illumination THE UNDERGRADUATE JOURNAL OF HUMANITIES

a r t l i t e ra ture e s s a y s

FEATURING

Ritual ∙ Mary ChenMutaween ∙ Adam SitteBell Bottom Blues ∙ Claire Allen

ARTWORK BY

Stephanie HemshrotCourtney BooksCorey Losenegger

spring 2008

Corey Losenegger, Fauna Speciman Circa 2057, aluminum, steel

The body of work that I have created, and will continue to create, is one which uses

objects which allude to the human presence) in order to create loose narratives and tensions. These narratives do not aim to speak of human characteristics and conditions alone, but rather to allow the animals to carry their own narrative weight within the piece.

Ellen Siebers

The Fox and the Sleeperoil on canvas

Girl with Mountain Goatoil on canvas

4’ X 4.25’

Cover: Nudge, oil on canvas, 4’ X 3.25’

Corey Losenegger, Fauna Speciman Circa 2057, aluminum, steel

The body of work that I have created, and will continue to create, is one which uses

objects which allude to the human presence) in order to create loose narratives and tensions. These narratives do not aim to speak of human characteristics and conditions alone, but rather to allow the animals to carry their own narrative weight within the piece.

Ellen Siebers

The Fox and the Sleeperoil on canvas

Girl with Mountain Goatoil on canvas

4’ X 4.25’

Cover: Nudge, oil on canvas, 4’ X 3.25’

s p r i n g 2 0 0 8 t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s

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L I T E R A T U R E

memorial weekend - long lake, maine . matthew mahaney

E S S A Y

oh so pathet ic fal lacy . joe wong

mutaween: the acceptabil i ty of rel igious police and moral authori ty in is lamic law . adam si t te

CAMS . kevin peach

W I S C O N S I N I D E A

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ritual . mary chen

house of gi lgamesh . chris t ie taylor

solangia t r iptych . lei f mart inson

abst inence . mary chen

you go for a walk with yoursel f . georgia harden

bell bot tom blues . claire al len

f inding amelia earhart . kat ie sachs

pleasure, rhode is land . jamie utphall

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Stephanie KrubsackAllyson Hanz

Owen PickfordSandra KniselyRebecca Olson

Kyle SzarzynskiMaryJo Fitzgerald

Emily SmolarekSarah Ackerman, Stacy Randolph

Clarissa Zimmerman, Zahra Haider

Amelia Foster, Cara Dees, Sarah Horvath, Annie Kleinert,

Kate Neuens, Jack Garigliano, Adi Lev-ErCailley Hammel, Allison Mack, Caitlin Gath, Gregory Langen

Annie Kleinert, Johanna Lee,Kate Neuens

Sarah AckermanAdrienne Ahee

Stephanie Frederick

Drew EganVickie Eiden

Dear Readers,

This semester Illumination exhibited a few changes in order to promote a larger impact on campus. We expanded in a manner that allowed us to create a new position specifically driven towards collaboration with groups on campus to endorse the journal. We also have a newly updated art gallery in the Open Book Café with some fabulous art work from past and present journals. Additional future collaborations and events are yet to come! To increase student awareness of Illumination on campus, we feel that it is necessary to combine efforts with students campus wide.

It has been a privilege being a part of Illumination this past year. I have had the opportunity to work with an amazing group of individuals! Many talented students are showcased in this sixth issue of Illumination.I look back at the previous semester and feel we have come a long way, and am confident that Illumination will be successful for years to come! Illumination has grown from a significantly sized staff populous into a community of team players and friends. Everyone associated with Illumination deserves recognition for outstanding commitment to and support of the journal. Thank you to everyone for your dedication to such a worthy cause!

Yours,

Stephanie Krubsack

il . lu . mi . nate To enlighten intellectually; to make illustrious or resplendent.

