplementary subject but there is clear pressure coming from the Islamic organisations to recognise Islam as an independent subject. This pressure, however, has been approached in various ways by different federal states. Thus, some federal states have engaged in negotiations with Muslim organisations on the educational curriculum of the Islamic instruction, whereas others have transformed the state-administered Islamkunde from a supplementary to an independent subject. Yet, others have given up particular religious instruction and, instead, offer all pupils the same general religious instruction. (Mohr 2002: 149–50; cf. Maréchal 2003b: 41.) Thus, there seems to be two opposing trends with regard to Islam as a school subject in German schools: the first trend is towards a confessional Islamic instruction, whereas the other is towards a non-confessional religious instruction—whether in the form of the above-mentioned Islamkunde, involving Muslim children, or in the form of a general religious instruction, involving all pupils irrespective of their religious background. Concerning the above-mentioned arrangements of religious education, an important question poses itself with respect to the authority to administer religious instruction: Is it rendered only to the states or should Muslim organisations also be involved and, if so, to what extent? In Germany, the federal states heading towards multiconfessional religious instruction are involved in the interaction with the Muslim organisations, whereas the federal states opting for nonconfessional religious instruction keep the sole authority of administration to themselves. Undoubtedly, the status of Islam as a school subject and the authority to decide on the curriculum of this subject are closely linked with each other in the sense that opting for some sort of confessional religious education in schools more or less inevitably involves an interaction between the state authorities and local Muslim communities, whether legally recognised or not. The same compulsion does not, however, seem to concern non-confessional religious education, which is administered by the state in accordance with its own moral principles. Against this background it would seem that a multi-confessional religious education favours religious minorities in that it gives them an opportunity to engage in interaction

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with the wider society and have some impact on matters concerning themselves. With regard to the negotiation between the state authorities and Muslim communities, the problem, undoubtedly, culminates in the variety of interest groups among Muslims, who represent different interpretations of Islam, and hence often disagree with regard to the aims and contents of the education of Islam at school (see Schreiner 2002b: 54; Maréchal 2003b: 36). This, in turn, gives rise to a genuine question as to how far the state authorities should listen to Muslims with respect to religious education and to what extent they should keep the authority to themselves regarding decisions on the nature and content of such an education. On the one hand, it is the main characteristic of confessional religious education that religious communities have a direct impact on the arrangement, curriculum and textbooks of the religious instruction in question. On the other hand, however, religious education provided by state-supported schools does not solely concern religious communities. Religion, as any other school subject, is regarded as a subject of the general curriculum map, informed by the pedagogical aims set for comprehensive schools in general. Austria is yet another example of confessional religious education as a compulsory school subject, which, however, is administered in this country by a single state authority. In similar fashion to that of Germany, moreover, the introduction of a specific religious instruction to the school, requires that a religious community has an official status before the law. Unlike Germany, where to date no Islamic community has reached such a status, Austria legally recognised Muslims already in 1912 in the so-called Islamgesetz (Islam Law). At present, the Islamic Religious Community of Austria (Islamische Glaubensgemeinschaft in Österreich) operating as an umbrella organisation for the Islamic associations, is the main representative body of Muslims in negotiations with the state. Since 1983, it has provided Austrian schools with Islamic instruction, being responsible for designing the national curriculum, producing textbooks and training teachers of Islam. Thus, Austria is exceptional in the sense that it has twenty years of experience with respect to Islamic instruction in state schools. Probably, due to single state authority coupled with a single representative body of Muslims, Austria has not witnessed the likes of such heated debates over the education of Islam as those in Germany.

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With respect to harmonious relations between Muslims and state authorities, Austria resembles Ireland, where representatives of Muslim communities have expressed their gratitude for the respect for religion shown by the Irish state. In both of these countries, Muslims are granted a fair amount of autonomy in matters concerning themselves (see Mohr 2002: 153; see also Chapter Seven). In similar fashion to Germany and Austria, Belgium provides pupils with confessional religious instruction, provided that the religious community in question has the necessary status in order to decide on the contents of the respective religious instruction. In similar fashion to Finland, the schools in Belgium are obliged by law to provide the pupils of the primary and secondary schools with either religious education or non-confessional ethics, depending on the choice and background of the parents. Both in Belgium and Finland, furthermore, this obligation concerns only those religious communities which are officially recognised, and if members of these communities requested religious education. (Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 111, 114; Sakaranaho et al. 2004.) Islam was officially recognised in Belgium already in 1974,4 and, consequently, the education of Islam is available in the state schools (see Bastenier 1988). In general, the religion teachers in Belgium are paid and also appointed by the state at the proposal of a leader of the particular religion. In the case of Muslims, this representative status has been granted by the state to the Islamic Centre in Brussels and to its imam. Thus, the Belgian state has endeavoured to solve the problem of representation of Muslims by nominating in its own accord a representative body for dealings with educational issues between the state and Muslims. It does not come as a surprise that the representational status of the Islamic Centre in Brussels has been heavily contested by many Muslim groups, in addition to some Belgium politicians and municipalities. (Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 111, 114; see also Mohr 2002.) In Finland, the teachers are

4 The motives behind the recognition of Muslims seems rather mundane. According to Boender & Kanmaz (2002), one should view this decision ‘against the background of Belgian foreign policy relating to the oil crisis’, and keep in mind that, at the time, Muslims were perceived as temporary migrant workers, not as permanent inhabitants of the country. Thus, some call this recognition of Muslims a ‘hasty decision’ which does not reflect any genuine desire to implement religious equality in Belgium. (Boender & Kanmaz 2002; Bastenier 1988.)

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paid and appointed by municipalities and therefore the need for a national representative body as such has not arisen in relation to this matter. This said, however, it does not mean that organising Islamic instruction in Finnish state schools on the level of municipalities would not face difficulties in meeting different demands coming from various Muslim communities. The official recognition notwithstanding, similar difficulties seem to pertain to education of Islam in Belgium and Finland with respect to chronic shortage of competent teachers, poor salaries, and lack of sufficient follow-up of the lessons. (Boender & Kanmaz 2002; Sakaranaho et al. 2004.) It only shows that legal rights granted to a religious minority are not enough if not accompanied by sufficient political will to properly put these rights into practice. Britain yet again offers another example of how differently religious education can be organised in state supported schools (see Copley 1997).5 Undoubtedly, religious education in Britain must be seen against the special position of the Church of England, as the established church of the country. The close link between the church and state is important to keep in mind even if religious adherence of people ‘sits lightly to institutional religion’; it does not lessen their willingness to be identified as a Christian all the same (Copley 1997: 3). In British comprehensive schools, a daily ‘act of worship’ and some form of religious education is elementary in the school curriculum, however, provided in such a manner that it would be acceptable to members of other than an Anglican religious community. (Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 117.) In the field of education, until recently the state relied on the 1944 Butler Education Act, which uses the term religion as implicitly signifying Christianity. Irrespective of the massive changes in British society since the 1960s, and the respective repercussions for schools increasingly becoming scenes of cultural and religious diversity, the assumption of Christianity as the religion of the country remained at the level of the state until the 1980s. However, the new Education Act for Scotland (1980) and for England and Wales (1988) introduced additions to this understanding. First of all, according to this law, the religious education remained broadly Christian, incorporating a ‘daily act of worship’.

5 Religious education in Britain has been discussed in the Finnish pedagogy of religion by Kallioniemi (2005).

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However, in addition to this, it introduced five other religions besides Christianity, namely Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism, and Sikhism. Hence, it did not include new religious movements nor any secular outlooks, such as Humanism. With these inclusions and exclusions, the Act implicitly defines what counts as religion from the state’s point of view. In the debate that followed the 1988 Act, these inclusions and exclusions were, among other things, heavily criticised. (See Copley 1997: 146ff.; 179; MacNeill 2000: 344; see also Maybury 2000: 75–7; Khir 2000: 86–7.) Interestingly enough, the legitimacy of the multi-faith curricula for British schools was hard for the education authorities to justify to both the wider public and some Muslim leaders. With regard to the public opinion, it is noted by Copley that religious education reacted more quickly to the growing number of other religions than the wider society, which often treat members of the other religions with prejudice and mistrust (1997: 4). Muslims, in turn, objected to the secular nature of the curriculum and to the presentation of all religions as equally valid. In their view, Muslims should be recognised in terms of religion rather than in terms of culture and ethnicity. (See Nielsen 1995: 56; see also Khir 2000: 99–104; Maréchal 2003b: 48; cf. Ahlberg 1990: 25.) Because of the multireligious nature of many British schools, the implementation of daily worship and the participation of all pupils in religious education can be problematic, even if understood broadly in the sense of general Christianity. For instance, starting a school day with Christian hymns, prayer and Bible reading can be hard to justify in a multi-faith school, but it might be equally hard to find a replacement for it (Nielsen 1995: 55). Moreover, religious education of Muslims, in particular, has generated a lot of concern among Muslims and educators alike (Khir 2000: 85). The administrative structure in Britain, where things are negotiated and arranged on the local level, however, helps to meet this problem. For instance, in defining the syllabus of the religious education on the local level it is possible to take into consideration different religious traditions prevalent in an area (Khir 2000: 100; cf. Lewis 2002: 69). Moreover, parents can have an active role in running schools as members of the board of governors, which towards the end of the 1980s already included many Muslim parents (Nielsen 1995: 59). In actual fact, several Islamic organisations have strongly encouraged the engagement of Muslim parents in the activities of local schools (Khir 2000:

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88–9). In addition, non-Christian pupils, such as Muslims, can also be exempted from the daily worship at their parents’ request. (Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 117; Khir 2000: 89.) Furthermore, in schools with a large number of Muslims, which is the case for instance in Bradford, the pupils may also be granted a right to attend a separate prayer on Fridays led by a local imam in the school. Also an entire school, having a majority of non-Christian pupils, may require exemption from the daily Christian worship. (Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 117; cf. Lewis 2002: 147–53.) These adaptations notwithstanding, the main understanding in the religious curriculum is that Christianity is the main religious tradition in Britain, while a selective number of other religious traditions are also taken into consideration.6 In consequence, ‘a general consensus was maintained together with the flexibility of local needs and preferences’, and, at the same time, ‘a basic Christian teaching was guaranteed in all state schools across the country’. (MacNeill 2000: 344–5; Nielsen 1995: 59; cf. Khir 2000.) The guiding principle behind the religious education in Britain seems very similar to that of Finland. Similarly, removing religion altogether from the school curriculum has not been under any serious consideration in Britain, neither is it discussed in Finland. What is perhaps surprising is that, in spite of the overall secularisation of British society, religious education as a curriculum subject has, to date, not only survived but even thrived (Copley 1997: 194). Perhaps this can be explained by the close relationship explicitly or implicitly held to exist between religious education and the maintenance of the national identity (See MacNeill 2000). Undoubtedly, a need to redefine a national identity in the face of growing multiculturalism is a recurrent issue also in other European countries, as was noted above with respect to Germany. During recent decades, it has clearly surfaced also in the Nordic countries. In somewhat similar fashion with Britain, but within a monoconfessional orientation, religious education in Norway places a clear importance on Christianity, backed up with a firm state-church system. Moreover, Norwegian society, where nearly 90% of the Norwegians are members of the Lutheran Church, is religiously very homogeneous.

6 A similar ‘preferential approach’ is also prevalent in Portugal, Italy, Poland, Luxemburg, and Greece (see Maréchal 2003b: 46–7).

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Of the remaining 12%, Muslims constitute a population of around 70,000. (See Naguib 2002: 161; Vogt 2002: 88.) The prevalence of Lutheran Christianity is also clearly reflected in state-supported schools. Since 1997, all pupils in Norwegian schools have been obliged to participate in the education of Christianity and life philosophy (Kristendom og livssynsundervisning). Exemptions are allowed only from taking part in ‘religious practice’, such as attending church services and singing religious hymns. Besides Christian education, no other religious education is available in the Norwegian schools. Therefore, it does not come as a surprise that non-Christian religious groups, Muslims included, have strongly advocated for the right to exemption from the above religious education. So far this application has been unsuccessful. In consequence, the dominance of Christian education has created a peculiar situation in Norway; in order to change the situation, members of different faith communities side with ‘secularist-humanists’. Among Muslims, moreover, dissatisfaction with the mainstream religious education has operated as a catalyst for demanding official support for starting a Muslim primary school. To date, these demands have been firmly turned down on the ground that these kinds of school would hamper the integration of Muslims to Norwegian society. However, there are some Islamic pre-schools and youth clubs for Muslims, mainly run by Norwegian converts. (Vogt 2001: 160–1; ibid., 2002: 88–91, 98; Naguib 2002: 164, 173.) In addition to France and the Netherlands, in Sweden, schools are characterised as ‘confession-free and multicultural’ (konfessionlös ock mångkulturell ), which refrain from discriminating any culture or religion but instead promote equality and democracy. In line with these principles, Christianity as a school subject was discarded in 1969 and replaced by ‘non-confessional’ general knowledge of religion (religionskunskap), which does not represent any religious orientation in particular. Instead, it is meant to be objective and purely informative. (Otterbeck 1999: 158–9.) As such, the Swedish model of multi-non-confessional religious education resembles British multifaith religious education, which is value-free and neutral in respect of different religions, and where the personal views of a teacher do not have a bearing on teaching (cf. Khir 2000:101–3).7 Admittedly,

7 However, this does not exclude having courses on Islam in a standard course programme of a school (see Wiberg 2000: 128.)

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one can ask, who are these teachers, what is their own religious and cultural background, and how does it affect their teaching. Interestingly enough, Finland seems to follow Sweden, even if not explicitly at least implicitly in that, in the aftermath of the new Freedom of Religion Act (2003), teachers of religion no longer need to be adherents of the religions they teach. In Sweden, Muslim pupils previously had, at the request of their parents, the right to apply for exemption from the instruction of religionskunskap. However, in 1996 the parliament withdrew this right, claiming that the neutral character of this instruction was not offensive to any religious group. On the contrary, it was argued that religious instruction of this sort was particularly useful for religiously orientated pupils, in order to widen their scope of experience, and to teach them tolerance of others. Since the religious education, provided by the schools, is secular it can no longer be replaced by religious instruction provided by religious communities, for instance, in mosques. (See Otterbeck 2000a: 60–61, 71; 159.) This compulsion is also extended to the so-called Muslim free schools, following the mainstream Swedish curriculum, so that these schools teach religionskunskap as a standard subject, whereas Islam is taught as a separate subject ( Johansson 1999: 188). With respect to Britain and Sweden, one can, of course, ask whether multi-faith religious education can be seen as a sort of secular education. After all, ‘secular religious education’ is a contradiction in terms (Khir 2000: 103). Nevertheless, one could understand the term ‘secular’ to refer here to the general church-state divide, characteristic of a modern European state, which does not aim to advocate any one religious view in its system of education but rather to reflect the ideological and religious plurality of the society. Within this framework, secular religious education does make sense, and functions in Sweden. However, the multi-faith religious education in Sweden has been contested from the religious freedom point of view. It has been argued that this sort of religious education renders religion merely to the private realm of an individual and hence it is an example of religious freedom, in its negative sense, as a freedom from rather than freedom for religion. Moreover, this kind of religious education is education about religion and not within religion. ( Johansson 1999: 190–191.) In any case, it is interesting to note that, even though Norway and Sweden have very different systems of religious education, and

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justify their system with very different arguments, both of these countries have, in the second half of the 1990s, withdrawn the previously existing right of religious minorities for exemption from the mainstream religious education at school (in 1996 in Sweden and in 1997 in Norway). Thus, growing multi-religiosity in these countries has resulted in tightening the grip of the state in religious education and led to the strengthening of a monocultural policy. In France and in the Netherlands all religious communities are in the same position in the sense that the state does not implement religious education according to any confession as a part of the school curriculum. However, in both of these countries some supplementary Islamic instruction is provided in the comprehensive schools. In France, with its strong tradition of secularism (laïcité), the state is obliged to guarantee the complete freedom of religion for all pupils in the state schools. Schools are seen as part of the public realm of the state and, therefore, no religious symbols in this realm are allowed. As is well known, this principle has been challenged in recent decades by Muslim girls wearing a scarf in state schools. The centrality of the state is also apparent in the educational programme, which is designed by the state and used throughout the country, with the exception of Alsace-Lorraine, where religious education is state-funded and confessional in similar fashion to that of Germany and Belgium. However, in recent decades there have been two types of pressure to recognise religion in France, one coming from growing diversity and multiculturalism as a result of immigration since the 1960s, and the other from educationalists and parent-teacher associations. As an example of the former, one can undoubtedly mention the headscarfs worn by Muslim girls in schools, and the subsequent commotion it effected in public. With regard to the latter, some educationalists and parent-teacher associations expressed their worry in the 1980s about a general ‘religious illiteracy’ in France as an outcome of laïcité. In these discussions the religion in question was designated as being Christianity, and more precisely Roman Catholicism. (MacNeill 2000: 346–7; see also Molokotos Liederman 2000.) Presently, some confessional religious education is allowed in French state schools within a particular system of the ‘almonership’ (l’aumônerie), which means that, at the request of parents, pupils are provided by religious instruction in the school premises with the funding provided by the parents themselves, or in some cases, with some official

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subsidies directed towards additional forms of education. In practice, however, there is little information concerning Muslims and how they have succeeded in availing themselves of this kind of optional religious education. Moreover, reminiscent of the German Islamkunde, some secondary schools provide information on Islam integrated into the syllabi of other subjects, such as literature, philosophy, art and history, and some others as a part of intercultural education. (See Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 113; MacNeill 2000: 347.) In the Netherlands, the subject of the ‘currents in religion and philosophies of life’ (levensbeschouwelijke stromingen) is compulsory in both public and private primary schools. In addition to the compulsory non-confessional education in Dutch schools, however, the parents have a right, in accordance with the Education Bill, to apply for religious education for their children. Hence, 90% of the state-sponsored schools offer supplementary religious education in accordance with the Christian or humanistic tradition, whereas only a small percentage of the Dutch municipalities provide pupils with Islamic instruction. The small number of those receiving Islamic instruction notwithstanding, there have been some good experiences concerning the collaboration between the City of Rotterdam and various Muslim organisations in order to organise Islamic education in the local primary schools, acceptable to Muslims of different orientations. In any event, the Islamic instruction in state-sponsored schools in the Netherlands is, in similar fashion to France, both additional and optional for pupils of Muslim background. (Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 112.) What is obvious from the above discussion is that there are at least three matters which are closely intertwined when looking into the issue of religious education in comprehensive schools of different European countries. These matters are: first, the legal recognition of religious communities and the subsequent right for religious education in state-supported schools; second, the status of religion as a school subject; and third, the authority setting the aims of religious education and carrying the responsibility of its implementation. In the following, I will look at these matters in light of the religious education in Finland, which offers an opportunity to reflect on the conceptualisation of ‘confessional’ religious education.

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The distinction between confessional and non-confessional religious education undoubtedly helps to outline some general orientations in the field of religious education. However, as noted by Grace Davie, in practice this distinction is not as clear-cut as it would seem (2000: 89). Her argument is well illustrated in the case of Finland, where the confessional orientation of religious education has been under considerable debate already for decades (see Saine 2000).8 Finally, with the introduction of the recent Freedom of Religion Act (2003), and the subsequent changes in the provisions concerning religious education, the term ‘confessional’ was replaced with the reference to ‘an instruction of one’s own religion’ (oman uskonnon opetus). The interesting thing about this change was that, even though the term ‘confessional’ was dropped from the new law, the organising principle of religious education in Finnish schools did not change in any drastic manner. Therefore, it is all the more important to look at how the term ‘confessional’ is understood in the Finnish discussions on religious education. Conceptualising confessional religious education A Finnish theologian, Esko Kähkönen, suggested already in 1976 that the term ‘confessional’ should be approached from three different perspectives, namely from a legal, theological, and pedagogical perspective (Kähkönen 1976: 237–242). The following summary will outline his main ideas in light of recent discussion on this matter (see Pyysiäinen 1982: 74ff.; ibid., 1998: 63–67; Seppo 2003), complemented by some introductory comments concerning the present situation of religious education in Finland, as well as suggesting some probable implications of these different options for the education of Islam.

8 It must be noted that research on religious education in Finland has, to date, concerned almost entirely the education of Lutheran religion, coupled with some studies on the education of Orthodox religion. Therefore, it is very recent that the research has also begun to cover religions other than the religion represented by the two national churches of Finland, namely the Lutheran and Orthodox Church. (See Pyysiäinen 1982; ibid., 2000; Aikonen 1998; Saine 2000: 191–200; Sakaranaho et al. 2004).

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First, a legal perspective to confessional religious education refers to the duty of the education authorities to organise religious education in such a manner that the religious freedom of both a majority and a minority is fulfilled. Hence, religious education is organised according to the religious affiliation of a pupil, entitled to education of her or his own religion in school. (See Kähkönen 1976: 238–239; Pyysiäinen 1982: 74; Seppo 2003: 179–181.) From this perspective, the main criteria for attending religious education is a membership of a religious community. From the Muslim point of view, confessional religious education in the legal sense would mean, in principle, the recognition of their right for religious education, and, in practice, would require the school authorities to organise Islamic instruction as a part of school curriculum. However, in their case the question of membership in a registered religious community can prove to be problematic (see Chapter Three). However, it is doubtful whether this sort of legal arrangement should really be classified as ‘confessional’. A more accurate term in this case would be faith-specific religious education. Second, a theological perspective to confessional religious education concerns the aims and contents of school education of religion, which to a large extent are determined by the educational purposes of a religious community. (Kähkönen 1976: 239–41; Pyysiäinen 1982: 74–75; Seine 2000: 181; Seppo 2003: 179.) In this faith-based approach, the school education of religion is not independent of the interests of religious communities, but, on the main, the purpose of religious education is to bring up children as committed adherents of their religious tradition. Hence, with regard to Muslims, the school and mosque education would share the same aim of socialising children as practising Muslims, and the curriculum of Islamic education in school would be dictated by the Islamic communities, or at least negotiated between the education authorities and Muslim communities. In Finland, confessional religious education in a theological sense has been long since discarded in the Lutheran instruction but not, as will be discussed below, in the education of the minority religions. Consequently, there is a discrepancy concerning confessional religious education in a theological sense between the majority and minority religions in Finland. Third, a pedagogical perspective to confessional religious education refers to an organising principle, in pedagogic terms, with regard to the contents of religious education. Thus, the education begins with the tradition represented by a pupil’s family and society, and proceeds

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from there on to other religions, prevailing in one’s society and further afield. (Kähkönen 1976: 241–42; Pyysiäinen 1998: 66–67; Seppo 2003: 180.) In this approach, the main aim is to make pupils aware of the impact of the religions on the social and cultural environment, but also note the less familiar elements in it, represented by other religions. This sort of ‘hierarchical model of progression from close to distant’ is a forming principle also in the primary school education in Germany. In Finnish education, this principle partly resembles the so-called kotiseutuperiaate (a principle of homestead), which means that the pupils are encouraged to explore any school subject first in relation to their immediate physical, social and cultural environment and only after that to explore it further afield. Admittedly, from this pedagogic point of view, almost any school subject can be seen as ‘confessional’ (Pyysiäinen 1998: 66). One could also see the multi-faith education in Britain and Sweden as a variation of this sort of pedagogical approach, even though it is nonconfessional. Therefore, the pedagogical approach does not really have much ‘explanatory power’ when one is trying to pin down the main characteristics of confessional religious education. Moreover, it is obvious that the above-mentioned pedagogical approach to religious education is articulated with a religious majority in mind. For religious minorities, such as Muslims, the familiarity with one’s religion does not come as part and parcel of everyday life in the wider society. In contrast, the familiarity with one’s own religion needs to be created through different means, of which education—whether given at home, in a community centre or school— is one of the most important in this respect. This reservation notwithstanding, one can understand the above-mentioned pedagogical approach with regard to Islamic education as a particular order of teaching religion so that it begins with the basic teachings of Islam and from there on proceeds to cover also other religious traditions. The aforementioned pedagogical model is the way different religions are presently taught in Finnish schools at least in respect of Lutheran religion. However, it is a largely unstudied area as to what extent world religions are covered in the education of minority religions. In any case, variations certainly prevail in this matter.

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Religious education in Finnish law Presently, religious education in Finnish schools, at least in principle, is confessional in the legal and pedagogical sense, but not in the theological sense (cf. Kähkönen 1976). All in all, one can argue that religious education in Finland is neither faith-based, nor multifaith, but rather it can be characterised instead as faith-specific. Finnish legislation concerning the freedom of religion and conscience, most recently articulated in the Freedom of Religion Act (2003), grants the right of children belonging to different religious communities to receive instruction of their own religion (oman uskonnon opetus) as a part of the school curriculum (6 §). Moreover, the right for religious education is passed separately in the thirteenth paragraph (13 §) of the Comprehensive Education Act (Peruskoululaki 454/2003) and in the ninth paragraph (9 §) of the Upper-secondary Education Act (Lukiolaki 455/2003).9 According to these provisions, the comprehensive schools, i.e. the primary schools (alakoulu) and the secondary schools ( yläkoulu), as well as the upper-secondary schools (lukio), are obliged to provide their pupils and students respectively with religious education or education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life, as a part of the school curriculum. One can observe a crucial change in the wording of provisions concerning religious education from the previous reference of ‘the instruction according to the confession of a pupil’ (oppilaan oman tunnustuksen mukainen opetus) to ‘the instruction of the pupil’s own religion’ (oppilaan oman uskonnon opetus). At the same time, however, it was emphasised by the committee drafting the new Freedom of Religion Act that this change in vocabulary did not necessitate any changes in the contents and arrangements of religious education; what the new provision simply did was to explicate religious education in its current form.10 Moreover, it is the state which, via municipalities, to a large extent dictates the curriculum of religious education, not by

9

These two provisions are similar in wording, with the exception that, while in the case of comprehensive schools parents decide for their children’s education, in upper-secondary schools the students themselves can make decisions concerning their education. 10 There seems to be a clear consensus in Finland that religious education does not in actual fact need any drastic improvements. What the new provisions therefore do is simply to explicate the aims and nature of religious education more clearly. (Seppo 2003: 182.)

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the interests of religious communities, but by the general educational aims of the state-supported schools. In line with this approach, religious education should not include religious practice in class. (Seppo 2003: 182–4.) In comparison with the previous provisions concerning religious education one can observe a shift from the negative to positive religious freedom; while the previous provisions articulated the right for exemption from religious education, the new provisions explicitly grants the right for religious education, irrespective of one’s religious adherence. It is therefore not without cause when a Finnish church sociologist, Juha Seppo, claims that the positive interpretation of religious freedom is crystallised in the right for religious education in Finland (Seppo 2003: 179). Thus as it may be, the emphasis on positive religious freedom does not necessarily involve equal rights of different religions in practice, and neither does it lessen the dominance of the religious majority in setting the pattern for religious education. In any event, reading the thirteenth paragraph (13 §) of the Comprehensive Education Act (454/2003) and the ninth paragraph (9 §) of the Upper-secondary Education Act (455/2003) on religious education and education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life, in light of religious freedom and the present multireligious scene in Finnish society, the following observations can be made: To begin with, the organisers of comprehensive and upper-secondary education, i.e. municipalities,11 are obliged to arrange religious education of the majority. Since over 80% of the Finnish people are members of the Lutheran Church, it is the Lutheran instruction which in practice is predominant in Finnish schools. Admittedly enough, this provision allows a situation where the majority of pupils could be members of some religious community other than a Lutheran one and hence be entitled to a religious education of their own tradition on similar terms with the Lutheran pupils. However, due to

11 Education in general is one of the most ‘traditional municipal functions’ so that already a hundred years ago the first municipal decree required municipalities to establish primary schools for children over seven years of age. After the general overhaul of the educational system in the 1970s, this obligation concerned the obligatory nine-year comprehensive school, but also kindergartens and pre-schools as well as upper-secondary and vocational schools. (See Finnish Local Government, 1981; see also Chapter Three.)

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extremely small numbers of other faith-communities, it is hard to see any non-Lutheran religious community reaching a majority in Finland in the foreseeable future. One can therefore conclude that, in practice, the provision reifies the position of the Lutheran instruction as a fundamental part of the Finnish education in comprehensive and upper-secondary schools. The reification of the Lutheran education is furthermore obvious in that a pupil or a student belonging to the Lutheran Church does not only have a right to participate in the education of her or his religion but is obliged to do so. In other words, the religious education of the majority, meaning in the present situation that of Lutheran instruction, is obligatory for those belonging to the Lutheran Church. In addition, pupils belonging to some other religious community, or no religious community at all, are allowed, if their parents so wish, to participate in Lutheran education.12 However, the same does not work the other way round. Due to the obligatoriness of Lutheran education, Lutheran pupils do not have the right to attend instruction of other religions, nor instruction in Ethics and Philosophy of Life, even if their parents should wish so. The only exception to this rule include students of the upper-secondary school, who start their studies when they are over 18 years of age and hence are legally adults; they can choose between religious education and instruction in Ethics and Philosophy of Life. In this respect, the law, by curtailing the freedom of choice for the Lutheran pupils, would seem to discriminate against the members of the majority religion. The obligation of the members of the Lutheran Church to attend Lutheran education in comprehensive schools was debated in a special issue of the Finnish Journal of Theology (6/2001), dedicated to the new Freedom of Religion Act. In this issue, Finnish legal scholar of human rights, Martin Scheinin, draws attention to international agreements of human rights as well as Finnish legislation in general, which to a growing extent have strengthened the rights of children. He argues that the new Freedom of Religion Act, in forcing members of the Lutheran Church to take part in Lutheran instruction at school,

12 It is interesting to note that of the Finnish Muslims, some Tatars have availed themselves of this right and participated in the Lutheran instruction for the simple reason that it is practical when taking the matriculation exam (where one so far can choose Lutheran religion, Orthodox religion, or Ethics and philosophy of Life). (A personal communication with a member of a Tatar community, 10.12.2003).

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curtails the rights of children as well as those of parents to express their opinion with respect to religious education at school. In his view, it is too drastic if, in order to exempt oneself from the Lutheran education at school, one needs to give up church membership. (Scheinin 2001a: 515–17.) In contrast, however, the abovementioned church sociologist, Juha Seppo, defending the principle of membership as the main criteria for attending religious instruction, argues that people already have made their basic choice when joining a religious community, and it would only be confusing if they were forced to choose again (Seppo 2001: 520). In actual practice, it is of course very much customary in Finland to be a member of the Lutheran Church, and hence it is only in very rare cases that people actually choose this membership. Leaving this membership, however, usually involves a conscious choice. According to Scheinin, Lutheran pupils, if given the chance, would actually choose instead of Lutheran instruction the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life (Scheinin 2001a: 517), implying that it is the reduction in numbers of pupils in Lutheran instruction that is actually the ulterior motive for not allowing freedom of choice in this matter. However, in the present situation, where such freedom is not granted to Lutheran pupils, one can only speculate on its possible outcome.13 From the international point of view, the obligation of pupils as members of the Lutheran Church to attend Lutheran instruction in school would seem to be justified in light of the decisions made in the case law of the European Court of Human Rights, discussed in more detail in Chapter Two. At the same time, the criticism of Evans (2001) with respect to these decisions is valid also in this case. The obligation to attend Lutheran religious instruction on grounds of a membership in the Lutheran Church is an example of a question pertaining to freedom of religion within a church or religious organisation, and a state church in particular. As noted by Evans, the Court perceives churches as voluntary, private organizations— in similar fashion to different kinds of clubs—which give freedom to

13 It seems that the school principals are themselves also divided in this matter so that, according a survey done in 2003, half of them favour the freedom of choice between the Lutheran instruction and the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life, and half is against it (Talli 2003). With regard to this matter, there is no research available on the opinions of parents and pupils.

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their members to remain or leave a religion. Because of this freedom of choice, individual church members, in the Court’s view, can be obliged to obey the rules of these churches. In similar fashion to Scheinin (2001a: 515–17), who criticises the necessity to opt for such a drastic measure as to leave Finnish Lutheran Church in order to exempt oneself from Lutheran instruction in schools, Evans points out that ‘a simple “obey or leave” model fails to do justice to the complexities of the relationship between a believer and a Church’. (Evans 2001: 128; see also Inglis 2005: 63.) All in all, the obligatoriness of any religious education fails to take into consideration the question of negative freedom of religion pertaining to members within a religious community (see Saarni 2002). As such, one can argue that this is an outcome of a policy giving precedence to the state or a religious organisation over the individual believers (cf. Evans 2001: 132). The aforementioned provision on religious education also states that the municipalities are obliged to organise religious education for three pupils or students belonging to the Lutheran Church or to the Finnish Orthodox Church, not attending the religious instruction of the majority. This statement is perfectly understandable in the case of the Orthodox. However, it appears rather odd in relation to Lutherans, unless its aim is to anticipate a situation where Lutherans would no longer be in the majority in some part or in the whole of Finland. At present, all Lutheran pupils and students attend the regular Lutheran instruction provided by the comprehensive and upper-secondary schools. Consequently, this provision, in practice, concerns the Orthodox pupils and students. With regard to the Orthodox Church, its status as the second folk church in Finland is obvious from the provisions required for the arrangement of Orthodox education. In contrast to other minority religions, municipalities are obliged to arrange Orthodox instruction as soon as they have three Orthodox pupils or students, and no request from the parents or students is needed. For members of religious communities other than those of the Lutheran or Orthodox faiths, religious education should be organised if there are three pupils or students in the area of a municipality belonging to a particular registered religious community, and if the parents of these pupils, in the case of comprehensive schools, or students themselves in the case of upper-secondary school, so request. Thus, in contrast to the obligatoriness of the Lutheran education, the instruction of the minority religions, other than that of the

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Orthodox, is distinctively voluntary and is, at least in principle, left to the activity of the parents or students themselves. In practice, this is not necessarily so, as will be discussed in Chapter Nine in relation to Islamic education. According to the new provisions concerning religious education, municipalities are required to find out what the religious preference of their pupils is. This is usually done in the beginning of the comprehensive school or upper-secondary school, or when a new pupil enters a school, by sending a form to the parents or students, in which they can specify their religious adherence. With the help of the information gained from these notices, a school then organises necessary religious education. What is new in the recent Freedom of Religion Act (2003) is that a person can be a member of more than one registered religious community (see Chapter Three). In the case of a pupil or a student with multiple religious memberships, it is the parents who decide which kind of religious instruction a pupil or a student will attend. In practice, it remains to be seen how many religious communities will actually allow their members to belong to more than one religious community. Most likely, the number of these kinds of religious community will be small and hence the effect of this provision will remain rather marginal regarding religious education at school. In addition to religious education, municipalities are also obliged to organise the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life for those pupils who are not members of any religious community, and who do not participate in Lutheran education. The minimum requirement of pupils is three, but the request of parents is required only in cases where a pupil is a member of a religious community but the municipality does not organise education in her or his religion. Therefore, the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life is on the same standing with the education of Orthodox religion, where the number of three pupils is necessary but no request from the parents or students is needed. Interestingly enough, the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life is at the cross-roads of the religious education of the majority and minority in the sense that its position is equivalent with that of a minority (Orthodox) religion, whereas the pupils almost entirely are members of the wider society and hence a minority within a majority. In securing the education of general ethics for pupils and students without any religious adherence, the Freedom of Religion Act no doubt articulates the principle of the positive interpretation of negative religious freedom.

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Reading the above-mentioned provisions, it is obvious that they base the right for religious education first and foremost on membership of a religious community (cf. Seppo 2003: 179). In so doing, they clearly reflect the general conception of religious affiliation in Finland, which does not primarily concern believing or behaving in a certain way, but rather concerns membership of the Finnish Lutheran Church—more or less taken for granted in Finland. However, as already mentioned, the emphasis on membership can prove to be problematic for adherents of religions which are not organised in line with registered membership. Admittedly enough, the aforementioned provisions on religious education make a concession in this matter. Even if not a member of a registered religious community, and if such education is already available, pupils can, again at the request of their parents, take part in religious education in line with their upbringing or cultural background. However, the ‘rule of three’ does not concern non-members of a religious community, no matter how strong their religious identity might be, and, therefore, the municipalities are obliged to arrange religious instruction only for pupils with registered membership in a particular religious community.14 In sum, it is interesting to note that the largest range of choice concerning religious education in the new law is granted for a pupil or a student who is an adherent of a minority religion but not a member of any registered religious community. For instance, un-registered Muslim pupils or students can choose between the education of Lutheranism, Islam, or Ethics and Philosophy of Life. Since only around ten precent of Muslims are registered members of an Islamic community, most of them in actual fact belong to this particular group. Unfortunately, there is no precise information available concerning the choice Muslim pupils make in this respect but as a general observation one can note the growing popularity of Islamic instruction at least in the metropolitan area of Helsinki. Moreover, whether registered members or not, the education authorities have taken an active role in directing pupils with a particular religious

14 Pupils can also apply for exemption from religious education at school, if instruction in their own faith is not available, and instead take part in the instruction given by their own religious community. These pupils most often belong to the Jehovah Witnesses or Mormons. (See Talli 2003.) This instruction is not, however, recognised by the municipalities and therefore these pupils do not receive a grade for religious education in their school report.

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background to respective religious education at school (see Chapter Nine). The obvious outcome of the recent provisions, fostering ‘denominational pattern’ (Holma 2000: 38) of religious education in Finnish schools, is a growing plurality of religions taught in class. In practice, this plurality adds to the workload of municipalities, which are the main organisers of the comprehensive and upper-secondary school education. For small municipalities in particular, the demands of religious education are already now overwhelming. For this reason, the Federation of Municipalities (Kuntaliitto) has opted for supporting, in similar fashion to Sweden, the education of a general knowledge of religion (religionskunskap). (See Liiten 2003.) In the statements concerning the Freedom of Religion Act, the ‘Swedish model’ has been strongly supported also by the Parliament Cultural Committee. The justifications for the ‘Swedish model’ are very much practical. First, the number of registered religious communities, and hence the amount of children looking for various kinds of religious education is rapidly increasing. Moreover, the demand for different religious education is also increasing due to internal heterogeneity of the religious communities, which does not only concern Muslims but also the Orthodox and Catholic Churches in Finland. Drawn to its logical conclusion, the law in the present form could lead to a situation where religious instruction is not only given in different religious traditions, such as Islam and Buddhism, but also in different schools of these traditions, in similar fashion to Christianity. If Muslims would follow suit, municipalities might end up in a situation where members of the eighteen or so registered Islamic communities would avail themselves of Islamic instruction in accordance with their own interpretation, not to mention Hindus and Buddhists, whose numbers are gradually growing in Finland. It is, therefore, not without reason to conclude with respect to religious education that the Freedom of Religion Act (2003) ‘protects freedom of faith very well, but its implementation is becoming increasingly more difficult and expensive’ (Holma 2000: 41). In any event, fostering plurality of religious education is seen, from the state point of view, as a benevolent gesture of recognition towards different religious communities—and, indeed, it is very much accepted as such from the latter point of view.

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General aims of religious education In Finland, it is the duty of the National Board of Education to draft the national curriculum for comprehensive and upper-secondary schools. More or less ten years has elapsed between the former (1994) and the recent (2005) curriculum. With regard to the general aims of religious education, drafted for the recent curriculum, religious education should, on the one hand, include information of one’s own religious tradition, and, on the other hand, provide pupils and students with information about other religions and world-views as well.15 In other words, the aim of religious instruction in school is a wide all-round education concerning different religions and outlooks on life. The justification for this sort of religious education is the necessity to bring up young people who, as members of a pluralist society, should be able to make independent value judgements, to take social responsibility, and to participate in cultural interaction. Regarding cultural interaction, pupils and students should have a good command of ‘skills of cultural reading’ (kulttuurinen lukutaito) concerning religions, and understand the importance of religion for individuals, societies and cultures. (Seppo 2003: 180.) In this respect, the aims of religious education in Finnish schools resemble very much those of a multi-faith approach. Reading the general aims of religious education listed by the National Board of Education it is interesting to note the importance that is laid on the familiarisation of pupils with the Finnish outlook on life (katsomusperinne). The ‘Finnish outlook’ is listed separately from one’s own religion and other religions. However, it is not at all clear what is meant by this. On the one hand, the text uses the plural term when referring to different religions and world-views prevalent in Finnish society but, on the other hand, it refers to the Finnish outlook on life in the singular as if it were some kind of unitary whole. With regard to the above-mentioned general aims of religious education, however, one can observe some differences in the case of different religions taught in Finnish schools. In the Lutheran education, 15 See the 10 October 2003 memorandum of the National Board of Education, entitled Perusopetuslain muutosten vaikutukset uskonnon ja elämänkatsomustiedon opetukseen sekä koulun toimintaan [The Implications of the Changes in the Comprehensive Education Act for the education of Religion and Ethics and Philosophy of Life as well as other practices of schools] (www.oph.fi).

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the separation of the religious education of schools from that of the Lutheran Church took place already in the 1970s, and hence one can no longer consider Lutheran education to be confessional in a theological sense (Pyysiäinen 1998: 53). In consequence, the contemporary Lutheran education represents some sort of general Christianity ( yleiskristillisyys), rather than Lutheranism in any strict sense (Pyysiäinen 2000: 13, 15; Seppo 2003: 181.) As such, this kind of emphasis on an overall Christianity put forward by the majority can be questionable from the point of view of minority Christians in Finland. In contrast to the Lutheran instruction, the education of Orthodox and Catholic Christianity have been closely connected to the catechetic education of the church, encouraging in pupils an active commitment to the religious tradition in question.16 (See Pyysiäinen 2000: 77–80.) What we can learn from the above is that the new provisions concerning religious education spell out a situation which already is very much prevalent in Lutheran education. The recent legislation simply makes it normative for all religious education in Finnish schools. Therefore, it is not an exaggeration to say, as noted by a teacher of a minority religion, that the new provisions concerning religious education are drafted with the majority in mind.17 From this normative perspective, the education of minority religions, which is confessional in a theological sense, becomes problematic. What this norm does not take into consideration is that it is a completely different matter to reinforce one’s religious identity as a member of a religious minority than that of a majority. Moreover, it is much harder to socialise children in one’s religious tradition when the only place for this socialisation is the private realm of the home (see Aikonen 1998: 418). In this sense, members of the majority are in a much more favourable position than those of the minorities. However, there are also other issues which complicate the matter from a minority religion point of view. These are closely connected with the understanding of the nature of religious education.

16 Based on personal observation of the Catholic and Orthodox education in Helsinki and Espoo in Autumn 2002. For Orthodox religion, see Buchberger 1998:403; Aikonen 1998: 416–20. 17 A personal communication in a seminar on teaching minority religions by the National Board of Education in Helsinki in November 2004.

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A quest for confessional religious education It is fair to say that the task of the National Board of Education, in drafting anew the general aims of religious education, is to list the criteria for non-confessional religious education. These criteria, discussed in more detail above, culminate in two lines of thought. First, non-confessional religious education is clearly separated from religious practice, and, second, it is linked with the pedagogical aims of the school in general. Thereby, religious education can familiarise pupils with different forms of religious practice, such as prayer and singing hymns, and also include visits to religious occasions, as long as teaching is pedagogically motivated. (Iivonen 2004.) In sum, nonconfessional religious education is based on knowledge instead of commitment, and on the aims of school pedagogics instead of the interests of religious communities. Opting for a non-confessional religious education, outlined above, might correspond with the current teaching of Lutheran religion18 but it does not necessarily correspond with the wishes of the religious minorities themselves. In discussions on this issue in a seminar organised by the National Board of Education for teachers of minority religions in December 2003, it was clear that most of the Catholic and the Orthodox teachers were not happy with these pursued changes with regard to the confessional nature of religious education. It was argued by these teachers that teaching religion only in a demonstrative sense was alien to Catholic and Orthodox tradition, where religion is seen as an integral part of everyday life and culture (see Buchberger 1998; Aikonen 1998). Moreover, it was explicitly stated with regard to teacher education of Orthodox religion (organised by the University of Joensuu) that the aim of Orthodox

18 In actual fact, it is not at all obvious to what extent this argument actually holds water with respect to Finland as a whole. One can rightly ask if this view is biased on the basis of looking at things only from the perspective of the metropolitan area of Helsinki, and from behind the desk of a politician or administrator, not in touch with the educational scene of the whole country. With the lack of research on the nature of Lutheran education in Finnish schools countrywide, one can only speculate as to what extent it is confessional or non-confessional. Certainly, it varies from area to area, and from teacher to teacher, but to what extent and in which way, remain unanswered questions. Of course, one can also read this justification not as a description of an actual situation but rather as a political statement of how religious education should be carried out.

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instruction the teachers are trained for is to socialise pupils as active members of the Orthodox faith (Aikonen 2004). In contrast to the Lutheran instruction, where the pedagogical purposes of religious education at school are separated from the aims of the catechetic education of the Lutheran Church, teaching of Orthodox religion is pedagogically integrated with the church year, so that the liturgical life of the Orthodox Church is the focus of all teaching. (See Buchberger 1998: 402; Aikonen 1998: 417). Moreover, the participants of the above-seminar also expressed a critical view of the provisions concerning religious education, which should be devoid of religious practice (uskonnonharjoittaminen). It was argued by some teachers that this term is alien, for instance, for Orthodox and Catholic religion, and therefore causes confusion. It was admitted, nonetheless, that a term which would suit all religious tradition is hard to find. Hence, substituting ‘religious practice’ with terms, such as ‘cult’ or ‘rite’, would be equally confusing and limited in their meaning. The strong links between the church and school with respect to religious education is understandable in the cases of Catholic and Orthodox religion because of the organisational form of these religions, centring on a highly institutionalised church. This however is not the case with Muslims, who are not in the habit of registering as a member of a religious community, and even in case of registering, can choose between nearly twenty Islamic communities. However, what Muslims have in common with the Catholics and Orthodox is their position as a minority religion in Finnish society. Consequently, they face, in similar fashion, the challenge of preserving and transferring their religious tradition from one generation to another in a situation where the religion of the home is different from that of the wider society. Admittedly enough, this is the main concern of the active members of these religions, who, therefore, are also the ones most committed to religious education at school. Their views, however, do not necessarily correspond with the views of average members of these religions, who are committed to religion in varying degree. Many Catholics, Orthodox and even Muslims are fairly secular in their outlook, which is obvious in some of the views expressed by parents who might culturally identify with a religious tradition but are not necessarily active adherents of it. In this sense, the religious education of schools pertaining to minority religions can be seen to aim at committing not only the pupils but also the

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families at large to the religion in question and thereby strengthening the ties of adherents of religion with their religious tradition, and hence the preservation of a religious community (see Buchberger 1998: 403). As such, this aspiration is understandable when taking into consideration that for small religious communities keeping or gaining members is a question of survival. Due to their different positions in Finnish society, the Lutherans and minority religions, such as the Orthodox and Catholic, are led to use different mechanisms for securing their numbers of adherents. The Lutheran Church opens its doors wide for all, irrespective of personal belief or lack of it, whereas the minority religions are more explicit about their own tradition. These differences are also reflected in religious education, where the Lutheran education is very ‘general’ in nature whereas the Orthodox and Catholic education is distinctively concerned with the transmission of tradition. It remains to be seen whether the adoption of the new curricula of minority religions in general and Islam in particular are able to eschew the education of minority religions in the direction of the non-confessional curriculum of Lutheranism. All in all, the new law concerning religious education has left a situation which is not only ‘difficult and expensive’ (Holma 2000: 41) but, most of all, is contradictory to the core: religious education in Finland, on the one hand, follows a ‘denominational pattern’ but, on the other hand, is not ‘confessional’ with respect to its organisation and contents. Consequently, the ‘positive’ freedom of faith concerning religious education in the school is only partial; in principle, the right of religious communities to their distinctive religious education is recognised by the state (denominational pattern), but, in practice, religious communities are denied autonomy in organising (confessional) religious education in line with their own traditions. Frankly, it is quite hard to say where the recent line of religious education in Finland should be placed on the general religious education map of Europe. Surely, religious education in Finland is no longer confessional in similar fashion to Germany and Belgium. Neither is it, however, identified with the multi-faith education of Britain and Sweden. Consequently, religious education in Finland is somewhere between the chairs, fully adapting to neither of these two orientations. Moreover, some sort of duality is also apparent in a different approach to religion in the ‘privacy’ of the classroom and in the ‘public life’ of the school in general.