Editor-in-Chief Art EditorEssays EditorProse EditorPoetry Editor Wisconsin Idea Editor Layout EditorHead CopyeditorLayout Assistants

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sponsorsEvjUE FoUnDAtIon

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Illumination would like to thank the following people:John Barnhardt, Lisa Bintrim, Adam Blackbourn, Paula Bonner, Jennifer Christel, Jane Harris Cramer, Mary Czynszak-Lyne, Niki Denison, Susan Dibbell, Vickie Eiden, Drew Egan, Eliot Finkelstein, Brian Fitzgerald, Ken Frazier, Al Friedman, Tom Garver, Ed van Gemert, Peter Gorman, Andrew Gough, Michael Hammerling, Wayne Hayes, Dan Joe, Don Johnson, Kelli Keclik, Marc Kennedy, Jenny Klaila, Chris Kleinhenz, Lee Konrad, Susan and Jack Krubsack, Carrie Kruse, Ron Kuka, Jean Looze, Annette Lueck-Fitzgerald, Dave Luke, Amy Manecke, Tom Murray, Casey Nagy, David Null, Pamela O’Donnell, Lis Owens, Bill Reeder, Robin Schmoldt, Mike Simpson, Jeff Shokler, Abbie Steiner, John D. Wiley.

mission

letter from the editor

A Very Special Thank You to the Wisconsin Alumni Association and the Friends of the Library

for Providing Awards for Art, Literature, and Essays.

board of AdvisorsEmily Auerbach, Rick Brooks, Robert Booth

Fowler, Ken Frazier, Al Friedman, Jim Jacobson, Jenny Klaila, Quitman Phillips, Mary Rouse, Kathi Sell, Ron Wallace, Susanne Wofford

special thanks

The mission of Illumination is to provide the undergraduate student body of the University of Wisconsin-Madison a chance to publish work in the fields of the humanities and to display some of the school’s best talent. As an approachable portal for creative writing, art, and scholarly essays, the diverse content in the journal will be a valuable addition to the intellectual community of the University and all the people it affects.

We would like to thank Annika Sargent for her past graphic design contributions as a staff member of Illumination.

il . lu . mi . nate To enlighten intellectually; to make illustrious or resplendent.

3 2 . 3 32 81 2 . 3 73 13 4 . 3 574 . 2 1 . 2 4 2 74 51 43 0 . 4 151 7c o v e r . 2 6 . 4 33 89

a r t i s t i n d e xlibbie al len

davyd betchkal

courtney books

michelle bridwell

mary coats

samantha gray

stephanie hemshrot

ki t ty huffman

jake naughton

meg neuvil le

nicole o’connor

keel ie r i t ter

For more information and to submit work visit our website at http://illumination.library.wisc.edu.

ellen s iebers

adam si t te

amber solow

corey losenegger

We walk along the lake, talking about the plastic bagged goldfish we won at county fairs and how they never survived the bike ride home. You mention your first cat, a skittish bundle of matted orange fur. Mango. Older, it slept more, ate less, started coughing like your dad, both finally falling silent three years ago this winter. I should have kissed you last night and we both know it. But we know enough not to talk about it, remembering snow cones and fifty cent funnel cake with powdered sugar and strawberries until finally we stop talking, sit down at the edge of an empty dock, and watch the first speedboats of summer unzip the thawing lake.

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m e m o r i a l w e e k e n d —L o n g L a k e , M a i n e

M a t t h e w M a h a n e y

Stephanie Hemshrot, Meet Me When the Bell Rings, photograph

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L i t e r a t u r e

Spring crawls through the landscape, naked and bleeding greenall over the thaw and runs like a wet mash of sewage,down the gutters and froths under our feet. I bathe, call my motheronce a week whether I need it or not, but I’d really rather not,

as days growlonger, taller, stand more upright. As spring brings blinding darts of light, the earth spinning, nauseous and bursting with loud birth, its tendrils writhing out, playing innocent of what comes after the fall, squeezing shootsthrough every crevice available

and after birth comes afterbirth of birds and rats and hungry cats; spring snickersas they fall in bear traps that it plants:thick mud sucking down, the knotted hands of nature breaking necks across its lap only to restore again. I chew on the corner of my quilt and squint at grating scenes of jaundiced squirrelsleaping from the frailest limbs and clutching not to fall into the living stream below.

I bathe and the water sinks wrinkles in my skin,write a poem once a week whether I need it or not, helpless,

the green crash of rot.

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o h s o p a t h e t i c f a l l a c yJ o e W o n g

Nicole O’Connor, City Map 2, etching

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Before ceremony, the witch doctor, dressed in robesspeckled all over with dish-huge eyes trimmedwith tired floral rims, takes the woman’s illness

into her hands and fondles the undying, wind-blasted weightof female sorrow: rolling it about, petting it like an old troll,

laughs, exposes seven hollow teeth. This old trollis five thousand years old, she laughs, this old troll

has been growing inside you. You’ve been struck by spiritsand now you are heavy with madness like a pubescent girl.