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chapter eight The impact of Lutheran traditions in the school

Lutheran traditions are in many ways a part of Finnish school life. For instance, the Finnish calendar is shaped by the Lutheran-Christian year and hence the main holidays coincide with Christmas and Easter. Moreover, the end of a school term is usually marked by celebrations, including religious elements, such as hymns or Biblical plays. In addition, the school day is often opened with an assembly, which again can include—even if to a lesser degree—a Christian message. The new law does not bring any change with regard to these school traditions. Thus, in spite of the critical stand in mixing instruction of religion with religious practice (uskonnonharjoitus) in class, this does not rule out the inclusion of religious traditions in school ceremonies. In addition to including Christian traditions in school ceremonies, schools are further allowed to take part in explicitly religious activities, such as attending a Lutheran church service in connection with Christmas, or having a Lutheran minister officiate a religious assembly at the beginning of the school day. However, pupils professing something other than the Lutheran faith, or no faith at all, are exempted from these sorts of occasions. According to the Constitution (11§, 2), a person is not obliged to take part in religious practice (uskonnon harjoittaminen) against her or his conscience. Therefore, schools usually inform pupils beforehand if and when religious ceremonies will take place. For instance, if a morning assembly is of a religious nature, non-religious pupils or pupils of other faith groups are allowed to excuse themselves during that time. However, the safety of these pupils during school hours must always be assured, and hence some sort of supervision with alternative activities have to be organised for these pupils. In this connection, a question has been raised whether a Lutheran pupil should be allowed an exemption from religious occasions, such as Lutheran church services. Admittedly, there is a reference in the Constitution of Finland (11§, 2) to the right to refrain from practising religion against one’s conscience. This right, however, is aimed at protecting a person from the practice of a religion other than one’s own. Therefore, a pupil or a student is not in principle allowed to excuse her- or himself from a religious occasion of her or his own religion. The compulsion of religion for a Lutheran pupil is a norm here as it is in a class of religious education. In other words, the negative religious freedom is recognised here with respect to the

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other religions but not with respect to the religion of one’s own. Moreover, the dividing line here, again, is the registered membership of a religious community. In practice, however, parents can apply for exemption of their children from religious activities of the school if they so wish. This application should be made at the beginning of a school term. It is obvious from the above that some sort of Lutheran religious practice is allowed in Finnish schools, not in class but as a part of school life. Without a doubt, this reflects the actual situation in Finnish schools where a vast majority of pupils and teachers are members of the Lutheran Church, and Lutheran traditions, in spite of the process of secularisation, are seen as an important part of Finnish culture. Reading the documents provided both by the government and parliament concerning the inclusion of religious traditions in school ceremonies, one cannot but be impressed by the consensus that seems to prevail in this matter. It is emphasised by members of these bodies that (Lutheran) religion is an elementary part of school traditions and hence the new law does not, and should not, in any way hinder or jeopardise the continuity of these traditions. As an example one can mention a topic along these lines that aroused discussion in the Finnish parliament, namely singing a particular hymn (Suvivirsi), sung regularly for decades in the closing ceremony of a school year in Finnish schools. The conclusion of these discussions was that singing such a hymn does not make a ceremony a religious one, and hence it does not allow a pupil or a student to exclude her- or himself from that ceremony. Moreover, it was argued that traditions such as this particular hymn are as long-standing in Finnish schools as to form an elementary part of Finnish culture. For Muslim pupils, however, learning, for instance, different interpretations of Jesus in class (Islam) and in school assemblies (Christianity) can be confusing, and it is left for the teacher of Islam to clarify this confusion (Karvonen 1998: 14). What is obvious from the above-discussions is a strong identification of the Lutheran religion with Finnish culture, which in turn justifies the continuity of the Lutheran traditions as a part of Finnish school life. Thus, the new law forbids religious practice of different religions in class, and hence also the possibility to avail oneself of a school education in socialising pupils in their particular religious traditions, whereas such restriction does not concern other activities of a school. In school in general, religion can play a legitimate role—even if

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articulated in terms of culture. The Freedom of Religion Act (2003), therefore, reveals some discrepancy concerning the rights of different faith groups at school. On the one hand, the new law gives up confessional religious education in a theological sense, and obliges all religious groups to follow suit, but, on the other hand, it justifies Lutheran religious practices as a part of school activities, such as assemblies and ceremonies. In other terms, Lutheran traditions, justified in terms of Finnish culture, are normalised as an elementary part of Finnish school life. Consequently, it is not farfetched to say that the indirect effect of the new Freedom of Religion Act is to strengthen the Finnish national identity coupled with Lutheranism, however vaguely the latter might be understood. The Freedom of Religion Act thereby fosters, in the context of secular education, some kind of civic Christian education (MacNeill 2000), where religion and national identity are closely intertwined, and where the implicit aim of the education is to enhance national identity of pupils as members of a particular nation-state. It is against this background that one should also assess the aforementioned argument concerning the positive interpretation of religious freedom with respect to religious education in Finland. Positive as it may be, religious freedom in Finnish schools will be seriously limited as long as the ‘public sphere’ of a school remains monocultural. Moreover, one is justified in asking to what extent a strong identification of Finnish culture with the Lutheran tradition leaves room for the recognition of the negative religious freedom of both Lutheran and non-Lutheran pupils in school. To date, this question has not been properly acknowledged nor dealt with in Finland. (See Chapter Three). Liberal Myth of a Multicultural Europe In conclusion one may note that, as such, the monocultural emphasis with regard to school education in Finland does not come as a surprise. As was previously discussed, redefining the importance of the host culture is accentuated by the growing pressures of multiculturalism, which more often than not is seen to be ridden with problems rather than opportunities. Hence, besides Finland, similar development has been observed also in other European states. As an example, one can mention Norway, where ‘the popular and political discourses are increasingly marked by the growing trend to

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reassert the so-called cultural Christian heritage of the Norwegian nation’ (Allievi 2003c: 371). Similar observations were made with respect to Britain and Germany (MacNeill 2000), but also with respect to Sweden where schools are characterised as non-confessional but, all the same, perceive Christianity as an elementary part of Swedish cultural inheritance. (Otterbeck 1999: 162.) Moreover, keeping in mind that Norway and Sweden have recently withdrawn the previously existing right of religious minorities for exemption from the mainstream religious education at school, the growing emphasis on the role of the state is obvious with respect to religious education as part of the school curriculum. One can thereby conclude that religion becomes articulated not as a private matter but a matter concerning the national culture as a whole, which in itself is yet another example of the way religion in recent decades has found its way to the public field of society (cf. Casanova 1994). However, in spite of this general consensus on the importance of a national religio-cultural heritage, one cannot avoid asking how a genuinely multicultural and multireligious society, not favouring a majority over minorities, would act in this matter. It seems that in the present situation this possibility is not even discussed and, most likely, will not be so in the foreseeable future. Hence, for the time being, ‘the liberal myth of a multicultural Europe’ (Nielsen 1995: 153), remains a myth, as noted by a recent observer on this matter (Allievi 2003b: 365). All in all, it is important to explicate the above-mentioned reassertion of a national identity in terms of Christianity because it informs the political culture of a country, which in turn sets a general framework for the definition and implementation of religious freedom. With regard to state-supported schools, one can therefore argue that it is not enough merely to look at religious education as restricted to instruction in class. It is obvious that in a country with a particular form of Christianity as a majority religion, Christian influences permeate the school life, particularly with respect to annual celebrations, such as Christmas and Easter, or the end of school terms. Consequently, religious education should be placed into a larger picture of school and its practices. The new Freedom of Religion Act (2003) in Finland treats different religions more or less equally with respect to religious education in class, but the same cannot be said about the school life in general. To rephrase it, religious freedom might be enjoyed by members of religious minorities in the privacy of a classroom but definitely not in the public sphere of the school.

CHAPTER NINE

THE EDUCATION OF ISLAM IN FINNISH SCHOOLS Growing Demand As a result of growing religious pluralism in Finland, the number of pupils availing themselves of the right for religious education at school is increasing rapidly. This is particularly so in the case of Islam where the number of Muslim pupils particularly in the metropolitan area of Helsinki is constantly expanding. For instance, in Helsinki the number of pupils attending Islamic instruction has more or less doubled in two years time. In 2001, there were around four hundred Muslim pupils in the schools of Helsinki, while in 2003 it was already over nine hundred.1 (IntF 03:4.) By 2004, the number had already reached 1,200 (IntF 04:2). In consequence, the ratio between pupils attending different religious instruction has been altered so that, in the metropolitan area of Helsinki, the number of Muslim pupils has already surpassed that of the Orthodox pupils (Talli 2003). Along with the rapid growth of Muslims in general, and Muslim pupils in particular, the organisation of Islamic education has become a pressing issue for the municipalities and schools. Children of the previous generations of Muslims, belonging to Tatar or Arab families, were exempted from the school education in order to participate in religious classes provided by a religious community, or some took part in the Lutheran religious education. With the lack of research on this matter, however, it is hard to know exactly how religious education of the former generations of Muslims was arranged. Thus, the demand for Islamic education in Finnish schools is a recent phenomenon. As such, it is a telling example of the multicultural

1 It must be noted that these numbers do not include all Muslim pupils. For instance, in Helsinki, the estimated number of pupils with Muslim background in 2003 was over a thousand, while less than nine hundred took part in the Islamic education provided by the schools. (IntF 03:4.) A small number of pupils with Muslim background attend the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life (Uittamo 2001: 11). However, the general aim in the schools of the metropolitan area of Helsinki seems to be to direct all Muslim pupils to the education of Islam.

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challenges posed on the Finnish system of education. Moreover, it is also an important test case with regard to the implementation of the new Freedom of Religion Act, issued in August 2003 (see Chapter Three and Eight). It is obvious that, with respect to religious education, the new Freedom of Religion Act provides Muslims with equal rights on a par with other religious minorities. However, it is equally clear that the implementation of this law on a practical level leaves many questions unanswered. These questions are to some extent shared by all minority religions but here the focus will be mainly on the education of Islam.2 In Helsinki, the instruction of Islam was started in the middle of the 1980s. The first and only teacher at the time was the imam of the Tatar community, who used the book Islamin opin perusteet (Basic teachings of Islam), published by the Islam Congregation of Finland in the 1980s. At this stage there were only a couple of Muslim pupils, who were gathered together from different schools. Since 1994, the second teacher was employed for the teaching of Islam, and he circulated between three schools, with a couple of pupils in each school. (IntF 03:1.) In Espoo and Vantaa, Islamic instruction in schools started after the middle of the 1990s, when the overall number of Muslims began to grow rapidly. (IntF 03:3.) As previously mentioned in Chapter Six, the overall number of Muslims in Finland grew very rapidly in the 1990s. Consequently, the number of Muslim pupils in schools also increased so that, along with the general increase in the number of foreigners in Finland, schools became distinctively multicultural during the recent decade. In addition to recent immigration, the increase in number of Muslim pupils is also due to some other demographic factors. Most of the

2 Teaching Islam in Finnish schools is yet very little studied (see Holm 1993; Fellman 1993; Pyysiäinen 2000). The information here is based on my observations and discussions on a pilot teacher training course for teachers of minority religions and languages organised by the University of Helsinki from 2000 to 2001, as well as interviews among twelve teachers of Islam attending this course, conducted by Hannariikka Lempinen (2002). Moreover, I have learned much from three seminars organised annually by the National Board of Education from 2002 to 2004, on teaching minority religions in Finland. The lively discussions during these seminars by teachers of different religions was an eye-opener for me. Moreover, the interviews with the administrative staff of the municipalities of Helsinki, Vantaa and Espoo, as well as among the teachers of Islam working in schools of these municipalities respectively, conducted by Ms. Annukka Jamisto in the Autumn 2004, have also been utilised here.

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newly arrived Muslims in the 1990s were asylum-seekers or refugees, which on average tend to have fairly large families. Moreover, the average age among these Muslims is fairly low so that, for instance, nearly half of the Somalians are under fifteen years of age. Hence, these demographic factors have a direct impact on schools. The number of Muslim pupils is growing by several hundred per year in the metropolitan area of Helsinki, at the moment amounting to around 2,500 in Helsinki, Vantaa and Espoo. The following table shows the number of pupils in 2004 attending Islamic instruction in comprehensive and upper-secondary schools of these cities, respectively.3 For the sake of comparison, the table also lists the pupils of other minority religions, those of Lutheran education and pupils of Ethics and Philosophy of Life. Table 3: Pupils of religious education and the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life (ET) in the metropolitan area of Helsinki (2004) Pupils Helsinki

Vantaa

Espoo

Total

30,145 3,091 1,252 977 193 27 7

19,225 1,170 704 361 120 5 0

19,831 1,082 600 355 121 0 0

69,201 5,343 2,556 1,693 434 32 7

Subject Lutheranism ET Islam Orthodoxy Catholicism Buddhism Krishna

Source: The education authorities of Helsinki, Vantaa and Espoo4

Until recent years, Orthodox pupils, after the Lutheran majority, constituted the second largest group of pupils in religious education. However, the situation has changed especially in large cities. As mentioned above, a survey done in Autumn 2003 among school principles

3 Unfortunately, there are no comprehensive statistics available on pupils of different faiths in Finland. (For Orthodox pupils, see Aikonen 1998: 424–5.) In general, however, the secular Ethics and Philosophy of Life usually gathers the second largest group of pupils after the Lutheran instruction (cf. Talli 2003). 4 In 2004, these cities employed teachers of Islam in Helsinki (15), in Vantaa (7) and in Espoo (5).

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of the ten largest cities of Finland showed that the number of Muslim and Orthodox pupils was more or less equal, whereas in the metropolitan area Muslim pupils already surpassed Orthodox pupils in number (Talli 2003). The above-figures for the benefit of Islam, however, reveal a situation which is rather new in Finnish schools. Orthodox religion has been taught, to a varying degree, in Finnish schools already for over a hundred years, and teachers of Orthodox religion have been educated since 1969 in the University of Joensuu (see Aikonen 1998). Coupled with the official recognition of the Orthodox Church as the second national church of Finland, the instruction of Orthodox religion is therefore more firmly established than that of other minority religions, such as Catholicism and Islam, not to mention some other small religions also taught in Helsinki, such as Buddhism or Krishna. Large numbers of Muslim pupils, moreover, is mainly a phenomenon characteristic of the metropolitan area of Helsinki, where the majority of the Muslim population is located in any case. (IntF 03:4.) This rapid growth in numbers of Muslim pupils notwithstanding, it is obvious that the overall number of pupils representing minority religions does not in any way threaten the dominance of the Lutheran instruction.5 In this manner, schools reflect the general situation in Finnish society with regard to multiculturalism, where, rightly enough, the number of foreigners has grown at a rapid pace since the beginning of the 1990s, with a drastic effect on different sectors of Finnish society, such as education and health; still, foreigners remain a very small section of the Finnish population. This said, however, it is clear that even small numbers can create an urgent need for new policies. The growing demand for education of different religions is a concrete example of this. In actual fact, Finnish schools are preparing themselves for a growing heterogeneity in the field of religious education. For instance, Helsinki has recently started the education of Buddhism and Krishna religion, whereas Jyväskylä and Tampere have introduced the education of Baha’i. (IntF 03:4; Talli 2003.) The problems and solutions in order to meet the growing demand of religious education is acutely felt also in respect of Islam, which poses a particular challenge not only because of the

5 On the contrary, there are pupils of different religious background who—even if in small numbers—also attend Lutheran instruction (Talli 2003).

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larger numbers of pupils, in comparison to the other faith groups, but also for several other reasons, dealt with below. Curriculum In order to start religious education in Finnish schools, a registered religious community needs to draft, and have accepted by the National Board of Education, general aims of the religious education in question, which then are used for drafting local curricula of religion by different municipalities. In 2005, the Board of Education published the most recent Overall Curriculum of Religion for the Lutheran and Orthodox education and those for ‘other religions’. Thus, in addition to Lutheran and Orthodox curriculum, there are at present ten officially authorised curricula of religion for the Finnish comprehensive and upper-secondary schools. In comparison with the 1990s, the number of the curricula of ‘other religions’ has doubled. In addition to Catholicism (1994), Islam (1994), Adventism (1995), Kristiyhteisö (i.e. Rudolf Steiner, 1997), and Bahá’í (1998), there are now also curricula for the Free Church, the Latter-day Saints (Mormon), Buddhism, Judaism, Krishna, and a small Baptist-based Finnish group Herran kansa ry.6 The adoption of the new Freedom of Religions Act (2003) and its effects on religious education, discussed in more detail in Chapter Eight, made it necessary to redraft the curricula of religion. As mentioned previously, the new provisions emphasise the overall religious education with the knowledge of different religious traditions on a par with one’s own. Moreover, they clearly rule out confessional religious education in a theological sense and therefore prohibit ‘religious practice’ (uskonnon harjoittaminen) in class. Instead of primarily aiming at socialising pupils as active members of a religion, religious education should be demonstrative and fulfilling the educational purposes of the school. To date, however, the curricula of minority religions have to a large extent been confessional in the theological sense and not only in the pedagogical sense as with the Lutheran curriculum (see Pyysiäinen 2000; Chapter Eight). Therefore the main

6 See Perusopetuksen uskontojen opetussuunnitelmien perusteet [The Overall Curriculum of Religions for Comprehensive School] 2005; cf. Pyysiäinen 2000: 4. For the description of these religious groups in Finland, see Heino 1997.

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challenge brought about by the new provisions concerning religious education lies on other than Lutheran instruction. It is not possible here, however, to study in detail the changes that the curricula of all minority religions underwent from the 1990s to 2005. Instead, the focus will be limited to the Overall Curriculum of Islam of 1995 and 2005, and the parallel local curricula of Islam in Helsinki and Espoo respectively.6 Roughly ten years has elapsed between the two Overall Curricula of Islam, which makes it interesting to read them side by side, in order to observe similarities and differences between them. Overall Curriculum of Islam The first Overall Curriculum of Islam7 was drafted by a small group of Finnish administrators and members of Muslim communities, and was authorized by the National Board of Education in May 1995. It is stated in a letter of decisions accompanying this document that the basic contents of this Curriculum of Islam for comprehensive and upper-secondary school are in line with the proposal made by the Finnish Islamic communities.8 The Muslim communities listed in the letter of decision concerning the 1995 Overall Curriculum of Islam include only the Tatar communities in Helsinki and Tampere. At the time, there were also some immigrant-based Islamic communities in operation, but there is no mention of their input in this matter. The 1995 Overall Curriculum of Islam listed the aims of Islamic education for primary, secondary and upper-secondary schools.9 Thus, the Islamic education of the primary school aimed at providing a pupil with a basic knowledge of Islam as well as showing the pupils 6 The metropolitan area of Helsinki consists of Helsinki, Vantaa and Espoo. However, I will not deal here with Vantaa since it more or less follows a curriculum identical with that of Helsinki (Int F 03:3). 7 See Peruskoulun islamin uskonnon perusteet [The Overall Curriculum of Islam for Comprehensive School] 1995; Lukion islamin uskonnon perusteet [The Overall Curriculum of Islam for Upper-secondary School] 1995. 8 See Islamin uskonnon opetussuunnitelman perusteet peruskouluun ja lukioon [The Overall Curriculum of Islam for Comprehensive and Upper-secondary Schools] 3/430/95. 9 The primary school consists of classes from one to six (from age seven to thirteen), secondary school classes from seven to nine (from age thirteen to sixteen), and upper-secondary school classes from one to three or four (from age sixteen to nineteen or twenty). Here the main focus lies on the primary and secondary schools which are crucial in the formative years of children and the young.

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the significance it holds for themselves and for their surroundings. Moreover, pupils were encouraged to approach the one and only God, to grow in prayer and to become familiar with the Islamic lifestyle. The teaching followed the hijri-year of the Islamic calendar, marked by the main annual festivities of Islam. In addition to learning about the main tenets of the belief in One God and the Prophet Muhammad, as well as the holy Qur’an, pupils were also meant to take part in religious services together with a Muslim community. All in all, the Islamic education in the primary school, in accordance with the 1995 Curriculum, focussed on socialising children in their own religious tradition. This aim was also shared by teachers of Islam (interviewed in 1998) who to some extent introduced children to religious practice, such as greeting in the Islamic way, learning how to prepare oneself for prayer, and to conduct prayer in a proper manner. Some of them asked for permission from the school principle to conduct prayer with the pupils during the school breaks, and some conducted prayer in class. (Karvonen 1998: 17–18.) In the secondary school, the aim of the Islamic education (1995) was to widen the scope of teaching so that it also covered important moral issues and helped pupils to take personal responsibility for the choices they make. These moral choices were linked to the Islamic world view, with the emphasis on Islam as a universal religion. Pupils were further guided into a deeper knowledge of Islamic traditions and practices, including the understanding and participation in worship and prayer. In addition to Islam, pupils were also familiarised with other world religions. All in all, the 1995 Curriculum showed coherence in the aims of Islamic education for the primary and the secondary school, where basic contents of teaching were more or less similar, with the exception of ethics and other religions featuring in the secondary school education of Islam. In conclusion one may note that religious education of Muslim pupils was, in accordance with the 1995 Curriculum, clearly confessional in a theological sense; the contents of teaching focussed almost entirely on Islam, with the aim to raise Muslim pupils who actively adhere to their religion. Moreover, learning how to practice Islam was an elementary part of the Islamic education particularly on the primary and secondary school level. By placing importance on the transmission of its own tradition, the aims of Islamic education in the 1995 Curriculum closely corresponded with those of Catholic and Orthodox education (see Pyysiäinen 2000: 24).

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The recent Overall Curriculum of Islam, in accordance with the recent Freedom of Religion Act, was issued by the National Board of Education in 2005 and will become in August 2006 the effective curriculum of Islam, laying down the main parameters for teaching Islam in Finnish comprehensive and upper-secondary schools.10 The 2005 Overall Curriculum of Islam differs fundamentally from that of 1995. First, the drafting process of the 2005 curriculum was different in the sense that it was not produced in close cooperation with Muslim communities, as was done with the 1995 curriculum. The 2005 Curriculum of Islam is mainly the creation of civil servants, although they have also consulted some Muslim teachers. The Curriculum of Islam was furthermore discussed, along with the curricula of other minority religions, in a seminar in November 2004 organised by the National Board of Education for teachers of minority religions. This discussion, however, concerned mainly the wording of the aims and did not bring any major changes to the contents of the curriculum. For that reason, the process of drafting the curricula of minority religions resembles the corresponding process of drafting the recent Freedom of Religion Act (discussed in Chapter Three); in both cases, representatives of religious minorities were consulted in the process but did not have a role to play in the final decision making. The 2005 Overall Curriculum of Islam for the comprehensive schools first lists some general aims of Islamic education and then outlines the aims for classes from one to six and for classes from six to nine.11 To begin with, the purpose of Islamic instruction is to strengthen the Islamic identity of a pupil. Pupils, moreover, are aided in understanding the significance of Islam for themselves and for society at large. In addition to these aims with a focus on Islam, pupils are also taught to understand and interact with people who think and behave differently. In similar fashion to the Overall Curriculum of Religion, in general, also the Islamic instruction aims at the overall education of religions and outlooks on life. 10 In the following, different curricula of Islam are presented in fair detail in order to facilitate a better understanding of the similarities and difference in the subject matter addressed in these curricula. 11 The peculiarity of the new curricula for comprehensive school is that they do not follow the division of primary and secondary school but divide the aims for classes from 1 to 5 and from 6 to 9. (See Perusopetuksen uskontojen opetussuunnitelmien perusteet 2005).

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In comparison with the general aims of Lutheran education there is an interesting difference in wording; while the curriculum of Islam aims at knowing Islamic tradition, the curriculum of Lutheran religion aims at familiarity with ‘religious culture’ (uskonnollinen kulttuuri). The Curriculum of Lutheran religion, therefore, reveals some sort of ‘universalist’ tendency. Admittedly, this tendency was apparent already in the 1995 Curriculum of Lutheran religion, nonetheless regarding a more limited scope of reference to ‘Christianity’ (discussed in Chapter Eight). In other words, it would seem that the growing multi-religiosity in Finland has not led to the crystallisation of Lutheran tradition in religious education but rather to an even more comprehensive approach of identifying Lutheranism with (Finnish) culture. (Cf. Pyysiäinen 2000: 12–15; see Chapter Eight.) It is obvious from the above that the 2005 Curriculum of Islam avoids confessional language in a theological sense. Instead, it refers to the ‘Islamic identity’, which is constituted in interaction with others. The reference to ‘identity’ is systematically repeated also in the curricula of other minority religions. All in all, the term ‘identity’ seems to constitute the catchword of the recent curricula of religions, which thereby employ the terminology characteristic of non-confessional religious education (see Schreiner 2002a: 8). The non-confessional emphasis in the new curricula is even more accentuated with the prohibition to introduce religious practice in class. However, in practice, it is not at all clear how strengthening the religious identity of a pupil, in accordance with the 2005 curriculum, actually differs from socialising pupils into a religious tradition, in accordance with the 1995 curriculum. The difference no doubt needs to be read in the light of the above-mentioned aversion to religious practice in the 2005 curriculum as well as with respect to specific aims of religious education on the primary and secondary school level, discussed in more detail below. According to the 2005 Overall Curriculum of Islam, the Islamic education in classes from one to five aims at giving to pupils the elements for constructing their own world view. The syllabus for these primary classes covers, first, the goodness and care of God, who is approached as Creator and Giver of Life. Moreover, the questions concerning life and death arising from the experiences of pupils are dealt with in this connection. In speaking of ‘trust’ and ‘security’, the Overall Curriculum for primary schools seems to portray God as someone not embodying reverent distance but as someone

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closely participating in human affairs. Hence, the Finnish curriculum would seem to repeat the curricular model of the German International Institute for Pedagogy and Education (IPD), reflecting the notion that children should develop their individual relationship to God as a foundation of an Islamic way of life (cf. Mohr 2002: 164–5). Second, the primary school syllabus aims at teaching pupils some of the short suras of the Qur’an for using them in prayer (salat). Moreover, pupils are introduced to the six articles of faith (Arkan al-Iman), the ‘five pillars’ (Arkan al-Islam), the inner meaning of an act (Al-Niyya), and the example of Prophet Muhammad (Al-Sunnah).12 Moreover, pupils are encouraged to reflect on their ethical choices in the light of Islam and learn how to behave in a religious community. A clear difference in the recent Curriculum of Islam in comparison to the 1995 curriculum is the aim to learn ‘to accept and respect people with different beliefs and outlooks on life’. This wording actually provoked discussion in the aforementioned seminar organised by the Board of Education in November 2004 on the education of minority religions. Some Muslim participants wondered out loud why the Curriculum of Islam speaks of ‘acceptance’ and ‘respect’ while the curricula of other religions simply refer to the ‘familiarisation with’ other religions and outlooks on life. It goes without saying that ‘acceptance’ of other religions and outlooks on life implies much stronger commitment than simply getting to know them. Therefore, it would seem that Muslims are demanded far more in this respect than adherents of other religions. One cannot but surmise whether the negative publicity of fundamentalist tendencies in Islam have resulted in the overt emphasis on ‘tolerance’ in the Curriculum of Islam. Another surprising matter with respect to the aim of accepting and respecting other beliefs and outlooks is the fact that it is included in the curriculum of the first five classes of the primary school. Thus, the Islamic education seeks to introduce primary school pupils to ‘other religions and minorities’, and to compare Islam, Christianity

12 When discussing the Overall Curriculum of Islam in the aforementioned seminar by the National Board of Education on teaching minority religions, some participants questioned the use of Arabic in this curriculum. However, the Muslim participants defended the use of the Arabic terms on grounds that these terms operated as a key for different teachers of Islam, who do not necessarily have a good command of Finnish.

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and Judaism. All in all, teaching about other religions, which was previously done in secondary schools, is now introduced already on the primary school level. This seems to be a general trend in the 2005 curricula of religions. Hence, schooling Muslim pupils as members of a multicultural society is started from the first grades, and the instruction on Islam coupled with inter-religious education (see Seppo 2003: 180; Chapter Eight). The general aim of the Islamic education for the classes from five to nine is, according to the 2005 Overall Curriculum of Islam, to deepen the understanding of pupils concerning their own religion and other religions as well. Moreover, it also aims at strengthening the constitution of pupils’ world view and ethical awareness. Teaching the main tenets of the Qur’an continues and is added with information concerning the Islamic law (sharia) and prayer. Pupils are, moreover, familiarised with the basics of Islamic ethics, as well as informed about the development and spread of Islam. In addition to Islam, the pupils are acquainted on a general level with the main world religions and Finnish religiosity. The Curriculum of Islam on the secondary school level in 1995 and 2005 are similar in the sense that they both emphasise the education of ethics, and in both cases link the ethical thinking with knowledge of the Islamic tradition. Moreover, both of these curricula include teaching other religions. The 2005 Curriculum of Islam is, however, more emphatic regarding other religions: the aim is to learn to respect people with diverse beliefs and thinking. Thus, one can notice a shift in the Overall Curriculum of Islam for the comprehensive school from intra-faith emphasis in 1995 to inter-faith emphasis in 2005. As mentioned above, the Curricula of Islam of 1995 and 2005 both listed, on one level or another, world religions as a topic of Islamic instruction. According to a study on teachers of Islam, they did not necessarily cover religions other than Islam in their teaching at all, and some simply dealt with Christianity and Judaism to the extent that these religions and their prophets appear in the Qur’an (see the Helsinki Curriculum of Islam 1997: Ch. 3: classes 7–9). Only two of the twelve teachers, interviewed by Lempinen, taught world religions in a more comprehensive manner. In this respect, teaching Islam does not seem to follow the general aims of religious education for comprehensive and upper-secondary school, but was in line with the confessional emphasise of the 1995 Curriculum

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of Islam. (Lempinen 2002: 75–78; see also Pyysiäinen 2000.) According to teachers of Islam, it was important by means of religious education to strengthen the religious identity of Muslim pupils living as a minority within the mainstream culture of Finnish society. Most teachers, furthermore, considered it as being important that the pupils would learn some basic practices of Islam in class, such as ablution and prayer. The 1995 Curriculum of Islam, thereby, seemed to correspond with the views of teachers, even though, according to Lempinen, many of them were not even familiar with the contents of it. (Lempinen 2002: 41–47, 73; see also Karvonen 1998: 11; 16). Some of the teachers of Islam did not actually see much difference between the mosque education and the education of Islam in the school (Karvonen 1998: 20). Both of the aforementioned overall curricula of Islam for comprehensive and upper-secondary school (see also Helsinki Curriculum of Islam 1997: Ch. 2) entail an understanding of Islam as a universal tradition, without paying much attention to the variety of interpretations that abound about Islam, not only among Muslims worldwide but also among Muslims in Finland (see Chapter Six). In similar fashion, moreover, the plurality of interpretations concerning Islam is a subject which tends to be avoided by teachers of Islam in class. Instead, they concentrate on teaching matters shared by most Muslims. Thus, they, for instance, do not pay attention to which mosques (representing different interpretations of Islam) the pupils and their families might visit. It is rather the universal community of Muslims (umma) than individual mosques that Islam teachers hope to introduce their pupils to. (Lempinen 2002: 68, 93; Karvonen 1998: 15; 20.) As noted by a teacher of Islam: When I teach religion [Islam], I explain what it really is. I do not care where this or that pupil comes from because people very often understand things wrongly. They think that Islam is a group, that Iraqis believe differently from Iranians, or Iranians believe differently from Pakistanis, or Pakistanis believe differently from Egyptians. No, no, no. Islam is Islam. Wherever you are. (Citation in Karvonen 1998: 15)

One could, therefore, say that both the Curriculum of Islam as well as teachers of Islam pursue striking a balance between the universal ideal of Islam, uniting Muslims, and different schools of interpretations, dividing Muslims. In this sense, the Finnish Curriculum of Islam seems to correspond with the curricular programmes of the

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Islamic Religious Community of Austria (Islamische Glaubengemeinschaft in Österreich), which attach great importance to ‘consensus elements’ constituting ‘a common denominator that can serve as a basis for relations among Muslims’ (Mohr 2002: 161). In his study on the curricula of different religions, Pyysiäinen sees a problem here. He says that, in similar fashion to Christianity, Islam is divided into different orientations of faith and practice, which significantly differ from each other. Moreover, Muslim pupils come from a variety of ethnic backgrounds and therefore have been brought up within different interpretations of Islam. In teaching Islam these differences are simply ignored. (Pyysiäinen 2000: 26.) Admittedly, in theory, members of all registered Islamic communities, amounting to some twenty, could actually demand Islamic education according to their own interpretation of Islam, if ‘the rule of three’ with regard to pupils would be fulfilled, and if they had a curriculum for their line of Islam. As was noted by a representative of the Catholic Church in the seminar organised by the National Board of Education in October 2002 on teaching minority religions, this kind of plurality of curricula already prevails in Christianity, which is taught in accordance with the Lutheran, Catholic, and Orthodox faith (in addition to some smaller Christian groups). Ignoring differences among Muslim pupils is, however, inscribed into the system of religious education in Finnish schools. In practice, the municipalities are—irrespective of religious diversity of their pupils—obliged to offer Muslims only one sort of Islamic education, which is articulated in their local curriculum. In any event, this plurality reveals one of the main problems faced by the municipalities, namely, the growing workload as a result of expanding diversity of religious education (see Chapter Eight). In addition to organising religious education, the main responsibility for implementing the new curricula of religion and other subjects also lies with the municipalities. It remains to be seen how the non-confessional emphasis and the inclusion of other religions on all levels of Islamic curriculum will affect teaching Islam in class; who among Muslims teachers will subscribe to this overall curriculum, or even be familiarised with it, and how teaching Islam accordingly will be received by Muslim parents, sensitive to religious education in school (cf. Lempinen 2002: 92–3). As always, laws and policies are created on one forum of society, whereas the practical implementations take place, or fail to do so, on another. From this perspective,

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one can picture a long distance from the desk of legislators to the mind of an individual adherent of a religious tradition, who, to a varying degree, is familiar with Finnish society at large. Naturally enough, this is not a problem pertaining to the field of religious education alone but is a matter to be solved in the construction of a functional multicultural society at large (see Lepola 2000). Helsinki: From Confessional Islam to Islamic identity As mentioned above, the municipalities draft their local curricula for different religions, to a varying degree, in accordance with the overall curriculum of these religions. Helsinki was the first municipality to have a local curriculum of Islam. The Helsinki Curriculum of Islam,13 issued in 1997, more or less followed the 1995 Overall Curriculum of Islam but was, however, more detailed. In respect of having a deep moral and ethical awareness in life in accordance with Islam, the 1997 Helsinki Curriculum of Islam emphasized the knowledge of what is allowed (halal ) and what is forbidden (haram) for a Muslim. Moreover, Islam was portrayed as an elementary part of life, which enables one to reach full maturity as a human being and meaningful living in general. (Ch. 3: classes 4–6; classes 7–9.) The 1997 Helsinki Curriculum (Ch. 2) also took into consideration that Muslim pupils live in a society marked by the dominance of Christian culture and could, therefore, at times experience rejection of the wider society. Therefore, the education of Islam should support Muslim pupils in their identification with Islam. In similar fashion to the overall 1995 Curriculum of Islam, religions other than Islam mentioned in the 1997 Helsinki Curriculum are Christianity and Judaism; the prophets shared by Islam and Christianity are listed in the curriculum, in addition to some holy books of these particular religions. (Ch. 3: classes 7–9; Upper-secondary school, 2nd course.) With regard to different religions, the 1997 Helsinki Curriculum stated that Islam has recognised all world religions but that Islam is the last and most perfect of them all. Moreover, it further stated that Islam is meant for all people of the world (Ch. 3: Upper-secondary school), implicating the missionary vision of Islam. All in all, one can say that the 1997 Helsinki Curriculum of Islam, in being 13 Peruskoulun islamin uskonnon perusoppimäärä [The Curriculum of Islam for Comprehensive School] Helsinki 1997.

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more detailed, is also more explicitly confessional in a theological sense than the 1995 Overall Curriculum of Islam.14 Helsinki Curriculum of Islam experienced a thorough transformation from 1997 to 2005. While the 1997 Curriculum was very much at odds with the 1994 Overall Curriculum of Religion for the Comprehensive School (see Pyysiäinen 2000), the recent Helsinki Curriculum of Islam, issued in 2005 is, with respect to its general aims, identical almost to the word with the 2005 Overall Curriculum of Religion. Thus, the education of Islam should, on the one hand, include information about one’s own religious tradition, and, on the other hand, provide pupils and students with information about other religions and world-views as well. Moreover, teaching Islam aims at providing pupils with knowledge, skills and experiences which help them to constitute their identity and world-view. All in all, the Islamic instruction aims to offer a wide all around education concerning different religions and outlooks of life, prevalent in Finland in particular. However, the 2005 Helsinki Curriculum adds to the Overall Curriculum of Religion that other religions should be taught in their own right. In other words, the new Helsinki Curriculum of Islam clearly differs from the previous one in that it does not accept teaching other religions simply from the Islamic point of view. However, in comparison to the 2005 Overall Curriculum of Islam there is a slight softening concerning the demand to ‘accept’ other religions and outlooks on life; Muslim pupils are simply encouraged to respect people who believe and think differently. The specific aims of the 2005 Helsinki Curriculum of Islam for the comprehensive school are divided into three parts: first, for classes from one to two, second, for classes from three to five, and third, from classes six to nine. In the first two classes, the education of Islam emphasises the universality of Islam and aims at fostering the growth of a pupil as a religiously and ethically responsible person. The aim is to foster Muslim identity of a pupil by making her or him aware of the riches of the world created by Allah. Moreover, pupils are familiarised with the basic concepts of Islam, with some suras of the Qur’an, with the life of the main prophets of Islam,

14 Vantaa (1999) followed suit and had a curriculum identical with that of Helsinki. The same to a large extent concerned the city of Lahti (1999) and Tampere (2001). (See Lempinen 2002: 24–25.)

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with festivities of Islam, with the role of a mosque, as well as with Islamic conduct. In addition to Islam, pupils are acquainted with the surrounding religions and particularly with Christianity in Finland. In classes from three to five, the Helsinki Curriculum of Islam 2005 aims at deepening the basic knowledge of Islam as well as providing pupils with information on the five pillars of Islam and on the life of the Prophet Muhammad. Pupils are also preliminarily acquainted with the Finnish outlook on life (katsomusperinne), as well as world religions. In similar fashion to the 1997 Helsinki Curriculum of Islam, teaching what is allowed (halal) and forbidden (haram) is also included in the 2005 Curriculum. In classes from six to nine, the aim is to deepen the Muslim identity of a pupil. Pupils are encouraged to observe the effects of religion in their surroundings, to gain deeper knowledge of Islamic teachings, and, while respecting people who believe and think differently, to respect themselves as members of a minority. Moreover, the aim is to learn moral teachings of Islam so that pupils can implement them in practice. In addition to Islam, pupils are also acquainted with the general outlines of world religions as well as the religious situation of Finland in the past as well as the present. One can notice that the 2005 Helsinki Curriculum of Islam corresponds with that of 1995 by repeating the concern for the Muslim minority position in Finnish society. However, instead of explicitly referring to the hardship that it entails, the new Curriculum simply acknowledges it. It is interesting to note that similar reference is not included in the other curricula of Islam. However, the Helsinki Curriculum in this respect seems to resemble that of the Central Council of Muslims in Germany (Zentralrat der Muslime in Deutschland), which sees Muslims as a minority subjected to discrimination (cf. Mohr 2002: 154). Espoo: From mainstreaming to explication of Islam In comparison with the 1997 Helsinki Curriculum of Islam, which, in similar fashion to the 1995 Overall Curriculum of Islam, was very confessional in tone, Espoo opted for a very different approach in its first curriculum of Islam, issued in 2001.15 (See Lempinen 2002: 15 Peruskoulun islamin uskonnon perusoppimäärä [The Curriculum of Islam for Comprehensive School] Espoo 2001.

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26–28). Interestingly enough, Espoo completely ignored the 1995 Overall Curriculum of Islam and instead constituted its own curriculum in accordance with the 1994 Overall Curriculum of Religion. As a result, the 2001 Espoo Curriculum of Islam did not display confessional Islamic education in a theological sense, whereby it did not repeat the discrepancy between the 1994 Overall Curriculum of Religion and that of Islam (1995) (cf. Pyysiäinen 2000: 26). In general one can argue that the 2001 Espoo Curriculum of Islam, fashioned according to the national standard of religious education, was much closer to the Curriculum of Lutheran religion than any other curricula of religion. In actual fact, the explicit aim in drafting the 2001 Espoo Curriculum of Islam was to make it uniform with the Lutheran one. (IntF 03:2.) The similarity with the Lutheran instruction was also reflected in curriculum terminology. While the 1994 Curriculum of Lutheran religion focused on teaching ‘general Christianity’ ( yleiskristillisyys), Islamic education in the 2001 Espoo Curriculum concerned the instruction of ‘general Islam’ ( yleisislam). Moreover, the Bible was replaced by the Qur’an, visiting local mosques was equivalent with visits to local churches, and Friday was described as a ‘holy day’ ( pyhäpäivä), corresponding with that of Sunday for Christians. Moreover, the familiarisation with the operation of mosques listed similar functions for mosques which are those traditionally carried out by Lutheran congregations, such as child and youth work as well as social work, in addition to ‘missionary work’ (lähetystyö).16 The general aim of the Islamic education according to the 2001 Espoo Curriculum of Islam was to familiarise Muslim pupils with the significance of Islam for themselves as for the surrounding society, in such a manner that they could constitute their own outlook on life. Great importance was laid on their ability to take part in discussions on ethical matters, particularly from an Islamic point of view. Moreover, the Islamic instruction in Espoo aimed at an all around education of different religions and outlooks on life. It, therefore, covered in addition to Islam also other religions as well as non-

16 Of course, there is a constant debate on the issue, whether Muslims in similar fashion to Christians are engaged in missionary work or not. Certainly, there is no ‘mission theology’ in Islam as there is in Christianity. Nonetheless, many Muslim groups are active in disseminating Islam in different parts of the world. Usually this work is referred to as da’wa, i.e. ‘calling to Islam’. See Racius 2004.

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religious views. The justification for these aims of Islamic education was to serve a general educational purpose at school, which is to foster understanding and tolerance between people with different outlooks on life and, thereby, to ease the living of a Muslim pupil in a multicultural society. The 2004 Espoo Curriculum of Islam displays some interesting changes in comparison with the 2001 Curriculum. To begin with, the general aims of the Islamic education in the 2004 Curriculum are much more concise than in the previous one. There are some slight differences in wording as well. In similar fashion to other recent curricula of minority religions, there is an emphasis on identity; by familiarising pupils widely with Islamic faith, the Espoo Curriculum aims as strengthening the Islamic identity of a pupil. Pupils are, moreover, brought to understand the significance of religion for themselves and for society and culture at large. The aim of achieving allround education of different religions and outlooks on life is also repeated. With respect to other people, customs and cultures, the curriculum reiterates the wording of the 2005 Overall Curriculum of Islam in speaking of their acceptance. However, the Espoo Curriculum of Islam no longer mentions non-religious thought. Regarding the specific aims, the 2001 Espoo Curriculum of Islam for the primary school focussed on teachings of the Qur’an and the Prophet Muhammad, on ethical questions of human relations, as well as on religious life in local mosques. Moreover, pupils were instructed about Islamic festivities and events, such as Friday prayers, pilgrimages, and fasting. On the fifth and sixth class, furthermore, pupils were also familiarised with the history of Islam, beginning with the seminal phases of Islam in Mecca and covering parts of the subsequent spread of Islam, also dealing with Islam in Finland. Concerning religions other than Islam, only those traditions were covered in the primary school which were represented among the school mates of the Muslim pupils. These aims are more or less repeated in the 2004 Curriculum for classes from one to five. Concerning the primary school level, there are two points which seem to set apart the recent Espoo Curriculum of Islam in comparison with the former one. The first point concerns knowing one’s own tradition. In the 2004 Curriculum, Muslims pupils are made aware of their ‘roots’, e.g. the values and traditions of one’s family. They are also introduced to their own religious community. The pupils, moreover, are encouraged to have trust in themselves and

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life in general. The second point concerns relations with others. Pupils are taught to be tolerant towards their peers with different outlooks on life and, thereby, to ‘accept’ and ‘respect’ them. No doubt, this wording in the Espoo Curriculum of Islam is reiterated in the 2005 Overall Curriculum of Islam, hence revealing the impact of the Espoo Curriculum on the Overall Curriculum of Islam. It seems that, while Espoo ignored the previous Overall Curriculum, it took an active role in constituting the recent one. The 2001 Espoo Curriculum of Islam for the secondary school deepened the knowledge of Islam by widening the perspective from the children’s own environment to religions worldwide. Thereby, the significance of Islam was viewed globally, taking multicultural Finland as an example. The Islamic education in the secondary school began with learning about world religions, listed in the following order: primal religions, Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, Shinto, Judaism, Christianity, Islam,17 followed by irreligious (uskonnoton) thinking. Moreover, the aim was to cover the origin and the main contents of the Qur’an, in addition to looking into its significance for Muslims. Moreover, familiarisation with the history of Islam after its seminal phases was covered next. Finally, the Islamic education of the secondary school ended with Islamic ethics in teachings of the Prophet Muhammad and other prophets. With regard to ethics, things allowed (halal ) and forbidden (haram) in relation to family, women’s position and so forth were dealt with, in addition to some global issues, such as the environment and economics. The aim, thereby, was to cover the main responsibilities of Muslims, and reflect on the timely ethical questions in relation to the world of young people. The 2004 Espoo Curriculum of Islam for classes six to nine (more or less corresponding to the secondary school) is more or less identical with the 2001 Curriculum, mainly revealing only some changes in wording and order of things particularly with respect to other religions and outlooks on life. While the 2001 Curriculum is very specific about different religious traditions to be taught in the seventh class, the 2004 Curriculum 2004 lists for this class the Finnish outlook on life, in addition to the Qur’an and history of Islam. World

17 Islam is listed here, in order to place it on the same footing with other religions, in accordance with the principles of comparative religion (Int 03:2).

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religions, in turn, are taught on the eighth class without any precision concerning the religions in questions. Again, moreover, there is no mention of irreligious thought. All in all, it would seem that Muslim pupils of the secondary school will be very well informed about Islam, while also learning about the main world religions and Finnish outlook on life. In this sense, the 2004 Espoo Curriculum of Islam is very much in accordance with the general aims of religious education to familiarise pupils with their ‘own religion’ (oma uskonto) but also with those of others. In sum, one may argue with respect to the 2001 Curriculum of Islam that Espoo clearly aimed at ‘mainstreaming’ the Islamic education at school. In addition to the curriculum, Espoo also aimed in practice to bring the education of Islam on the same footing with that of Lutheranism. From the very beginning, Espoo wanted to guarantee that Muslim pupils received the same amount of religious education per week as the Lutheran pupils, and were also taught by certified teachers, as is taking place in Lutheran instruction. (IntF 03:2.) The Espoo Curriculum of Islam 2004, in turn, is rather detailed, stating the aims of Islamic education for each class of the comprehensive school separately. It seems that, with an added specificity, the articulation of the main tenets of Islamic tradition has also become more explicit. The Curriculum reveals a very clear understanding on each level of what a pupil should know about Islam. This is also reflected in the upper-secondary education, where four courses out of five focus on Islam and there is no obligatory course on world religions and outlooks on life. Thus, one could say that, surprisingly enough, ‘mainstreaming’ Islamic education, which was characteristic of the 2001 Espoo Curriculum of Islam, in three years time has given room to a curriculum with a more definite conceptualisation of Islam. In comparison with the other recent curricula of Islam, which have mainly focussed on articulating the aims for studying, in addition to Islam, other religions and outlooks on life, the development of the Espoo Curriculum of Islam is, therefore, somewhat the reverse. In any event, all Muslim pupils in Espoo are directed to classes of Islam. For Muslim pupils in Espoo, attending the education of Islam is ‘obligatory’ in similar fashion to the Lutheran pupils. Thus, the rule by which Lutheran pupils have no freedom of choice concerning religious education at school is implemented also with regard to Muslim pupils, irrespective of the fact that the majority of Muslim pupils are not members of any Islamic community and that the oblig-

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ation to attend religious education of Islam is not articulated in the law. Regarding this policy, the education authorities in Espoo have received support from different groups of Muslims. In 2003, the City of Espoo received letters from a group of Muslim parents, from the Somali Federation of Finland (Suomen Somaliyhdistys ry), from the Finnish League of Muslim Youth (Suomen musliminuorten liitto), and from the teachers of Islam in Espoo supporting the obligation of Muslim pupils to attend Islamic instruction at school. All these letters also shared a common concern for not allowing Muslim pupils to attend the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life, which was seen to be incompatible with Islam. Moreover, some of these letters drew attention in general to the Lutheran education and questioned its privileged position in comparison to the education of Islam. Admittedly enough, with respect to religious education in Finland, different religions are not on a par before the law (see Chapter Eight). In Espoo, the obligation of Muslim pupils to attend Islamic instruction is defended with the principle of similar treatment concerning all pupils irrespective of their religious differences. (IntF 03:2; cf. Uittamo 2001: 9–11.) Undoubtedly, the principle of equality goes very well with the general idea of equality prevalent in Finnish political culture. Moreover, the policy of Espoo reiterates, in a very practical sense, the point made by Special Rapporteur of the Commission on Human Rights on the question of religious intolerance and education that there is, by means of education, ‘the urgency to develop self-awareness in such a way that the “others” are indeed “us”’ (Amor 2001). At the same time, however, this policy of directing all pupils with Muslim background to the education of Islam is ridden with the same problem as the obligation of pupils belonging to the Lutheran Church to participate in the Lutheran instruction, namely the lack of recognition concerning the negative religious freedom of Muslim pupils. In treating pupils with any sort of Islamic cultural background as a unitary religious whole, this kind of educational policy glosses over the cultural and religious heterogeneity of these pupils and also falls into the ‘religionisation’ of Muslims (cf. Parekh 1997). As such, this is a pitfall of an overemphasis on positive freedom of religion (cf. Eriksson 2005).