You are sticky with it. Don’t tell me what you’re in love with.Whatever it is, you’ve been so beautifully foolish, you are almost divine.

Seven earthen pots stand full to the brim. Millet. Calabash.Kilos of sugar. Cola nuts. Sprinklings of hot milk and one

reed mat weaved with the music of live animals: One bony ramand a flaming cockerel filled with clairvoyant guts

under the vigil of emphatic desert trees. The patient is thinking.As she is thinking, her form changes, and she grows on ideas

with the lengthening shadows, less human. The healer womenare alarmed. But they do not show this. They wipe the patient’stears with seven meters of white cloth. Five drummers and five

dark women in the circle. Then the facile, wooly ram’s breathwhistling along the procession of blood, after sacrifice.

Throat singing, low sounds, soul-making warp of the wind.The dripping knife is wiped across the patient’s forehead,

the back of her vase-like neck. Then the all-encompassingbloodbath. The ram’s hot blood marries her many-lipped skin.

The feeling of being touched by birth oils. Dancedescends on the whole village. Every shadow quivers.

As the wet skin dries, drums quicken, ensnared in somethingmerciless—the unrelenting torque of the earth

hurries the rising and falling scales of tireless feet.The depressed foreigner thinks it is romantic at best.

But then they are pulling and pulling at something in her mouth,an invisible chord, thought up. Attached to it, images

better than nature. Sounds, better than nature. This choreographyof Olympian hope. The noise is strident. All clapping. All stamping.

The alone one mixed with dried blood, an enormous scab, being kneaded by the five women, who even the clots forming

in the ram and cock’s blood. The human heartis not shaped like the previously imagined

fruit of strings and chambers. It is shaped like a fishlaterally skewered by two opaque eyes

and a mouth that flaps with each small offering of blood. They lack words for blood, this liquid which,

at different times, in different lights, is a different thing. Drinkwhich tastes like skin and what lies beneath the skin. Woman’s blood

alive and dead in a cycle of pregnancy and gluttonous emptiness.All five drummers pedal the same beats over and over.

They pull at the throat of her heart, which has no teeth. That is wherethe bad spirit is, the witch declares, jangling the bags on her hips.

Then the woman is made to dance. She flips inside out. There aremany hooks in there. The heart is baited by these sweetened hooks.

M a r y C h e n

r i t u a l

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At the butterfly garden, vines and waterfalls, verdantA wet heat that sinks through our winter coats

Like grief. The docents guide us along maze paths,Past blue wings and gold, owls’ eyes flashing

On the frailest of dry leaves. No touching,They say. Two monarchs dance among the lilies

Coy as windblown candle flames. She’ll neverLay the eggs, we’re told, no milkweed awaits them.

She’ll soak them back into her womb like sugar,And eventually die lovely, float on her back

In the pool like a crumpled orange petal. NoCaterpillars will chew apart this perfect green fog.

At the exit, we check in a mirror for strays. ShrugRainbows of gauze, feathery legs from our shoulders and spines.

Outside, snow melts steaming on the windowpanes,Each flake flailing against the glass like a lacewing.

h o u s e o f g i l g a m e s h

Samantha Gray, Darfur Landscape II, oil on canvas

C h r i s t i e Ta y l o r

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I. Shepherding

Solangia, I give you no honorific. I touchyour ribs, there is no light, there are at leastdifferent kinds of dark. I like your ribs becauseI could break them. I like your body because it might not be real, but it is. You get mail, you eat huge portions carrots and cabbage, just like ifyou were real, and when you drink wine with meyour hinterlands are rife with colonization but you don’t mind. You lie in the grass all day,that’s all. I’m kidding about giving you nothing,here, you are a shepherd. I’m giving. I’m fine. I’ve come out to spend a day with you and the sheep, can you believe it? We can throw rocks at lions, and scan the horizon. We canpull the lambs out of crevasses, of course. Here,back when we were under all the sheepskinsby the fire, there were at least eleven differentkinds of dark. One between each little rib.

II. Solangia de Suburbia.

Solangia, I’ll ask your ribs to stop heaving up and down, so I can draw straight while you sleep,

drawing the lines on your back, in a diagram,of all the connection I keep failing to make

when I’m done and exhausted, I admireyour exaggerated saintliness, I make tiny

blasphemies, to clean off, tie my own shoelaces together, mumble, and run, impoliteness in the candy store, etc.