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Challenges Since Islam is such a new subject in Finnish schools it has not, naturally enough, been established in the same manner as the Evangelical Lutheran instruction, where teacher training is organised by three different universities18 and text-books and teacher guides abound.19 Due to being such a recent subject, Islamic education is also more disadvantaged in comparison with the education of Orthodox and Catholic religion. Both of the last-named religions have clear institutional ties with their respective churches. With regard to teacher training, Orthodox teachers are trained in the University of Joensuu, whereas the Catechetic Centre of the Catholic Church in Helsinki undertakes the training and support of its own teachers. Even though the latter training is not enough in order to qualify Catholic teachers for comprehensive and upper-secondary schools, the Catechetic Centre offers valuable guidance to teachers and also produces textbooks for Catholic school education. Islamic education enjoys none of these institutional benefits. In consequence, there are several problems involved in teaching Islam: the lack of teacher training is acute; no text-books and teacher guides as readily available; classes are very heterogeneous; and the number of pupils attending class are often too big for a single teacher to manage the diversity for such large numbers. An additional problem is the language; religious instruction is, on the main, given in Finnish, which usually is not the mother tongue of teachers, except in the case of converts, and neither is it that of most pupils. Not having a full command of Finnish language unavoidably complicates teaching a subject such as religion, which contains subject matter on a fairly high level of abstraction. (See Karvonen 1998: 24; Sakaranaho et al. 2004.) Moreover, since pupils usually have only from one to two hours of religious education per week, teachers of minority religions are compelled to circulate between numerous schools in order to fill in full-time schedules. The difficulties faced by teachers of religion, circulating from one school to another, were a constant topic 18 These are the University of Helsinki, the University of Turku, and the Swedish speaking university of Åbo Akademi,Turku. 19 There are many publishers who compete on the marketing of textbooks in Lutheran education. The competition in this field is therefore huge, which clearly benefits the teaching of this subject.

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in the training course of these teachers, organised by the University of Helsinki from Autumn 2001 to Autumn 2002, and attended by teachers of Catholic and Orthodox religion as well as those of Islam. The problems of the circulating teachers are very similar irrespective of religion but here the focus is on teachers of Islam (cf. Aikonen 1997: 51–2). Teachers of Islam In the capital city area of Helsinki, Vantaa and Espoo, in 2004 there were around thirty teachers of Islam, who came from various countries, such as Somalia, Egypt, Lebanon, Morocco, Algeria etc. More or less one third of these teachers are women, consisting of both immigrants and coverts. In other cities of Finland, there are just a couple of teachers at most. The level of education of these teachers varies greatly; only very few of them have a university degree in Finland, while all of them have some training in their home country. None of them is a professional school teacher of religion (cf. Maréchal 2003b: 35), even though some of them might have been working as a teacher in their home country, or have experience in mosque education of children as an imam (Karvonen 1998: 9). The situation is further complicated by the fact that there is no training for teachers of minority religion in Finland, except for the teachers of the Orthodox religion organised by the University of Joensuu. Thus, Islam is usually taught by people who do not necessarily have training in education, and, when entering their post, they are not necessarily familiar with the Finnish system of education either. In connection with this, teachers of Islam do not usually have proper knowledge of their rights as a teacher or of the rights of their pupils. (See Lempinen 2002: 39; see Ikkuna islamiin 2002: 10.) The nature of religious education undertaken in Finnish schools is yet unclear for some teachers of Islam. They do not necessarily share the constructionist view of education, prevalent in the teaching philosophy of the Finnish schools, but, in contrast, have a very authoritative view of the role of a teacher as mainly someone distributing knowledge. At the same time, however, the views concerning the role of a teacher seem to vary a great deal among the teachers of Islam. As mentioned previously, some consider a teacher to be a committed Muslim operating as a spiritual guide for their pupils, and, consequently, the religious education provided by schools

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does not in their view significantly differ from mosque-education. Another group of teachers, however, make a clear distinction between the mosque-education and the religious education of schools and hence emphasise the importance of the Curriculum of Islam as the guiding principle of their teaching. To date the former group seems to be in a majority among teachers of Islam, but in time one may expect the latter group to grow in number, particularly if the nonconfessional emphasis of the religious education gradually becomes the norm.20 (See Lempinen 2002: 50–61; Karvonen 1998: 16–18; 23; cf. Pyysiäinen 1982: 77–8.) In any event, teachers of Islam tend to perceive their work as important for themselves and for their pupils alike; teaching Islam is a vocation. In this respect these teachers somewhat differ from the teachers of Lutheran religion who perceive teaching as an important means to personal growth. Neither group of teachers redeemed material factors, such as pay, as a primary source of motivation for their work. (Karvonen 1998: 21–23; Kallioniemi 1997: 234–5.) Interestingly enough, some teachers of Islam emphasise the role of the Curriculum of Islam as a unifying guide for teachers of Islam. At the same time, it is felt, however, that the Curriculum does not in any way address the practical problems faced by teachers of Islam and is therefore too theoretical in order to answer the needs of teaching Islam in class. (See Karvonen 1998: 9–11.) Due to lack of formal qualifications, teachers of Islam earn a minimum salary, which is a recognised problem both by the teachers and municipalities alike (see Kaikkonen 2005). However, the problem will prevail as long as the question of teacher training remains unsolved. In order to qualify as a teacher of religion in a Finnish comprehensive and upper-secondary school, a person needs to have a Master’s degree including a certain number of studies in the subject taught at school, coupled with pedagogic studies. As mentioned previously, there are no studies available in Finland in order to qualify as a teacher of other than Lutheran and Orthodox religion. However, planning to start teacher training of Islam in connection with a Master’s degree in comparative religion is in process at the University of Helsinki. For the time being, the main requirement of 20 The professional identity of teachers of Islam is a fairly little-researched area in Finland. For Lutheran teachers, see Kallioniemi 1997; for Orthodox teachers, see Aikonen 1997. For teachers of Islam, see Karvonen 1998; Lempinen 2002.

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the municipalities for employing Islam teachers is that they are regular in their work and manage their pupils one way or another.21 (IntF 03:4.) With respect to teachers of Islam, it is fair to say that it is their life-situation which draws them to this occupation. In a booklet entitled Ikkuna islamiin [A window to Islam], delivered by the City of Helsinki, four teachers account for their choice of teaching Islam. One of these teachers is a Finnish woman who converted to Islam in the beginning of the 1990s. She has undertaken studies in political science and English, in Finland, and in Islamic Studies in the study programme of a Welsh university. In 2002, she worked as a part-time teacher of Islam in a primary school in Helsinki. The second of these teachers comes from Morocco and has lived in Finland for twelve years, during which time he has studied engineering and worked in several occupations. Since 2000 he has worked as a teacher of Arabic and Islam in the comprehensive schools in Helsinki. The other two teachers came in the beginning of the 1990s as refugees to Finland from Somalia via Russia. Both of them study for their Master’s degree in political science in the University of Helsinki. One of them teaches Islam in Espoo and has been very active in drafting the Espoo Curriculum of Islam of both 2001 and 2004. The other teaches Somali and Islam in Helsinki and also operates as a consultatant for other teachers of these subjects. (See Ikkuna islamiin 2002: 8–11.) In addition, some Tatars also occasionally operate as part-time teachers of Islam. All in all, teaching Islam in Finnish schools offers an opportunity to find employment in a situation where, for one reason or another, it might otherwise be hard. For a Muslim woman, for instance, wearing a hijab can be an impediment in other occupations but not in teaching Islam. Unlike in France and Germany, in Finland, wearing a scarf is allowed in schools both for pupils and teachers. In general, teaching Islam can be seen as one of the recent ethnospecific occupations, which have emerged in the 1990s in Finland. As

21 Where cultural differences appear perhaps most clearly is with corporal punishment, which in Finland is forbidden but in some of the teachers’ countries fairly common. There are some rare instances where parents have complained about the teacher hitting a child and the municipalities have had to deal with the issue. These cases are rare. (IntF 03:4.)

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was discussed in Chapter Five, ethno-specific occupations usually require familiarity with a particular language and culture (religion) but often also a membership in a certain ethnic group. As such, the need for these kinds of occupations has grown along with the immigration and the consequent need to provide immigrants with particular services, such as translation and language teaching. Providing Muslim pupils with Islamic instruction is one example of these new requirements. The ethno-specific occupations are often temporary and very unstable, which is also reflected in the situation of teachers of Islam. (See Forsander 2002: 43; cf. Lempinen 2002: 39–40). In addition to the lack of formal qualifications and training as a teacher, which would prepare the teachers of Islam for their work, there are also other factors which make this occupation less attractive. Religious education takes only one or two hours of the weekly schedule of pupils and, therefore, in order to be fully employed, teachers of Islam need to teach over twenty classes a week, and circulate from one school to another (see Lempinen 2002: 95). Consequently, there is a lot of travelling involved in teaching Islam; some teachers of Islam visit as many as fifteen schools a week, and some even teach in different cities. On top of this, teachers to Islam do not always get a proper classroom for their lessons. They also have to bring all their materials with them because they do not have any one school as a base, as is usually the case with teachers of other school subjects. Circulating from one school to another also hinders a proper communication between teachers and schools and therefore teachers of Islam are often last to hear about cancellation of their classes because of some special occasions. What all these factors amount to is that the circulating teachers of Islam often feel rather rootless and very much alone in their work. (See Ghannou 2002: 19; Karvonen 1998: 18–20; Lempinen 2002: 95–101.) In order to ease their situation, however, the education authorities of different municipalities have nominated a person who operates as a contact teacher for teachers of different (minority) religions, and the municipalities also organise regular education for their teachers. In Espoo, a teacher of Lutheran religion, working part time for minority religions since 2001, has been active in engaging the Espoo teachers of Islam in their curricular work. Moreover, the City of Helsinki started a contact group of teachers of Islam in Autumn 1997, which offers an opportunity for these teachers to discuss their work and exchange study materials and so forth. Particularly in a

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situation where teachers of Islam experience themselves as outsiders in schools, this group can operate for them as an important forum of collaboration. (See Karvonen 1998: 19–20.) Heterogeneous classes In addition to the trying conditions concerning teaching in general, the classes that teachers of Islam face in their work are extremely heterogeneous. Muslim pupils, on the main, are children of immigrant families which came to Finland in the 1990s from different countries in North Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, or entered the country as refugees from Somalia, Kosova and Albania. Muslim pupils, therefore, represent different ethnicities and speak many different languages. Often the only language in common between teachers and their pupils is Finnish, which is also officially the main language used in class. However, at times when both a teacher and pupils speak the same language, such as Somali or Arabic, teaching is done through the medium of this language. This however is rather an exception than a rule. In addition to ethnicity and language, pupils from different countries also vary due to their religious upbringing and the consequent amount of knowledge they might have about Islam. As one teacher said, a first-year pupil from Somalia might know much more about Islam than a fifth-year pupil from Kosova. (See Karvonen 1998: 24–5; Lempinen 2002: 86–90.) The heterogeneity of Muslim pupils notwithstanding, they often attend the same class of Islam. The reason for this arrangement is the lack of sufficient numbers of Muslim pupils on different yearlevels. In order to have a full class, pupils from different year-levels are therefore collected together. Consequently, teachers have to align their teaching to address the needs of pupils with different levels of competence. In teaching pupils together from different grades, moreover, it is hard for a teacher to follow the Curriculum of Islam with detailed aims for each grade. This discrepancy between the principles of Islamic instruction (curriculum) and the harsh reality of the classroom arouses constant frustration in the teachers. One teacher says: If you teach for the upper level the lower level won’t understand. If you teach for the lower level the upper level have to wait. [—] In some schools there is a mixed ylä- ja ala-aste [primary and secondary school]. The youngest can’t read or write and the oldest can be 16 years old. (Cited in English in Karvonen 1998: 24)

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The difficulty in managing a class full of pupils from different grades is even more accentuated by the fact that there are no proper textbooks in Islam for primary and secondary schools. The first textbook of Islam—and so far the only one—was published in 2003, and is suitable only for the classes from one to three (see Lehtinen, Jama Abdellahi, Telaranta 2003). Neither are there any teachers’ manuals available in the education of Islam.22 Consequently, Islam teachers have a considerable amount of extra work to do: They collect books and videos, and also exchange study materials with other teachers; they also develop their own teaching methods. (Karvonen 1998: 16; Lempinen 2002: 102.) Managing a class with ethnic, linguistic and religious heterogeneity is not the only challenge faced by teachers of Islam. They also have to be able to deal with children of the asylum-seeker or refugee families who, due to traumatic experiences, might have learning difficulties for psychological reasons (see Duh & Jama 2002). In their work, teachers of Islam need to address in class these and other learning problems, which, however, they have no training for. In order to meet all the challenges posed by the working conditions and the heterogeneity of pupils, teachers of Islam truly need to be like a ‘magician’, as noted by one of them interviewed by Lempinen (2002). In addition to these practical problems, teachers of Islam also face, in the aftermath of the recent Freedom of Religion Act (2003), and the subsequent provisions concerning education, some matters of principle pertaining to their role as a teacher of religion. One of these principles concerns a change in the law so that teachers of religion no longer need to be members of a registered religious community adhering to the religion they teach (see Chapter Three). Consequently, the teachers’ religious conviction is a timely issue and the discussion, among other things, ‘revolves around the question of whether a Christian teacher can teach Islam and vice-versa’ (Wiberg 2000: 15, 126.) On the one hand, there are those who consider a proper teacher training to be more important than personal conviction. According to this line of thought, training and qualification as a teacher guarantees a teacher’s ability to teach fair and square also 22 The lack of proper textbooks and teachers manuals for teaching minority religions, in general, was again a constant topic of complaint in the seminars on teaching minority religions, organised by the Board of Education (2002–2004). See also Aikonen 1997: 45–6.

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religious traditions other than one’s own. (Holm 2000: 15; Maybury 2000; Felderhof 2000b). On the other hand, however, some teachers of Islam in Finnish schools strongly emphasise that a ‘good teacher’ of Islam is first and foremost a practising Muslim. They justify this view by saying that a teacher, teaching a proper Muslim way of life, must be a living example of the things she or he is teaching in class; deeds speak louder than words, and Islam is learned not in theory but in a living interaction of the everyday life between Muslims themselves. In other words, only a practising Muslim can truly socialise children in Islam. In view of these teachers, Islam covers the whole course of life, and this also separates it from other school subjects. (See Lempinen 2002: 50–65.) It remains to be seen whether the aforementioned provision concerning teachers of religion will have any practical consequence for the religious education in Finland. Whatever the case may be, teachers of Islam warmly support the present system of religious education in Finland. In their view, this system should be preserved since it best guarantees the interests of both the religious majority and minorities and, thereby, enhances the sense of religious minorities being respected by the wider society. Morever, they see that the gradual process for establishing Islamic education in schools can forward the integration of Muslims in Finnish society. (Lempinen 2002: 120). Admittedly, it has been noted in recent research that religious instruction of Islam can be vitally important for Muslim pupils with immigrant background, who are trying to cope with the Finnish system of education, which is totally alien to them. In the face of all that is new and strange, a class dealing with familiar tradition of religion or language can be a solace for these pupils because it, in a sense, is a part of ‘home’ in a new environment. (See Alitolppa-Niitamo 2002: 283.) It is also important for pupils to meet other Muslim pupils and, for once, together to form a ‘majority’ in class (Ikkuna Islamiin 2002: 8). Hence, Islamic instruction, in spite of all its difficulties, can prove to be important not only for the identity of Muslim pupils but also for their integration to Finnish society (Sakaranaho et al. 2004). After all, teaching Islam in Finnish schools on par with other religions can be seen as a sign of formal and practical recognition of the rights of Muslims to their religion, in whatever way they decide to adhere to it.

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Demanding parents In addition to the above-mentioned challenges, Islam teachers often have contradictory expectations from the pupils’ parents (see Lempinen 2002: 99; Lehtinen 2002: 21–25). Usually the problems culminate in a different interpretation of what is allowed or forbidden for Muslims, where views can vary considerably from one parent to another. Especially some newly arrived parents at times go through some sort of religious awakening, which can make them somewhat suspicious concerning Finnish school education; the fear of losing one’s language and religion is often most acute in the beginning of their stay in Finland. In Helsinki, this kind of process was apparent in the 1990s among Somalian parents. In recent years it has been the Finnish converts who have expressed their dissatisfaction not only with the religious education but also with the Finnish schools in general. (IntF 03:4; see also Ghannou 2002.) Moreover, the cultural background of parents may be different from that of the teacher, which can cause some friction with regard to the contents of religious education. Where this friction most often culminates is the question as to what Islam is and what culture is. The lack of an Islamic authority figure, who would have the position to say what is allowed and what is forbidden for a Muslim, is a problem which comes up again and again in Finnish schools, for instance, with regard to some controversial school subjects. On the main, these subjects are music, visual arts—and especially drawing pictures of humans and animals—as well as biology and particularly instruction in sexual ethics. While Finnish authorities complain about the decrease in sexual education in schools, particularly with regard to contraception, some Muslim parents want to exempt their children from any sort of education in human biology or sexual ethics. (IntF 03:5; see also Ikkuna islamiin 1998: 35–7; Lehtinen 2002: 22–23.) The authority of parents is also hard to rely upon due to inconsistency in their behaviour. For instance, parents’ views can suddenly change so that they may allow their child to take part in preparations of the Christmas festivities one year but refuse them to do so the following year. In similar fashion, a child might refuse to take part in music lessons one year and the next she or he might participate in it as any other pupil and even enjoy it. For Finnish school authorities, this sort of ‘inconsistency’ can be very confusing and causes practical problems, which need to be solved one by one. The

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overall principle in Finland of treating everybody equally results in schools being in constant negotiations, where the school authorities try to take into consideration the views of the Muslim pupils and their families. (IntF 03:4.) Teachers of Islam, of necessity, operate as some sort of middlemen between school and home (cf. Boender & Kanmaz 2002). In order to help the collaboration of their pupils’ families with the school, teachers of Islam, in addition to actual teaching, also work for correcting possible misunderstanding on both sides. (Ikkuna islamiin 2002: 11). For instance, in Espoo, the teachers of Islam and the representatives of the school have organised meetings for the parents of Muslim pupils where they have explained about the Finnish school system in general and about the principles of teaching Islam in school in particular. The general feeling of these meetings is that a faceto-face interaction with the parents helps to clear away some suspicions that the parents might harbour against the school and the way Islam is taught there. Moreover, as a practical outcome of these meetings the collaboration between teachers and parents has become smoother. (IntF 03:5.) With regard to flexibility, as shown by the municipalities with respect to Muslim parents and pupils, Finland is obviously in stark contrast with countries such as France, which demand Muslims to assimilate into the national school system with its secular ethos and practice. The headscarf disputes are a telling example of this. Taking into consideration the principle of equal treatment, characteristic of the Finnish school system, it would be very hard to imagine any such dispute erupting in Finland. In contrast, however, at times it is asked if Finnish authorities go too far in trying to accommodate different and occasionally even contradictory demands of parents (Int 03:4). Whatever the case may be, one might see in a decade or so some sort of balance between Muslims and Finnish authorities in the process of mutual integration, which has only begun in the present multicultural situation of Finland.

CHAPTER TEN

MUSLIM NATIONAL SCHOOLS IN IRELAND The Quest for Islamic Schools Only about half of the European countries house officially recognised and state-supported Islamic schools. As a rule, these schools do not exist in countries with small Muslim populations, of which Finland is an example. (See Maréchal 2003b: 50–51.) In this respect, Ireland clearly forms an exception. With the Muslim population of around 25,000, Ireland has had a Muslim national school already for a decade, a second one was started in September 2001, and plans for a Muslim secondary school are on the way. However, reflecting over the Irish case in the light of other European countries is hampered by the fact that there is very little ethnographic research done on Islamic schools in these countries, with the single exception of the Netherlands. Therefore, as noted by Maréchal, similarities and differences between these schools is hard to identify (2003b: 51; see also Johansson 1999: 187). The rationale for Islamic schools, nonetheless, lies most obviously in creating a new avenue for the socialisation of Muslim children, especially in a younger age, in accordance with Islamic values and world view, and hence in fostering their identity and self-esteem as a Muslim. However, in many European countries Islamic schools have been objected to for very similar reasons. An often stated argument expressed by both members of the wider society and the Muslim communities has been related to the allegedly marginalising effect of these schools. It is feared that these schools prevent the successful integration of Muslim children, and hence leads to ghettoes, which, in turn, are seen as a breeding ground for religious fundamentalism. Moreover, they are seen as violating the public sphere as a non-religious zone. ( Johansson 1999: 184–5, 188–191; Naguib 2002: 164; Vogt 2002: 98.) The latter argument is particularly interesting with respect to freedom of religion. It is also an argument that has not come up in Ireland. This undoubtedly is due to differences in the system of

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education prevalent in Ireland, which favours faith-specific schools. In Ireland, the field of education is segregated on the bases of religion, which works well for starting Muslim national schools in this country. Muslim Schools in Europe In review of the Islamic schools in Europe, one can note the parallel development in Denmark and the Netherlands, where these schools have operated already since 1986 and since 1988 respectively. The fairly long presence of the Islamic schools in these countries is also reflected in reasonably extensive numbers of these schools, which in the Netherlands amount to 32 and in Denmark 18, catering for 7,000 students in the former and 2,000 students in the latter country. In Denmark, the state subsidises 60% of the costs of these schools. (Maréchal 2003b: 54–5.) In Sweden, the first Muslim school was accepted by education authorities in 1992, and in 1998 there already existed around twenty of these schools, enjoying a status of a ‘free school’, hence receiving 85% of their costs from the state. In general, national authorities tend to support founding Muslim schools, while local authorities often oppose them. According to Roald, starting private Muslim schools indicates the dissatisfaction felt by Muslim parents with the statesupported school system. Moreover, the fear of the bad influence of the Swedish youth culture has operated as an incentive for Muslims parents to pursue establishing a Muslim school, which will provide Muslim children with a sound environment where they will be able to establish an Islamic identity built on an Islamic ethic and will prevent the children’s being exposed to sexuality and to other dangers, such as drug and alcohol abuse, that are pervasive in western society. (Roald 2002: 114)

The initiative for Islamic schools in Denmark came from the parents who were political refugees and had a considerably high level of education. Consequently, they were in the position to take an active role with respect to both teaching and administration of these schools. In the Netherlands, in turn, Muslim schools were started mainly by religious organisations representing specific ethnic groups, such as Turks. In Austria, a Muslim secondary school started in 1999 as the first one in the German speaking area. In Britain, in turn, first vol-

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untary aided school, receiving state funding, was accepted by the Secretary of the State for Education as recently as in 1998. (Maréchal 2003b: 54–5; Dassetto 1996a: 282; Simonsen 2002: 41; Johansson 1999; Strobl 2002: 14; Davie 2000: 87.) In comparison with the above-countries, the numbers of both Muslim schools and pupils in Ireland are very small. However, as pointed out in the Introduction, small numbers do not necessarily reflect the significance of a phenomenon both for Muslims or the wider society. This is certainly so with respect to Muslim schools in Ireland, dealt with below. Muslim National Schools in Ireland The Initiative Along with the growing number of Muslims, who settled down in Ireland and started to raise families, the question concerning the education of the second generation had become acute. It was felt that an education for children promoting Islamic values was needed: The issue of educating Muslim children is central to the Muslim Community. As parents and community, we feel it is necessary for us to take adequate steps to preserve, cultivate and promote the basic teachings of Islam among the younger generation of Muslims living in this country today. (IFI info, 1998)1

The initiative for a Muslim national school in Ireland got off the ground in 1988 when the first meeting between representatives of the Muslim community and officials of the Department of Education took place. The Department of Education was in principle willing to support the establishment of a Muslim school, but in practice it needed proof that the establishment of such a school was viable. Accordingly, the Rules for National Schools state that: State aid for the establishment of a new national school may be granted on application by the representatives of a religious denomination where the number of pupils of that denomination in a particular area is sufficient to warrant the establishment and continuance of such [a] school. (Rules for National Schools 1965: 9)

1 See also http://www.islaminireland.com/contentsfiles/Contents%20Frame/ Education.htm

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Thus, to satisfy the requirements stated in the Rules for National Schools (1965: 16), the Muslim community in Dublin was required to provide the school with at least twenty-four children over the age of four and also in future to support actively the school by maintaining and increasing the numbers of pupils. In order to gain support for the school project, an international conference was held in Dublin in 1989 that addressed the issue of Islamic education for children in Ireland. There were guests from both Muslim and Christian communities present in this conference. The conference was successful in the sense that it managed to gather enough people who were willing to support the project. (IntI 01:1; IFI info, 1998; The Friday Times 2003, 1 (1): 9.) From then on the establishment of the school proceeded fairly rapidly. An application of the school was submitted to the Department of Education in March 1990 and already by July 1990 it was recognised by the Minister for Education. Naturally enough this decision was received with deep-felt gratitude of the Muslim community: The Muslim National School is the first recognised national school in Ireland and Britain2 and will stand as a monument to the respect and accord by the Irish State to the religious beliefs of minority groups, for this the Muslim people will always be grateful. (IFI info, 1993)

In order to house the Muslim national school (Scoil Náisiunta Moslomach), the premises of the Islamic Foundation in South Circular Road were refurbished. Finally, the school, run by a staff consisting of a Principal, one assistant teacher and religious staff, was opened in September 1990. In the beginning there were forty-one pupils in the school but, in the following years, their numbers increased to such an extent that new stuff was required (see Table 4). As the numbers of the pupils continued to rise, the premises in South Circular Road soon proved to be inadequate. The need for extra classrooms and also for a playground made it necessary to consider another site for the school. In January 1993, the school was transferred to its new location in Roebuck Road, Clonskeagh. The former CERT premises were converted to the new school building, with the financial support for the renovations coming from Sheikh Hamdan Al-Maktoum,

2 Cf. Maréchal (2003b: 53–4) who notes that there are three Islamic schools recognised and publicly funded in Britain since 1998.

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who also financed the construction of the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland (ICCI) at the same site (see Chapter Seven). The school is run by the Islamic Foundation of Ireland (IFI) but the Maktoum Foundation3 provides sponsorship for the payment of religious teachers in the school. (IntI 03:3.) The school was officially opened in April 1993 by the President of Ireland, Mary Robinson. No doubt, the words spoken by the President on this occasion were taken by the Muslim community as an official acknowledgment of their educational aspirations in accordance with their faith: With the traditional Muslim thirst for knowledge, learning and culture, it was only natural that members of the Muslim Community would feel the need for an education which would reflect the values of the Islamic faith. With the co-operation of the Department of Education this has now been fulfilled. (IFI info, 1998.)

Moreover, it was felt by the Chairman of the school’s Board of Management that the opening of the Muslim national school could mark a new phase in the relationship between the Irish authorities and the Muslim community in Ireland (IntI 01:1). A Muslim school with non-Muslim teachers The staff of the Muslim National School in Clonskeagh consists of the Principal, Mr. Colm McGlade, twelve full-time teachers, three extra teachers, in addition to teachers of religion, Arabic, and the Qur’an. Both the Principal and the full-time teachers, paid by the Department of Education, are non-Muslims, whereas the four teachers of Islam and Arabic naturally are Muslims, working as fee-paid teachers funded by the Maktoum Foundation.4 With regard to the prevalence of non-Muslim teachers, the Islamic schools in Ireland correspond with those of the Netherlands. (Maréchal 2003b: 52.) The majority of non-Muslim and Muslim staff is women.5 Moreover,

3

The policy of the Maktoum Foundation is to fund the development of Islam in the West in that Muslims themselves will get facilities for matters such as religious education. (IntI 03:3.) 4 It must be noted that the Department of Education does not interfere with the religious instruction of the school, which is thus left for the school to administer independently. 5 Admittedly, as noted by Drudy and Lynch, ‘Teaching is predominantly a female profession’ (1993: 92).

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there are also some community employment workers, a secretary, three classroom assistants, and a cleaner. The school is administered by the imam of the Islamic Foundation, Yahya Al-Hussein, as the Patron of the school, with the Board of Management consisting of six members of which two are appointed by the Patron, two elected by the parents, and two elected by the Principal and teachers of the school. In addition, the members of the board co-opt for two more members from the wider society. The Patron of the school holds the power of dissolving the Board of Management if he so wishes. (IFI info 1998; Islam in Dublin.) The Muslim national school is one of the most multi-ethnic schools in Ireland. In the end of 1998, a survey made by a working group in the Department of Education revealed that there were children from 104 countries in the state primary schools. According to this survey, the schools with more than twenty non-English-speaking pupils were situated in Dublin while others were placed in Ennis, Galway, and Castleblayney. Moreover, the survey showed that the children of asylum-seekers and refugees in many cases needed additional tuition in English language. In order to meet this need, the Department of Education sanctioned the appointment of fourteen new support teachers in 1999 to twenty primary schools, of which eighteen were in Dublin and two in Ennis, Co. Clare. The aim of these teachers is to help children with no English or very little English in their transition to the Irish school system and hence ease their adjustment to the requirements of education in this country. (Pollak 1999a.) Presently, any school which has fourteen foreign national pupils with serious learning problems are entitled to an extra language teacher, while they get two if there are 28 or more pupils of this sort (IntI 03:2). With the largest number of children from different ethnic backgrounds, the Muslim national school undoubtedly benefits from this policy. With a constant influx of new Muslim families to the country, the high intake of children with a foreign background is likely to continue in the foreseeable future and hence the need for extra teachers will also persist. Thus, the school has three extra teachers, consisting of the language teacher, remedial teacher, and resource teacher, one of them working on a permanent basis. The help of these extra teachers is used in order to make the classes smaller and thereby to work for better results of the pupils. (IntI 03:2.) In the earlier years of the school, when there was less employ-

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ment available for primary school teachers, it was rather easy for the Muslim school to find qualified teachers. However, the situation has changed during recent years so that there is presently a shortage of teachers in Ireland. Consequently, it is hard also for the Muslim National School to find new qualified primary teachers, and unqualified teachers need to be employed in order to complete the staff. The need for new teachers is effected by the constant turnover of staff. Undoubtedly, the easy perspectives of employment partly explain the readiness of teachers to move on in their career. However, with the Muslim national school one can also find some other reasons for the turnover of the staff. First, teachers might find it easier to teach children who come from the locality, and who speak English as their first language, which is usual for the Irish primary schools in general. Second, for some teachers, it can be difficult as non-Muslims to adjust to the Islamic ethos of the school. It must be noted, however, that the Irish female teachers are not, as nonMuslims, expected to cover their head while teaching; they are merely required to dress decently, excluding miniskirts and revealing cloths. Whatever the case may be, some of the Irish teachers enjoy working in the Muslim school and, therefore, would not look for a change in their position. (IntI 03:2.) Multicultural pupils By the time the school opened its doors in the new location in January 1993, the pupils already numbered 117. In the 1990s, however, the school expanded so that in 1998 there were 257 pupils. Concerning the growth of the school, the below-figures show how the numbers of pupils and teachers grew in the twelve-year period from 41 in 1990 to 255 in 2002. In October 2003, the overall number of the pupils in the school was already 272 (InI 03:1; Int 03:2). Moreover, the figures show that the numbers of girls and boys attending the school do not differ very much. In general, however, the number of boys is slightly higher than that of girls—even though the number of girls exceeded that of boys in 1993, 1994 and 1998. After 1999, the number of girls dropped to nearly one hundred, whereas in 2002 it rose to 124.

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The growth of the school is clearly illustrated in the following Table 4, provided by the Islamic Foundation: Table 4. The number of pupils in the Muslim National School (1990–2002) YEAR Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept.

1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002

BOYS

GIRLS

TOTAL

23 42 59 69 74 88 110 125 126 128 136 136 131

18 37 37 79 75 86 93 117 131 115 105 104 124

41 79 108 148 149 174 203 242 257 243 241 240 255

TEACHERS 2 3 4 5 5 6 7 10 10 12 13 14 15

Source: www.islaminireland.com: Education

The drop in the overall number of pupils from 257 in 1998 to 243 in 1999, and even below that in the two following years, was caused by the deliberate effort by the school to lower the number of pupils. Due to so many pupils of different cultural background, the teachers found it hard to cope with well over thirty pupils in most of the classes, and, therefore, the intake of new people was cut down. However, since 2000, the school got extra teachers due to the multicultural policy of the Department of Education, discussed above. With the extra staff, the classes consist of a maximum number of twenty-six pupils in each one. Thus, the situation gradually eased, and the number of pupils was allowed to rise again. In general, the figures regarding pupils are affected by the movement of families in and out of the country; the families tend to be large and therefore there might be several children of the same family coming to or leaving the school. Due to the repatriation of some families, the school loses some pupils from different classes every year, and, consequently, it usually takes in new pupils to all class-levels and not just to the Junior Infants. (IntI 03:2.)

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At first, the classes were bigger on the lower levels of the school, but in recent years the school has reached the stage where more or less all the classes are full. All in all, there seems to be a constant demand for the school. Surprising as it may seem, the demand has not been diminished by the foundation of the below-discussed second Muslim National School on the north side of Dublin. Seemingly, the school on the north side is attended by pupils whose parents would not have put their children into the school in Clonskeagh because it is too far. Undoubtedly, it takes a great effort on the part of families to have their children leaving for school at seven in the morning in order to be there at nine. This is a drawback felt in schools, such as the two Muslim primary schools, which practically have the catchment area of the whole of Dublin. However, the growing population of Muslims will no doubt feed both of the schools with new pupils. (IntI 03:2.) At present, the school is not able to accept all applicants to the school and therefore there is a waiting list. The children are accepted into the school with the criteria laid down by the Board of Management ‘first come, first serve’, that is, depending on when they applied. In addition, brothers and sisters get the first preference. Thus, the locality does not count in the case of the Muslim school. However, if it did, it would inevitably favour the more affluent Muslims since the area around Clonskeagh mosque consists of well-off middle-class suburbs. Now the socio-economic background of the families vary significantly. Moreover, the families living near the mosque tend to stay in Ireland on a non-permanent basis, whereas the more established Muslims tend to live in other parts of Dublin. Drawing children from the locality would therefore increase the turnover of pupils in the school. (IntI 03:2.) The pupils of the Muslim national school readily reflect the general ethnic and linguistic heterogeneity of the Muslim population in Ireland. It is a multi-ethnic school that has, in comparison to other national schools in Ireland, the largest number of pupils whose parents come from different countries. This is clearly acknowledged also in the school, as indicated in the following poem, written by pupils of the fifth and sixth classes. This poem hangs on one of the walls in the school hall, and it states that: Respect all people of all lands, The future of the world is in our hands,

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chapter ten Outside different, inside the same, Don’t give anyone else the blame. Muslim, Christian, Hindu, or Jew, It’s O.K. if they’re not like you. Everyone can’t be the same, Different rules for different games. Don’t make fun of someone’s name, Or the country from which they came, Whatever your colour, short or tall, Beautiful or not, big or small. Poor or rich, doesn’t matter which, If you’re a racist its time to switch. Respect others, be polite, We’re all equal in Allah’s sight. (Pupils from 5th and 6th classes. Muslim School, 2001.)

There are over twenty countries represented in the school. However, over half of the pupils were born in Ireland and one third of the mothers are Irish. Due to the multicultural background of the children, it does not come as a surprise that nearly 60% of the pupils do not speak English as the first language at home. Moreover, all of the children have at least one parent who is not a native English speaker. Hence, a survey made by the Islamic Foundation of Ireland in 1993 showed that all of the pupils had at least one parent who did not speak English as a first language, whereby over half (60%) of the parents do not use English as a first language, and 2% of homes where almost no English is spoken at all. (IFI info, 1993.) In respect of language spoken at home, a survey made in January 1998, revealed that a vast majority of the pupils’ families (94%) spoke Arabic at home. The remaining six percent consist of the families speaking languages, for example, such as Urdu (30), Somali (9), Bajuni (6), and Pushto (6), in addition a couple of Bosnian and Persianspeaking families. At school, the children are taught in English but they also learn Irish and Arabic. (IFI info 1998.) Consequently, some of the Muslim children are coping with a total of four languages in their everyday life. (Int 03:6.) However, this is the situation which is generally true particularly to non-Arabic Muslims in Europe, who, in addition to their mother tongue need to learn Arabic and the language of the host country, and, therefore, are obliged to master at least three languages. For Arabic speakers, due to their speaking

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different dialects, the situation is not necessarily that much easier either. (Maréchal 2003b: 37.) Facilities As a school recognised by the Department of Education, the Muslim national school receives the same capitation grant as other national schools. The financial aid covers the salaries of qualified teachers, who must be accepted by the Department of Education. The capitation grant, which in 2003 was 105 euros per pupil, pays for 85% of the general costs of the school and the rest must thereafter be provided by the Muslim community. For over ten years the state did not provide any financial aid for the school transport, which was therefore funded by the Islamic Foundation. Providing pupils of the Muslim national school with transport is essential since the catchment area of the school covers all of the greater area of Dublin. It was only in 2001 that the Department of Education finally started to provide free transport for the pupils living more than a two-mile radius from the school. The school transport is provided by Bus Éireann. (IFI info, 1998; IntI 03:2.) Before the construction of the Islamic Cultural Centre in Clonskeagh, the school was the only building on the site purchased by the Maktoum Foundation, and therefore those working in the school felt its location to be very lonely and cut-off. After all, the school had previously functioned in the centre of the city in South Circular Road, where it was close to the mosque and could at any time get help from the Patron of the school, the imam of the Islamic Foundation. However, the construction of the Islamic Cultural Centre in its vicinity changed the situation drastically. First of all, the Centre, buzzing with activity and attracting large numbers of visitors, broke the isolation of the school. Along with the construction of the Centre, moreover, an extension to the school was built with five extra classrooms. In addition to extra classrooms, the ICCI has also contributed some other new facilities for the school’s use, such as the multipurpose hall for sports6 and the mosque for pupils to attend their prayers. (IntI 03:2.)

6 In Clonskeagh, the children of the junior classes take part in physical education together, whereas the children of the senior classes usually exercise separately. Moreover, the boys and girls go swimming separately. (IntI 03:2.) In the North

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The school building is fairly invisible, as it is located at a side of the Centre. Due to its huge size, it is the Centre, and not the rather small and one-storey school building, which first meets the eye when entering through the gates. In itself, the invisibility might be rather a benefit than a drawback for the school, which, in the world formed after 11 September 2001, needs to consider its security.7 The above-mentioned positive developments notwithstanding, the rapid growth in the number of pupils and staff has meant that the facilities of the Muslim National School in Clonskeagh have become cramped, and there is also a need for extra funding for running the school. In addition to the usual capitation grant from the Department of Education, the school does not get any additional grants to cover its costs because it is in a middle-class area and such additional finance is reserved for schools in under-privileged areas. However, as the result of a survey done three years previously, it was shown that 40% of the school was disadvantaged and hence the school received a small three-year grant. Moreover, the usual fundraising organised by parents in other schools does not work in the Muslim school. The families of the pupils are scattered around Dublin and therefore it is harder to get them together in a Muslim school than in other Irish schools, where pupils live in the locality of the school. (IntI 03:2.) Undoubtedly, the conflicts between the Islamic Cultural Centre and the Islamic Foundation cast a shadow on the school. It must be noted, however, that the school receives pupils from all three Islamic centres in Dublin, discussed in Chapter Seven, namely the Sunni communities of the Islamic Foundation and the Islamic Cultural Centre, as well as the Shi’a community. In that sense the school in Clonskeagh is a community school, which indiscriminately serves the whole Muslim community. However, the disputes between the first

Dublin school, there is one hour of physical education a week, which is organised in the large yard of the school so that the children of different ages are divided to different sectors of the yard. (IntI 03:6.) 7 After 11 September 2001, the Muslim National School tightened its security so that the gates leading to the school were locked up, and, therefore, one needs to enter the school area through the main gate of the ICCI, equipped with cameras. When the school organised a fundraising for Afganistan, in order to help the poor of this country, this evoked a phone call falsely claiming that there was a bomb in the school building. This bomb scare and some abusive phone calls notwithstanding, the security of the school has not been threatened. (IntI 03:2.)

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two centres have affected the school directly in disagreements concerning the patronage of the school and the accompanying Board of Management. Moreover, finance and additional facilities in the form of an extension of the school building, badly needed by the school, might be more easily arranged in a harmonious situation. As it is, however, it is hoped that the school might find a wealthy Muslim benefactor who would come to the rescue and give financial help to the school. (IntI 03:2.) North Dublin school In addition to the Muslim school in Clonskeagh, another state-funded Muslim school in Dublin was opened in September 2001 on the north side of the city. Thus, the school started at a rather awkward time, when considering the events of 11 September 2001. However, despite these events, there were no problems for the school; the hostility that Muslims might have felt outside on the streets, in any case, did not affect the school. (IntI 03:6.) One reason for this might be in the school’s location; it is accommodated in temporary premises at the St. Joseph’s School for Deaf Boys, on Navan Road. Unlike the Muslim school in Clonskeagh, the North Dublin Muslim school is therefore not housed in independent premises, easily recognisable from the outside. In similar fashion to the Muslim school in Clonskeagh, the North Dublin Muslim school is under the patronage of the Islamic Foundation, and therefore the imam of the Foundation is also the Patron of this school. Moreover, the administrative structure of the school is similar to that of the other school. In addition to the Patron, the school is run by the Principal, Mrs. Lalarukh Jovindah, originating from Pakistan, and the Board of Management consisting of five members elected for a three-year period. Since the Muslim school in Clonskeagh is on the south side, the Islamic Foundation decided to start a second school in order to address the needs of Muslims coming from the northern side of Dublin. (IntI 03:1.) However, both schools share the same principle, that is, to follow the Irish syllabus while having an Islamic ethos in the school. The school gets 85% of its running costs from the Department of Education, while the remaining costs are covered by fund-raising. There is no parent association in the school yet but its founding is in the planning stages. (IntI 03:6.) The shortage of teachers is also

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felt in the North Dublin Muslim school. During the school’s threeyear period of operation there has been such a turnover of teachers that the Principal of the school is the only one who has been there from the beginning. With the growth of the school, more teachers are needed, and some of the non-qualified teachers leave in order to earn their teaching degree. Presently, most teachers of the school were qualified in Britain or in Northern Ireland, and hence they await their exam in order to qualify also in Ireland.8 In order to adjust new non-Muslim teachers to the school, the Principal gives them a brief introduction to the way the school works, and on the things they should or should not do in the light of its Islamic ethos. With regard to the dress of the teachers, who are women as a rule, it is recommended that they would wear something long and loose. Some of the teachers accommodate themselves to this wish but not all, especially among the young ones. However, it is not felt to be a problem. (IntI 03:6.)9 The number of pupils has grown from 50 in September 2001 to 150 in 2003, and likewise the number of teachers paid by the Department of Education has risen from five in 2001 to eight in 2003. With regard to the number of pupils on different levels, the junior classes are nearly full but the senior classes are composite so that the third and fourth years as well as the fifth and sixth years are taught together. All the children in the North Dublin Muslim school are Sunni, unlike in Clonskeagh, where there are also Shi’a children. (IntI 03:6.) In the North Dublin Muslim school only two to three percent of the pupils speak English as their first language. Thus, 95% of the children would have Arabic as their first language, and to a lesser degree Urdu, or some other language. Consequently, English is felt to be a serious problem in teaching. Particularly the children, whose families came to Ireland as refugees and asylum-seekers, often have to struggle hard in order to learn English and reach the level of

8 These teachers are actually Irish but they have studied in Britain. Since a greater number of institutions offer teacher training in Britain, it is easier to get the qualification there than in Ireland. Moreover, the length of the course in Britain is only from nine to ten months, while in Ireland it is eighteen months. (Int 03:6.) 9 Cf. Islamic schools in the Netherlands, where female teachers wear a headscarf and dress in loose clothes (Maréchal 2003b: 51; Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 107).

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other children, who come from more settled backgrounds and who are already in command of the language. What adds to the struggle of the former pupils, and thereby to the efforts of the school to teach them, is the fact that parents, who themselves do not know English, cannot help their children with their schoolwork. Even though it is limited to what extent the school can intervene in the lives of these children, a great effort is made in order to accommodate their needs in teaching them.10 The extra language and support teachers provided for these pupils undoubtedly does help in this effort. In Spring 2004 the first group of pupils moved to the secondary school, and a special effort was made in order to bring them to the same level as Irish pupils in general. Irish language is also a problem but, even though there is a possibility to apply for an exemption from learning Irish, this is not encouraged in the school.11 (IntI 03:6.) All in all, the aim of the school is to educate pupils as competent speakers of English, with the addition of Muslim culture. The problem in reaching this aim is that there are no suitable Englishlanguage text-books available in Ireland, which would draw their examples from Islamic culture. Therefore, Muslim schools use the standard Irish text-books, which are often informed by the Catholic ethos. (IntI 03:6) Irish syllabus with Islamic ethos The syllabus of both the above-mentioned Muslim national schools is the same as in other national schools in Ireland, and the subjects are taught by qualified native Irish teachers who are not themselves Muslims by religion. As mentioned above, the school curriculum also includes the instruction of Arabic language and Islamic religion. The organisation of the Muslim national school hence flexibly combines

10 Some of the children have clear psychological problems, which are reflected in their behaviour. However, it is very hard to convince some of the parents to seek psychological help for their children, first of all because these kinds of matters are not easily discussed with the parents, but also due to the suspicion that some parents have concerning psychological tests done on their children. Psychological problems are easily mixed with psychiatric problems—which, undoubtedly, does not only concern Muslim parents but also Irish parents in general. (IntI 03:6.) 11 It must be noted that in order to enter one of the national universities in Ireland one must have a grade in Irish.

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the requirements set for a national school in Ireland with the religious interests of the Muslim community. Moreover, as mentioned above, both of the schools are based on the Islamic ethos, which is apparent, first of all, in the fact that all pupils come from Muslim families. Second, Islam dictates the contents of religious education so that an hour per day is set for the study of religion, Arabic and the Qur’an. However, examples of Islamic culture are, when possible, also integrated in teaching of the other subjects. (Muslim National School: Information sheet for parents.) In addition to religious classes, religion is a fundamental part of the school day also in the sense that the children from the junior infants onwards learn how to prepare for and conduct prayer. This is a practice also followed in the Netherlands with children aged between ten and eleven onwards. (Maréchal 2003b: 52; Shadid & van Koningsveld 1995: 175.) In Clonskeagh, where the mosque is practically next door, boys and girls from third class onwards attend the midday prayer (dhuhr) in the mosque. The same concerns the Friday prayer. (Muslim National School: Code of Discipline, School Rules: 5–6.) Without the facilitating mosque, the North Dublin school organises the prayers for pupils from the second class onwards in a room separated for this purpose. Third, the Islamic ethos is also articulated with regard to dress code in the rules of the school; the school uniform worn in the Muslim schools is very similar to that of the other Irish schools, with the exception that girls in the senior classes are obliged to wear a hijab. The rules of the Muslim National School in Clonskeagh state that, Girls in 5th and 6th class are required to wear [a] hijab at all times in the school and on school grounds, all girls that attend prayer must bring with them a hijab (head scarf ) daily. For those wearing [a] hijab it must be white. (Muslim National School: Code of Discipline, School Rules)

However, there have been some incidents in Clonskeagh where some parents have actually complained about the obligatory hijab. Since this dress code is in the school rules it, nonetheless, needs to be followed. (IntI 03:2.) The North Dublin Muslim school takes a somewhat stricter line in this matter; it recommends that girls would start wearing a hijab already from the third class onwards, and from the fourth class it becomes obligatory. In this school, the rule of hijab has been readily accepted by the parents. (IntI 03:6.) In both schools

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there are girls, who in accordance with their parents wishes, already wear a hijab prior to the set time, i.e the beginning of the puberty. Concerning the colour of the hijab, both schools are flexible, allowing girls to wear a hijab with different colours and textures.12 In Ireland, the school year is ordered according to the Catholic Christian calendar. However, the Department of Education has made some concessions concerning the Muslims schools so that they can take their holidays during the main Islamic festivals, celebrated annually according to the Islamic lunar calendar. Thus, in addition to the ordinary Christmas and Easter holidays, the Muslim schools are closed for eight school days at the end of Ramadan (Eid al-Fitr), and for five school days during the feast of sacrifice (Eid al-Adha). Presently, however, the Department of Education is planning to rule that all schools in Ireland should close for the summer holidays at the same time. With regard to Muslim schools, this would naturally lessen the flexibility of including their own religious holidays in the school year. (Muslim National School, Information sheet for parents; IntI 03:2; IntI 03:6.) The time of Ramadan is very special for Muslims, and it is also clearly visible in the school. In general, Muslim children around ten to twelve are obliged to fast, but in the North Dublin Muslim school children already from seven years onwards are recommended to do it. The example of children fasting in the school operates as an encouragement also for those children who would not necessarily fast and, hence, around 95% of the pupils are fasting during Ramadan. Ramadan is also felt in the school day in the sense that extra care is taken for behaving properly during this month. In general, the children seem to adjust well to fasting. (IntI 03:6.) In sum, one may note that the Islamic ethos permeates the school life in many ways. This is appreciated also by parents, as commented on in the new Muslim newspaper, The Friday Times, Most of the parents are very happy with the education being provided in the Muslim National School. They feel that the children are getting a good all around education based on Islamic Principles. “Big oak

12 This observation is based on my visits to both of the schools in October 2003. Moreover, see a picture of the girls of the Muslim school in The Friday Times 2003, 1 (1): 9.

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chapter ten trees from little acorns grow”—and in the case of the Muslim National School—this certainly seems to be the case. (The Friday Times 2003, 1 (1): 9)

All in all, Muslims in Ireland have managed very smoothly in the establishment of their own national schools, which function in accordance with the Islamic ethos, while adapting to the requirements of the Irish educational system. Consequently, in seeking an alternative solution for the mainstream Catholic education, Muslims have not faced the same problems as some parents of other religious orientations in Ireland. For instance, in 1999 a group of parents in Cooleenbridge, Co. Clare, wanted to establish a school following the philosophy of Rudolf Steiner. In order to get state finance for the school, it needed to be recognised by the state. However, the application was turned down on the following grounds: first, the teachers lacked appropriate qualifications as stated in the Rules for National Schools (1965: 40–7); and second, there were no adequate provisions made for teaching Irish in the school. The compulsory Irishlanguage teaching was defended on the grounds that there was an obligation to provide children, at the first stages of formal education, with instruction of the constitutionally recognised first language of the Irish State. (Casey 2000: 654–5.) Both these requirements are met by the Muslim national schools. Hence, the bilingual character of the Irish State, in its part, adds to the already multilingual situation of these schools. Following the success in setting up Muslim national schools, the Muslim community is planning to start a Muslim secondary school in Dublin. It is felt that a Muslim secondary school would strengthen the Islamic education of the children in general, but, in particular, it would help the girls. Even though such instances of wearing a hijab, previously treated as a problem in some Irish secondary schools, are getting scarce, studying in a Muslim school would nonetheless ease the pressure of the girls covering their head. Moreover, the liberal atmosphere of secondary schools in comparison to primary schools, and problems evident among teenaged secondary-school pupils, make some Muslim parents hesitant to send their girls to ordinary Irish secondary schools. Therefore, some parents would want the Muslim national school to keep their daughters for one more year in the primary school. However, the same does not concern boys, who are encouraged to proceed rapidly in their education. In other words, the parents feel more protective towards their

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daughters than their sons. As such, preparing Muslim children to face the teenage years in a non-Muslim environment adds to the responsibilities of the Muslim national schools to educate their pupils in such a way that they will know for themselves what is allowed or forbidden in Islam. (IntI 03:6.) However, finding an all-boys or all-girls school for Muslim children is not a problem in Ireland, as it is in countries with co-education. In Ireland, the Catholic schools have followed the policy of separating boys and girls, and to a large extent continue to do so. In this respect, the expectations Muslims and the wider society in Ireland smoothly coincide. (Cf. Maréchal 2003b: 49.) In conclusion, one may note that, even though both of the Muslim schools are managed by the Islamic Foundation, and both of them follow the Islamic ethos, there is a slight difference between these schools. First, the North Dublin school seems to be more uniform in respect of Islam than the school in Clonskeagh, where pupils come from more varied Muslim backgrounds. Second, in comparison with the one in Clonskeagh, the North Dublin school also seems to be more strict with regard to Islamic practice, such as fasting or wearing a headscarf. Perhaps, one may conclude that the school in Clonskeagh reflects the plurality evident in the wider realm of the Islamic Cultural Centre, whereas the North Dublin school apparently seeks some sort of independence from the influence professed by this Centre. These different lines of policy are interesting when considering the accusations at times made against Islamic schools in that they foster marginality in and isolation from the wider society (Maréchal 2003b: 52). With regard to the above-Muslim national schools, it is most likely that the North Dublin Muslim National School would be more prone to isolation than the school in Clonskeagh. The latter is directed by an Irish non-Muslim principal, who himself personifies a link between the Muslim community and the Irish mainstream society. Moreover, the school in Clonskeagh is closely connected to the central mosque and cultural centre, which upholds constant contacts with the state politicians and administrators as well as Irish people in general. Therefore, even if situated somewhat at the side of the bustle of the Cultural Centre, the school unavoidably becomes part of its main events. Moreover, the visibility gained by this Centre easily spreads to the school as well. Last but not least, the development of Muslim schools, new to the Irish educational system, is, to some extent at least, met by a feeling

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of surprise and unexpectedness, making it necessary to reconsider the implicit understandings of Irishness. Peter Thompson in The Irish Times reports: Seeing and learning these things, the visitor cannot but be aware that something entirely new is happening in Irish educational and social history. [. . .] It is one more jolt to traditional concepts of what constitutes an “Irish” person. (Thompson 1993)

Religious Instruction In the Irish educational system, the general ethos of national schools is articulated in religious terms so that religion should underline its everyday function: Of all the parts of a school curriculum Religious Instruction is by far the most important, as its subject-matter, God’s honour and service, includes the proper use of all mans’ faculties, and affords the most powerful inducements to their proper use. Religious Instruction is, therefore, a fundamental part of the school course, and a religious spirit should inform and vivify the whole work of the school. (The Rules for National Schools 1965: 38.)

Thus, The Rules for National Schools grant a very important place for religious education both in the school curriculum but also in the general ethos of school work. This importance is justified by the reference, on the one hand, to honouring God and, on the other hand, to the proper use of human capabilities. Understandably enough, the Rules were written at a time when the vision of a multicultural Ireland was unimaginable. Consequently, they do not anticipate a situation where the denominational borders do not hold any more, if they ever did. With an officially recognised multiculturalism the presence of minority religions in the context of a majority needs to be taken into consideration. In a sense, the Catholic hegemony is thereby broken and the multi-faith character of Irish society makes itself felt as forging ahead into new territory, education included. As mentioned above, the religious ethos in the Muslims national school is informed by Islam. Moreover, providing pupils with the religious instruction of Islam is an elementary part of the school curriculum. However, the Muslim national school can cater only for a limited number of Muslim children who live in Dublin, not to speak of other parts of Ireland. Consequently, most of the Muslim chil-

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dren attend their local schools, which for the most part are run by different religious denominations. In these local schools, there are no separate Islamic classes organised for Muslim children, who therefore often attend the classes of, for instance, Catholic instruction, if no other programme can be organised for them (Int 01:2). In order to avoid this some Muslim parents prefer multi-denominational schools which are neither attached to Catholic nor Protestant denomination. (IntI 03:1.) Unlike in Finland, where religious instruction is organised in state schools according to the religious conviction of a child and her family, in Ireland the demands arising from religious pluralism in school education is a matter that is hardly discussed at all (see McGarry 2004b). The reason for this is no doubt due to the fact that schools in Ireland are principally run by denominations. Irrespective of their differences, nonetheless, the educational system both in Finland and Ireland recognises a need for faith-specific religious education. While in Finland the religious instruction of different faiths is provided in the classroom, in Ireland the religious instruction follows the general ethos of a particular school. The Finnish system, however, can respond, at least in principle, more flexibly than the Irish system to the needs of religious minorities. With the growing numbers of children who attend Irish state schools but who do not adhere to the mainstream Catholicism, it will be necessary in Ireland, sooner or later, to look more closely into the matters of religious instruction. Legally, there are two matters that set the general framework in this matter. For one thing, as mentioned above, the Irish Constitution (Art. 42) recognises rights of parents in the matter of religious and moral formation. Moreover, the Rules for National Schools (1965: 38), state that ‘No pupil shall receive, or be present at, any religious instruction of which his parents or guardians disapprove.’ Thus, one may conclude that, if parents so wish, a child should not be required to attend religious classes of a school run by a different denomination than that of the child. However, in practice this rule is not necessarily followed. For instance, Muslim children at times attend Catholic instruction at school because there are no other options for them but to stay in a classroom. This practice is justified by the school authorities on the grounds that the school insurance does not cover children who are let free in the middle of a school day. (IntI 01:2.) Another solution to this problem is to send Muslim children during the class of the Catholic instruction to another teacher’s class.

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In general, if there are more than six Muslim children in a school, a religious teacher is allowed to come and give them a separate class while other children attend their own religious instruction. However, even this solution is met by resistance in some of the Irish schools. (IntI 03:3.) Moreover, from the children’s point of view, this can in some cases be equally unsatisfactory. Removing children from class sets them apart and hence easily results in the embarrassment felt by the children themselves and in some cases can even stigmatise them in front of other children. (Int 01:2.) One may note that in the first option mentioned above, the safety of a child coupled with the interest of a school run counter to the principles of religious freedom set for a national school. Consequently, the constitutional rights of parents in the matter of religious and moral formation does not materialize in this respect. The second option, which might remove the problem of forcing children to attend religious instruction against their parents’ will, is however insensitive to the experiences of children themselves and ignores the fact that the peer pressure is no less felt among Muslim children than it is among children in general. Thus, the demand for religious freedom might be answered in letter but in practice it could be uncomfortable for the parties involved. This latter problem connected with setting Muslim children apart is not, however, solved in the Finnish system either. Some of the teachers of Islamic instruction in the Finnish state schools say that sometimes children coming to Islamic class feel ashamed. Rarely is it easy for a young person to be different. However, by way of contrast it has been pointed out in Finnish research that, especially for newly arrived immigrant children, instruction in one’s own language and religion can be a soothing experience. It offers something familiar to the young who otherwise have to cope with a school system and curriculum that is very strange to them and hence demanding to the extent of being at times overpowering. (Alitolppa-Niitamo 2002: 283.) Recently in Ireland, however, the initiative has been taken in order to organise Islamic instruction in some primary schools. For instance, in 1999 the Islamic Cultural Centre was contacted by Ballycraigh National School in Dublin for assistance in meeting the religious needs of the Muslim pupils in the school. Thus, the Centre organised a teacher providing Muslims pupils in this school with Islamic instruction on a regular basis. Moreover, there have been some efforts in the Islamic Foundation to give religious classes at the secondary

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school. However, the problem is that the number of Muslim pupils is small so that you might have seven or eight boys and girls in a school, spread out among different classes. Therefore, a religious teacher has to cater for pupils of different ages and levels of learning, which makes the teaching very hard, as was discussed with respect to the education of Islam in Finland. Moreover, the Islamic Cultural Centre also provides an interpreter to help in the communication between the school officials and Muslims parents. (ICCI Newsletter Sept.–Dec. 99:3 IntI 03:1.) In other words, the Centre provides the school with the services which in Finland are usually seen as a prerogative of the municipality. However, with regard to Islamic instruction it is felt that, as long as the number of Muslim pupils remains as low as it is presently, it is more beneficial to have a separate school for Muslims children (IntI 03:1). The two Muslim national schools no doubt solve the problem on the primary school level, and if the effort for founding a Muslim secondary school will materialise one day, the problem will be solved at least in the case of those Muslim youth attending this school. However, the separate school system with regard to religion will always remain a partial solution with respect to Islamic instruction since there will always be a number of Muslim children both in Dublin and in other parts of Ireland who will not be able to study in the Muslim schools. In general, there has been a definite improvement in the Irish schools in accommodating the Muslim children, with regard to the hijab and the length of clothing, and allowing the children to pray. As such, this does not concern all schools but a majority of them have started to provide Muslim children with a little place where they may pray. Moreover, some schools, with reasonably large numbers of Muslim pupils also allow someone from the mosque to visit the school in order to give a Friday speech (khutb) to the children. (IntI 03:3.) In similar fashion to other European countries, in Ireland the Islamic Cultural Centre and the Islamic Foundation, in addition to mosques in other parts of the country, provide the children with a supplementary mosque-education outside school hours, especially on the weekends. Thus, there is Al-Falah Islamic School run by the Islamic Foundation with classes on Friday and Saturday, Nur AlHuda Qur’anic School run by the Islamic Cultural Centre three days a week on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, in addition to the

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weekend Madrasa School, run by both of these institutions. Recently the Qur’an school of the Islamic Cultural Centre has also set up branches on the northern side of Dublin and in other places in Ireland. (IntI 03:3.) In Dublin, the mosque education is particularly geared for those children who do not go to the Muslim national schools, and it is often the children who live in the vicinity of the mosque who participate especially in the evening Qur’an school. Moreover, there are a number of other schools attached to the local mosques in different cities of Ireland. (Islam in Dublin; IntI 03:1; see also the ICCI newsletters.) For instance in Limerick the imam teaches the boys and a woman teacher caters for girls every evening of the weekdays. Thus, the children attending the Qur’an school in the evening fit into their day both the national or secondary school during the day and the religious education in the evening. (Int 01:5; Int 01:6.) In spite of this work load, the evening classes in the Limerick mosque are surprisingly popular. The mosque-education usually focusses on the recitation and memorisation of the Qur’an, but there is also teaching on behavioural rules and ethics related to living as a Muslim in a western society. In addition to memorisation of the Qur’an and Islamic ethics, different languages are often taught to the children as well. Undoubtedly, the aim of this type of education is to build up and strengthen the identity of the children as a member of a religious and ethnic community and thereby to fulfil one of the main tasks of mosques and cultural centres, which is to transfer the religious heritage of the parents to the following generation. All in all, it has been argued that the mosque-education aims at socialising the youngsters both as members of a Muslim community and as members of the wider society. (See Shadid & van Konigsveld 1995: 107–8.) For God and Eternal Values As was discussed in Chapter Four, the educational concern of the Muslim parents and the community finds its justification in the Irish Constitution, which states that it is the family that is held as the primary and natural educator of the child. Thus, the state guarantees to respect parental rights and duties with regard to children’s education. In addition to freedom of parental choice in respect of edu-

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cation, the Irish Constitution also ‘effectively guarantees variety in educational provision’. (Casey 2000: 652.) Thus, the fact that, in Ireland, schools in the primary and secondary level education are predominately denominational has effectively provided structural facilities for establishing a Muslim school in this country. The Rules for National Schools (1965: 9) state that ‘These Rules do not discriminate between schools under the management of different religious denominations’. This is readily recognised by the leaders of the Muslim community in Ireland: Since the political and religious authorities in Ireland are basically rooted in faith in God and eternal values, thereby, they are in support of those same basic teachings that Islam has always promoted. The Islamic Community has found the Irish educational system very positive and supportive of their aims and hope that the Muslim School will produce Muslims who will contribute to the spiritual and material welfare of Ireland. The school will stand as a monument to the respect and accord given by the Irish State to the beliefs of minority groups, and to the Muslim community [which], with the help of Allah, worked so hard towards their goal. (IFI info, 1998)

It is interesting to note that, in the citation above, a justification for the Muslim school is not articulated in legal but rather in religious terms. Thus, it is said by the representative of the Muslim community that the basic teachings of Islam are in accordance with the religious ethos that is seen as a driving force in the work of the Irish authorities. The religious ethos in Ireland is inevitably based on Catholic social teaching, which however is not explicitly mentioned here. Instead, the common ground is expressed in terms of ‘God and eternal values’. In its vagueness, this reference could be seen to invoke an idea of civil religion, in so far as the Irish state is concerned. However, the reference to Allah, instead of God, emphasises the Islamic nature and hence the distinctiveness of the spiritual heritage that Muslims are committed to. Moreover, this statement employs similar rhetoric of goodwill towards the Irish state as was the case, for instance, in the rules of the Tatar community in Finland, covered in Chapter Six. Hence Muslims in Ireland do not only wish to contribute to the spiritual welfare of the Irish state but also to its material benefit. Similar to the Tatars, Irish Muslims are presented as hard-working people in aiming to reach their goals in educating their offspring. Implicitly, the above-mentioned statement rearticulates the satisfaction of Muslims

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concerning the public understanding and concern for religion in Ireland, which was mentioned in relation to the report of religious freedom in this country (see Boyle & Sheen 1997). For minority religious communities, the public recognition of religion can be commendable, as shown in the constitutional debate on the establishment of the Church of England in Britain. As was discussed in Chapter Three, the representatives of the Jewish and Muslim communities were in favour of maintaining the official status of the Anglican Church. The members of these communities argued that the Anglican Church as an officially recognised church in the country could keep religious interests on the public agenda and hence also pave the way for the interests of small religious groups. (See Modood 1997a.) Thus, there seems to be a common interest concerning the public role of religion in European society, shared by members of organised religions, such as Christians, Jews, and Muslims. In Ireland, where the establishment of the Catholic Church is not an issue, it is rather the general religious ethos permeating the Irish state and society which is warmly supported by Muslims seeking recognition in this country.

CONCLUDING REMARKS This study ends with the issue of education. Undoubtedly, education is one of the most important fora for the socialisation of children and young people in the principles of democracy and human rights. In light of the recent concern for the security of Europe, one can hardly emphasise sufficiently enough the importance of education in integrating the younger generations into the wider society. This, of course, concerns all young people but even more so the children and young of a minority background. Since the scare on Europe’s security is often linked with Islam it is all the more important to take a look at how Muslims are supported in the process of integration into the European wider society: What is the message that European countries give to religious minorities, such as Muslims, regarding the place of their religious traditions in society? Finland and Ireland: Interactive Integration and Positive Religious Freedom When studying the cases of Finland and Ireland, it is obvious that both of these countries are ‘on a steep policy learning curve’ (Geddes 2000: 9) and, with respect to multiculturalism, are developing new policies concerning minorities, immigrants and refugees at a rapid pace. In both of these countries, cultural diversity is approached from the point of view of integration, understood as a two-way process, whereby both the wider society and the newcomers or minorities undergo a mutual process of adaptation. The main principles of this process of adaptation, which one could call the interactive integration, are spelled out in different programmes of these countries concerning integration and labour migration as well as those of combatting discrimination and racism. It is obvious that both Finland and Ireland are preparing themselves, due to aging populations, for a labour shortage, which is going to hit these countries sooner or later. With respect to attracting a new labour force, the Irish seem, at least on the level of rhetoric, much more confident of their famous Irish charm, coupled with pride of their country as a warm and friendly place, than the Finns who simply develop policies in order to make

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Finland ‘a better place to live’. Not much charm nor pride there. Nonetheless, the outcome of these different types of rhetorics, and particularly the consequent policies, remain to be seen in the forthcoming decades. In addition to multicultural programmes, the principles of these respective countries concerning minorities are also—and even more importantly—spelled out in legislation, of which the constitutions of Finland and Ireland most profoundly encapsulate the understanding of religious and cultural rights. In Ireland, the Constitution has been amended several times in an answer to social changes. With respect to religious and cultural diversity, the most important amendments in the Constitution of Ireland have occurred, on the one hand, with respect to the peace process in Northern Ireland, and, on the other hand, regarding the legislation on abortion and divorce. As such, the revisions in the Ireland Constitution reflect the demands to recognise in Irish society the process of growing diversity but also the process of secularisation, resulting in the diminishing role of the Catholic Church particularly in matters of sexual morality. In consequence, the process of secularisation, and that of increasing diversity in Irish society, has gradually narrowed the influence of the Roman Catholic ethos on the Irish jurisprudence. The dominance of the Catholic influence notwithstanding, the history of the Constitutional amendments also shows that there has been a recurring effort in Ireland to strike a balance between the privileged position of the Catholic Church and the recognition of religious minorities. In Ireland, moreover, the denominational system of education has ensured that different religious communities, in addition to the Catholic majority, have been able to socialise children in their respective religious traditions. In this sense, the adamant efforts of the Catholic Church since the end of the nineteenth century to ensure its influence on Irish education have also paved the way for the interests of religious minorities. The Muslim national schools, run in Dublin, are a living proof of the smoothness that a new religious minority can carve a space for its own educational needs in contemporary Irish society. Moreover, the Church of Ireland, rephrasing the European Convention on Human Rights, has only recently argued with renewed confidence and vigour for the right to education reflecting its religious tradition and ethos. Thus, it would seem that, in a more ‘inclusive Ireland’, it is the religious minorities which take the banner of religious rights from the weakening Catholic Church. In any event,

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one can also detect a growing pressure in Ireland to have more schools which do not fit into the denominational system but, instead, are neutral regarding religion. Thus, one can observe two somewhat contradictory currents regarding religious freedom in Irish society. However, it is obvious that, to date, positive religious freedom is supported in Ireland at the cost of negative religious freedom— whether with respect to irreligion or religions. It remains to be seen in Ireland how the general process of secularisation, and the parallel process of the diminishing institutional power of the Catholic Church, will affect the ‘respect for religion’ that, for instance, the Muslim community has expressed its gratitude for. At present, nonetheless, the historical Christian minorities express their enthusiasm regarding the ‘pilgrimage towards pluralism’ that is evident in the discourse of a more ‘inclusive Ireland’, and hence welcome the country’s growing religious diversity. However, with respect to the pluralisation, one should not, in the light of Irish history, undermine the ability of the Irish to assimilate newcomers to their society. Whether the slogan of a more ‘inclusive Ireland’ has a ring to it of ‘integration’ or ‘assimilation’ is of course debatable. One thing is sure, however, that irrespective of the ‘respect for religion’, the Irish state, supporting the education of English of the newcomers, does not show any interest in developing policies which would guarantee that they would be able also to preserve their own language. Perhaps, the language change from Irish (Gaelic) to English, promoted to some extent also by the Catholic Church, and the fact that the main Protestant minorities in Ireland are English-speaking, have left the legacy of insensitivity to multilingual issues in Ireland. Hence, one can conclude with respect to religious and cultural memory that new minorities might be on the safe side in Ireland regarding their religion but not their language. In Finland, the Constitution was revised as recently as in 2000, and the subsequent changes in the constitutional law made it necessary to revise also other legislation. Thus, the revision of the Freedom of Religion Act was put into motion and a new Act issued in 2003. In comparison, one can notice that the influence of the church on legislation has not been so pronounced in Finland as it has been in Ireland. This lack of direct influence notwithstanding, one can observe some sort of indirect involvement of the Lutheran Church in drafting the recent Freedom of Religion Act. Undoubtedly, it is important, in the face of growing religious diversity, for the

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Lutheran Church to keep its status quo before of the law. The new Freedom of Religion Act (2003), while recognising the rights of minorities, does not bring any change to the status of the Lutheran Church vis-à-vis the state. Moreover, the emphasis on membership, which is characteristic of the national churches in Finland, as it is in other Nordic countries, is used as the main principle with respect to legal rights of a religious community. It goes without saying that privileging membership over other forms of religious belonging is alien for many Christian denominations—not to mention non-Christian religions. Hence, the Muslims, for instance, are very reluctant to sign themselves as members of one of the registered Islamic communities, whereby the number of registered Muslims in Finland is only around 10% of the country’s Muslim population, estimated as being a total of 30,000. The grudge against membership, in turn, has defeating consequences for the annual statistics regarding the numbers of religious communities in Finland, which are far from accurate. In Ireland, where the numbers of religious adherents are not derived from the registered religious communities, but rather individually in the census, the system is much more suited to measure identification with religions such as Islam. Thus, in Ireland the number of those who, in the last census (2002), put themselves down as Muslims was around 20,000, which is very close to the latest estimations regarding the number of Muslims in Ireland’s population, being around 25,000. Another example where the sole emphasis on membership, with respect to religion, is problematic concerns religious education in Finnish schools, which is addressed, in connection with the revision of the Freedom of Religion Act (2003), in the recently revised education acts for comprehensive and upper-secondary schools (2003). According to the law, one is entitled in Finland, with certain limitations, to the education of one’s religion as a part of school education. Hence, along with different forms of Christianity, also non-Christian religions, such as Islam, Buddhism and Krishna, are included in the overall curricula of comprehensive and upper-secondary schools. In addition to religions, the school curriculum also includes the instruction of Ethics and Philosophy of Life, directed to those pupils who are not members of any religious community. In practice, however, over 80% of the pupils are members of the Lutheran Church and, therefore, Lutheran instruction is predominant in Finnish schools. This predominance is strengthened even fur-

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ther with the provision of the law that those pupils who are members of the Lutheran Church are compelled to attend the Lutheran instruction even if their parents would wish otherwise. In this respect, the Lutheran pupils and their parents are denied the right to negative religious freedom. Moreover, in this case, the rights of parents to decide on their children’s education, granted in the international conventions on human rights, is curtailed in favour of a church institution. In addition to Finland, favouring the institution (or the state) over the individual has also come up in the decisions of the European Court of Human Rights, which has reiterated the idea of a church as a ‘voluntary club’. As noted on several occasions in this book, however, religious belonging is very rarely a question of voluntary choice in a society which is strongly influenced by one dominant religion. At least in Finland and Ireland this is still very much the case. Moreover, in countries such as Ireland, where the Catholic Church dominates schools, it is very hard for an individual teacher to choose not to be a Catholic: if she wants to be employed that choice simply does not exist. With respect to these examples concerning Finland and Ireland, but also to some extent Europe at large, one can conclude that there is yet very little awareness of negative religious freedom in relation to the dominant Christian churches. Since Europe is dominated by Christianity, the discussion on negative religious freedom with respect to different religious communities should first start among the majority and then also spread to the minorities. As with religious rights in general, the adherents of both religious majorities and minorities share the same boat in this matter. As an example of the disregard for negative religious freedom of Muslims in Finland, one can mention a case where, in some schools, the restricted choice of the Lutheran pupils regarding religious education was also extended to the pupils of Muslim background. In light of the law, this, however, proved to be problematic. Since the vast majority of the Muslim pupils are not registered members of an Islamic community, they are not, according to the law, obliged to attend the instruction of Islam. Instead, they have a choice between three options: the instruction of Islam, the Lutheran instruction, or the education of Ethics and Philosophy of Life. Regarding freedom of choice, the new law, therefore, would seem to favour pupils of minority religions without registered membership. Whatever the case may be, in the above case the overemphasis in some schools on the

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positive religious freedom of Muslim pupils led to a policy which went against the law. In consequence, the National Board of Education was asked in the Summer of 2005 to give new instructions for the schools concerning the implementation of the new law, which would put an end, for instance, to the above-mentioned policies (see Eriksson 2005). In principle, the policy of restricting the freedom of choice of Muslims pupils in similar fashion to those of the Lutheran religion can, of course, be seen as an effort to enforce formal equality between these pupils representing a majority and a minority. What it does not take into consideration, however, is the question of substantive equality, which would recognise the difference of religious belonging between the Lutherans and Muslims. In general, it seems that the new law in Finland, which was hailed for its articulation of positive religious freedom is, in practice, revealing a need for an interpretation which would supplement this articulation with a recognition of negative religious freedom. Irrespective of differences, in both of these countries, the majority churches, i.e. the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Finland and the Catholic Church in Ireland, enjoy legal and social advantages as well as greater autonomy in comparison with other religious communities. In this respect, both Finland and Ireland conform to the general trend in Europe with respect to the church-state relations, whereby the privileges of the Christian churches, prominent in society, are not limited but, instead, the state meets the pressure of growing multiculturalism by extending some of the privileges enjoyed by the majority churches also to other religious communities. This ‘model of extended privileges’ is, moreover, couched in terms of positive religious freedom. Hence, the emphasis on positive religious freedom in Finland or Ireland ensures that the model of extended privileges is more or less taken for granted in these respective countries and, to date, no critical public discussion around this issue has evolved. In Finland and Ireland, the institutionalisation of Islam with regard to mosques and cultural centres has not, in general, been problematic. Setting up Islamic communities as charitable organisations, as in Ireland, or as registered religious communities, as in Finland, entails organisational structures which have a clear legal backing in these countries. Moreover, with a mosque as a place of worship and an imam as a religious leader, Islamic communities are close enough to the church-like structure with priests or pastors as religious personnel in order to fit well into the general religious landscape of

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these two countries. Consequently, the Islamic communities are by now reasonably well established in Finland and Ireland, even though there are differences in the institutional development between these two countries and also in each country within the Muslim community. With regard to this institutional development, one can therefore say that Muslims enjoy the freedom of religion in these countries; both the legal culture of the wider society and the Muslim communities themselves work rather harmoniously towards this end. Neither in Finland nor in Ireland, moreover, has the state publicly expressed any need to control Muslim communities as a threat against national security.1 Without a doubt, an overemphasis on the security of the state and society can have adverse consequences for the religious freedom of recent and less established minorities. In Finland and Ireland, Muslims do not suffer from this fate. On the contrary, particularly in Ireland, there seems to prevail an understanding that the state and Muslims themselves should fight together against the spread of terrorism from Britain to Ireland. As was mentioned in the beginning of this book, the Muslim community in Ireland is pursuing the help of the Irish police in order to combat this threat. In other words, the Muslim community in Ireland places itself as a vulnerable minority in the hands of the majority institution, and, in the process, strongly identifies with the need for the security of both the Muslims and the wider society. Perhaps, this is one practical sign of the confidence that Muslims feel in Ireland, where, in their view, religion is respected far more than elsewhere in Europe. Muslims: Legitimate Actors with Status Differences In addition to multicultural programmes and official legislation, it is obvious that, irrespective of very different kinds of religiosity in these countries, religion is also socially recognised in Finland and Ireland. With respect to this social recognition, one can argue that it is the above-mentioned majority churches which have kept religion on the

1 However, it must be noted that in both of these countries the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001 were followed by visits to and/or regular surveillance of the Islamic communities by the security police (personal communication with leaders of Islamic communities in both of these countries).

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agenda, in spite of rapid social change. Therefore, one can consent to the observation that, in these respective countries, the majority churches have also paved the way for religious freedom of the minorities; the national Muslim schools in Ireland and the Islamic education in Finnish schools are a case in point. Moreover, as mentioned above, Islamic communities are officially recognised in these respective countries, namely as charitable organisations in Ireland and as registered religious communities in Finland. Therefore, vis-à-vis the state, Muslim communities in these countries, unlike for instance in Germany, do not have a problem of being legitimate actors. In both of these countries, moreover, Muslims are also welcomed to function as social actors in the civil society. Furthermore, neither Finland nor Ireland is shy of public displays of religious symbols attached to Islam. Thus, putting up Islamic signs, for instance in connection with mosques, or wearing headscarfs, have not been banned in these countries. However, with respect to institutional facilities of Islam, Ireland is far ahead of Finland. First, Ireland houses two purpose-built mosques in a little town of Ballyhaunis but also in Dublin, where the Cultural Centre of Ireland has become a definite landmark of the wealthy south side of this capital city. In spite of various efforts, no purposebuilt mosque has yet been erected in Finland. Second, the Muslims in Ireland have succeeded in starting Muslim schools, which in Finland have been in the planning stages for a decade. The Muslim national schools in Dublin, first started in 1990, constitute an example of the way the mainstream education can be successfully combined with that of Islam. Thus, these schools, run by the Islamic Foundation of Ireland, follow the official curriculum of the Irish primary schools and hence provide the education of all compulsory subjects (including Irish), taught by non-Muslim teachers. In addition, some part-time Muslim teachers are in charge of the education of Islam and Arabic. The Islamic ethos marks the operation of these schools in many ways: the school year follows the Islamic calendar as closely as possible; the pupils take part in the daily prayers; they also attend, if possible, the mosque for the Friday prayer; and the girls are obliged at a certain age to wear a headscarf. In consequence, the Muslim national schools are like any other Irish primary school with the exception that they are operating within the ethos of Islam. It therefore comes as no surprise that the Muslim national schools are seen by Muslims as a testimony to the respect

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which the Irish state holds for the religious beliefs of minority groups, such as Muslims, in Ireland. To date, no such ‘testimony’ exists in Finland for lack of resources, and, most likely, will not do so in the foreseeable future. However, Muslims also face problems in Ireland. The above-mentioned national schools can serve only a very restricted number of Muslim children, and the education of Islam is not organised in the mainstream Irish (Catholic) schools, as it is in Finland. Moreover, general prejudice against girls wearing an Islamic headscarf, at times, makes it difficult for them to find a place in a (Catholic) secondary school. This is a matter that was brought to the attention of the Ministry of Equality some years ago, which gave the instructions that this sort of discrimination was not allowed in Ireland. As such, these examples of both good and bad practice concerning the education of Islam reveal the contradictory tendencies that prevail in Irish society between the state rhetoric on the ‘inclusive Ireland’ and the practical problems in the mainstream schools. The lack of institutional facilities provided by a purpose-built mosque in Finland is, no doubt, due to the different economic position of Muslim communities in Finland in comparison to those in Ireland. As the recent census (2002) in Ireland reveals, over a third of Muslims belong to the three highest social-class categories. The high professional status is also apparent in the functioning of Islamic communities, which benefit from the wealth but also from the prestige that high-status groups enjoy in this society. However, at the same time, the flux of refugees into these communities accentuates the intra-community differences with respect to wealth and status, and also creates some friction between different groupings. The need to address multicultural issues is, therefore, a pressing issue, not only for the wider society but also for the Muslim communities themselves. However, the ‘multicultural policies’ in Muslim communities is an unstudied area, and so are the racist attitudes, which most likely are also a feature, not only of religious majorities but also of minorities.2 However, whatever the problems with intra-group diversity, 2 In my experience, Muslims in both Finland and Ireland tend to entertain strong stereotypes concerning different ethnicities among them, and they also reveal evidence of the deliberate stratification of their members. For instance, refugees, who tend to suffer most from the prejudice in the wider society, also seem to hold a lower position on the scale of social stratification among their fellow Muslims. However, the latter perhaps concerns more Ireland than Finland.

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it is obvious that Muslims in Ireland, with their relative wealth, ready-made networks and good understanding of the way Irish society works, are in a formidable position to help the newcomers and those in need among the Muslims. In Finland, a social divide between different status groups among Muslims is prevalent between different ‘generations’ of Muslims. The Turkish Tatars, who have inhabited Finland for over one hundred years, are well established in this country and are also smoothly integrated into Finnish society. In consequence, they are a small and wealthy minority, who claim not to have experienced any discrimination in Finland. Neither have they sought any support from the state. In similar fashion, those Muslims who entered Finland mainly from the Arab countries between the 1960s and the 1980s have also adapted to Finnish society rather smoothly, even though it must be noted that very little research is available on this group. In contrast to these former ‘generations’, the recent Muslims who have entered the country as immigrants but also, in the 1990s in particular, as refugees, constitute several small Islamic communities, which, irrespective of their small size, hold the position of a registered religious community. These communities are marked by great ethnic, linguistic and religious differences. Their everyday operation is very much dependent on a small group of active but rapidly changing members, who carry the main responsibility of a mosque community. To date, these communities function without much financial support from outside. This is evident in the struggle to hire and run premises for religious purposes. The situation in Finland in this respect is very different from that of Ireland, where the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland and the Islamic Foundation of Ireland, centred in Dublin, are able to support local mosques in provincial cities of Ireland. Moreover, due to lack of financial means, particularly recent refugee Muslims are compelled to rely on the services provided by the state and municipalities. As the recent debates in Finland on the obligation to circumcise Muslim boys in the public health-care system readily reveals, putting one’s hand in the common purse easily excites opposition. Thus, circumcision of boys, which has been conducted privately by the wealthy groups of Tatars and Jews in Finland for decades, became a problem only when it was brought into the public sector. For that reason, it also readily reveals how and for what reasons Muslims become conceived of as a social problem. Obviously enough, it has very little to do with Islam and everything to do with

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the general willingness to spend public funds on the special needs of a particular group. As such, one could also use the above-mentioned case regarding the circumcision of boys in Finland as an example of the ‘religionisation’ of cultural needs of a group which, in this case, simply happens to be constituted of Muslims. In a sense, one can learn with respect to Muslims in Ireland that money attracts money. As an example, one can mention the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland, which was built with a generous donation of five million pounds, and the renovation of premises for the first Muslim national school, attached to this Centre. In addition, one can also learn from the case of Ireland that money attracts respectability and public visibility. These two things, in turn, are important in gaining recognition in a society, where high status and wealth are valued, as they usually are in a market economy in Europe. If one wanted to be cynical one could argue that the highly materialistic values of a European society speak far louder with respect to religious minorities than those of human rights and religious freedom. In any event, the Muslims in Ireland greatly benefit from having such a power base as the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland. For instance, simply regarding its premises, this centre is fit for receiving high-status visitors representing the state, such as the President or the Prime Minister, who have visited the centre on several occasions. One could hardly expect the same high-status representatives to visit a modest prayer room in Helsinki. Moreover, the Cultural Centre conducts awareness courses for Irish politicians and administrators introducing them to Islam. The Centre, moreover, also attracts bus loads of visitors, who have a possibility to visit the mosque and learn about Muslim life. Undoubtedly, this kind of work opens up several avenues for Muslims in Irish society and, in turn, makes them look approachable. In time, these activities most likely can manage to shatter at least some of the prejudice against Muslims in Irish society, and to combat whatever ‘Islamophobia’ there is in this country. Irrespective of the lack of premises such as those in Ireland, the Muslims in Finland are also active in informing the wider society of Islam: they give lectures in the University of Helsinki and actively take part in religious dialogue. Undoubtedly, these measures cannot attract the kind of attention and visibility that the activities of the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland do, but, in any case, they are definite efforts of a small community to reach out to the wider society,

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and seek understanding for their much-abused religion. No doubt, the growing body of research on Muslims in Finland also partly works towards this end. This is the benefit of which Muslims in Ireland to date have enjoyed very little. It must be said, however, that, having researchers who inform the wider society about Islam and Muslim concerns, is a double-edged sword: while in Ireland the media seeks the viewpoint of Muslims themselves on current issues concerning Islam, in Finland the media as a rule turns to the academics. Thus, the talking heads interviewed for news in Finland, for instance, do not consist of leaders of Islamic communities so much as they do in Ireland. In Ireland, the director of the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland, in particular, has been given the role to represent the Muslim voice in the Irish media. Thus, one can conclude that the institutional wealth and visibility also renders the Muslim community in Ireland public credibility. Of course, it is a much debated issue in Europe at present as to who should represent Muslims vis-à-vis the state and wider society. In Finland, where Muslims are levelled out across several small Islamic communities, it is hard to find any single Islamic community which could stand out and speak in the name of the Finnish Muslim population as a whole. Admittedly, there have been some efforts in Finland to bring different Muslim groups together and to thereby constitute a body which could represent Muslims’ interests in relation to the Finnish state. To date, these sort of efforts, however, have been short-lived. The municipalities, in turn, simply negotiate with leaders of the local Islamic communities, and, in the process, put pressure on the Islamic communities to fit into the representational needs of the wider society. Undoubtedly, this sort of activity enhances interaction on a local level and can therefore prove to be beneficial to Muslims. However, since it is almost impossible for any individual Muslim—whether a leader of a community or not—to take such a representative role, this pressure from outside can cause bitter internal tensions. Thus, both on the level of the state and municipalities, it is obvious that Muslim communities which, different from Christian churches, do not have any sort of set Islamic hierarchy or ascribed ‘priesthood’, are ill-fitted to the system of representational democracy, prevalent in Finland, as it is in Europe in general. With respect to publicity, at present there is no Muslim spokesperson among the several Islamic communities in Finland who would

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be willing, or articulate enough, to take the Finnish audience into its folds. The Turkish Tatars, on grounds of their wealth and perfect cultural competence in Finnish society, certainly would have the ability to address the Finnish public in such a manner that Muslim concerns could be made understandable. This ability notwithstanding, the Tatars actively defy publicity and shy away from public identification of their community with global Islam. This is understandable when considering that Turkish Tatars find many of the customs attributed to Islam, such as Islamic headscarfs, as alien to them as any other Finn might do. In short, Turkish Tatars are, irrespective of their identification as Muslims, to a large extent ‘finnicised’. Moreover, in public they tend to emphasise their ethnicity more than religion, and to practice Islam in private. Undoubtedly, the Tatars, therefore, fit very well into the secular ideal of a public and private divide where religion, and culture in general, is restricted to the private sphere and the public sphere is left ‘neutral’ in this respect. Moreover, they fit well into the universal ideal of religious freedom as an individual right. The situation is somewhat different in Ireland, where the foundation of the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland has drastically altered the Muslim milieu. In addition to being a physical landmark of Muslim presence in Ireland, it is, due to its hierarchical organisation structure, also well fitted to the role of a spokesperson for Muslims vis-à-vis the state and the wider society. In fact, during the recent decade, it has very visibly opted for this role and gained public credibility, as was mentioned above. However, irrespective of the public attention and acknowledgment, the Islamic Cultural Centre does not hold the representational role without contestation among Muslims in Ireland as a whole. To date, different Islamic communities have operated in different parts of Ireland rather independently, whereby the local Islamic communities in different cities of Ireland have not ‘taken any orders’ from Dublin. At present, however, the Islamic Cultural Centre is spreading its influence throughout Ireland and is also rendering financial support for some of the local Muslim communities. In time, this sort of help will, undoubtedly, strengthen the institutional bond between the centre and local communities and will weaken the independence of the latter. It is not the task of this study to evaluate whether this sort of development for more centralised Islam in Ireland is good or not; this is for the Muslims themselves to say.

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However, on a more general level one can detect a seed of unrest in the extension of the power vested in the Islamic Cultural Centre. Notwithstanding the important work it does for Islam in Ireland, the foundation of the Islamic Cultural Centre in the beginning of the 1990s, and the consequent reorganisation of the field of Muslim communities, has definitely set into motion processes which create friction and polarise the relations between Muslims. This polarisation, in turn, might gradually marginalise some groups from the mainstream Muslims in Ireland, who, as was noted in the beginning of this book, live in Ireland peacefully. Due to its proximity to Britain, and the radical elements operating there, the emergence of marginalised Muslims in Ireland would be worrying indeed. Coupled with unemployment and lack of language skills, these sorts of religiously marginalised Muslims could offer, with the help of a particular kind of leadership, the fertile breeding ground for religio-political radicalism, bridging Ireland with Britain. Regarding the threat of terrorism, the Muslim community in Ireland seems more vulnerable than that in Finland, the latter country being simply a bystander to the events taking place elsewhere in Europe. Further Cross-Readings: Substantive Equality and Negative Religious Freedom Finally, one can ask concerning this study’s concluding argument, which could be used as a conceptual lens for the further cross-reading of one case in the light of another. In short, one could encapsulate this argument in the observation that, a limited concept of formal equality, put forward in the international human rights instruments as well as national legislation, is not enough in a multicultural Europe but should be contrasted with that of substantive equality, which is based not upon similarity but upon difference (Bacik 2001: 30). What the substantive equality with respect to religious freedom would in practice amount to is of course hard to fathom. As was noted in Chapter Two, no European country has opted for a churchstate model where the rights of all religious communities would have been levelled out so that, irrespective of their historical and cultural links with the prevailing society, none of them would enjoy special privileges. Taking into consideration the historical development of the nation-state, neither will they do so in the foreseeable future.

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However, this sort of religious equality, which is practised in the United States, is not necessarily the point either. Perhaps, the closest formulation of substantive equality with respect to religion is encapsulated in the concept of negative religious freedom, which has been discussed throughout this book. It goes without saying that the policies informed by the understanding of negative religious freedom do not only guarantee the rights of irreligious people but can also enhance the apprehension concerning the experiences of different religious adherents. Moreover, negative religious freedom as a conceptual lens can sensitise one to recognise differences not only between but also within religious communities. It goes without saying that, with respect to Muslims in Europe, the negative religious freedom regarding inter- and intra-group relations is very much an untrodden field of inquiry. However, it is most likely that the search for the recognition of negative religious freedom in Europe will not arise among the dominant churches, nor among non-Christian minorities, such as Jews and Muslims. Most likely the key-role to play in this will be by the Christian minorities whose numbers, as a result of inward migration to western Europe, are expanding rapidly. Therefore, it is safe to say that, while secularisation might threaten the dominance of Christianity in Europe, the same cannot be said about the process of religious pluralisation. In the face of increasing numbers of Christian immigrants in Europe, it is hard to see that, in spite of the media feeding frenzy for religions such as Islam, a multicultural Europe would become less Christian. However, this is not to say that religious pluralisation would not threaten, in similar fashion to secularisation, the institutional forms of European Christianity. On the contrary, one might anticipate, in the long run, that the Christian diversity will balance the dominance of the traditional Christian Churches in European countries and introduce new forms of Christian belonging which are less institutional and less attached to set membership. Perhaps, ironically enough, Christianity in the end of the day will be a ‘voluntary club’ after all. Whatever the case may be, one could further anticipate in a globalising Europe that instead of campaigning for positive religious freedom, which is very much the hobby horse of the nation-states and dominant churches in Europe, the Christian minorities would start to express a concern for the recognition of negative religious freedom—and not only for

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themselves but also for religious minorities in general. Hence, in similar fashion to the dominant churches, which paved the way for positive religious freedom of the minorities, the Christian minorities might do the same in respect of negative religious freedom for the non-Christian minorities, such as Muslims. In consequence, the process of secularisation and the growth of religious pluralisation might, in the end, work towards a substantive equality of religions, marked by the recognition of mutual differences. Should this happen, the era of monocultural nation-state would give way to plural, global society, granting due expression to both history and minorities, to identity and equality. Only in this way, moreover, could a multicultural society avoid the pitfall of both ‘religion-blind’ multiculturalism and that of ‘religionisation’ of the minority concerns. In the end, religion would gain its due but clearly defined place in a multicultural Europe. In practice, this is of course easier said than done. With respect to Muslims in Europe, and in the ‘West’ in general, one of the main sore points regarding negative religious freedom at present, undoubtedly, concerns the implementation of Islamic law courts on a par with that of western legislation, particularly in matters concerning marriage, family and inheritance. As the recent debates on this issue in Canada readily indicate, the state has to decide whether it is willing to recognise the different needs of a Muslim people, who, irrespective of their identification with Islam, are, however, strongly divided in this matter for and against. In general, this debate rotates around issues concerning the interplay between the rights of an individual and those of a community, as well as the right of these social actors to difference and/or to equality. This debate also reveals the inherent drawback of negative religious freedom, which is the potential discrimination of those who are most vulnerable in a Muslim community, such as newly arrived immigrant women. In any event, negative religious freedom as a conceptual lens brings up issues which are very much at the cross-roads of inter- and intra-group relations. Moreover, the recognition of difference in negative religious freedom also accentuates, among other things, the question of gender. All in all, the positive religious freedom, aiming at formal equality, is much easier to deal with in terms of policies and legislation than the negative religious freedom, aiming at substantive equality. Regarding the subsequent complexities of religious freedom and multiculturalism, countries such as Finland and Ireland—and why not Europe in general—have a long way to go yet.

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Soysal, Yasemin Nuho