I always want to tell you how crooked and mean I am,I try to rub it all over you instead, so broad shouldered,

steady hands holding your mug, and the bittersweetchocolate in your infuriating scones. I go banging

around the pantry, the coriander, the nutmeg,fall cover me in a thick cloying brown. I can’t

draw the lines between the long grass and the short. I can’t make the connection between

the original garden and the now, sometimes you wrap your accent around me like skin, and it’s ok. Then I can almost imagine

your legs the way they were as a shepherd, chasing away the wolves, and when you make

that shuddering ululation, the sheep still come home and the sheep still come home.

III. Gardening

Solangia, for you my garden and everythingI know, gutstrings and simple roots arerunning into your chest, thump, thump.They are blind, they never learn,I am proud of this, that you are not whizzingor humming, or ratcheting, you go thump thumplike a tank of stupid hamsters. you believe inthings, though they flutter away like the windvein, or the gin, during the last tornado. Therain ran into the house, thump, the water had risen and there may as well have been sharks nosing at the picture windows, as we sat underthe dining room table, with a sack of iceand the roof wanted to lift up and flap itself and the radishes took off from the garden like a flight of sparrows. And we made love under the table, thump thump,we were the world clanging together.

s o l a n g i a t r i p t y c hL e i f M a r t i n s o n

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around the pantry, the coriander, the nutmeg,fall cover me in a thick cloying brown. I can’t

draw the lines between the long grass and the short. I can’t make the connection between

the original garden and the now, sometimes you wrap your accent around me like skin, and it’s ok. Then I can almost imagine

your legs the way they were as a shepherd, chasing away the wolves, and when you make

that shuddering ululation, the sheep still come home and the sheep still come home.

III. Gardening

Solangia, for you my garden and everythingI know, gutstrings and simple roots arerunning into your chest, thump, thump.They are blind, they never learn,I am proud of this, that you are not whizzingor humming, or ratcheting, you go thump thumplike a tank of stupid hamsters. you believe inthings, though they flutter away like the windvein, or the gin, during the last tornado. Therain ran into the house, thump, the water had risen and there may as well have been sharks nosing at the picture windows, as we sat underthe dining room table, with a sack of iceand the roof wanted to lift up and flap itself and the radishes took off from the garden like a flight of sparrows. And we made love under the table, thump thump,we were the world clanging together.

Amber Solow, Mother, photograph

V

When my mother tried to teach me about love, she reached into her breast pocket and pulled out family, a dull stone the shape of a perfect sphere. In my eyes she was foreign, her hair black like no other black, eyes like dark currants plucked from far orchards. I was still animal. My life half sucked to the red tail umbilical, which scattered into wild rice, then transformed into a dress made of dough on which she scratched messages. She would massage my small hard back. I felt words I’d never understand. She said she was pinching muscles, the same word for ‘chicken’ in mandarin and I learned the secret beauty of plain farm hens. But what my mother taught me stayed in the ground, sprouted a little grass, while I looked elsewhere, listening for western laws, western physics. While sleeping, I swallowed the whole stone which rolled like medicine and filled my throat. I still don’t know what the words mean that were kneaded into my back. What the stone weighs. Only the liminal texture of calcified pores, the raised hill where it pushes against my abdomen. I assumed that the ocean floor was a chambered landscape and that the purpose of my life was to dive arms first, in the shape of shut wings, and rummage through every constellation of coral and rock for that pearl made of earth, the stone nursed by eons of natural tears, battered by chance, the right bones, right friction, right taste and current, perfectly round like a planet. there may be a handful of them down there, so smooth they can’t be held, so smooth I never found them. Then in high school I had my own accident. The unthinkable turned out to be only mildly interesting and my own skin, a simple shell I could molt without noticing. Sex was an arbitrary bird which roosted in night’s crevices, sometimes in the overlooked elbow of a school building’s stairwell. Passion and fear were the same species, sadness an inclusive kingdom. Out of my mother’s mouth branched ancient scrolls and recipes. I swallowed her cooking, heard only the baritone low of a ship’s horn leaving port.

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IIt’s always the same situation. You raise your eyes to the speeding clouds enjoy the sting of chill air in your nostrils squint in the hard light and smile and turn to yourself to point out the smell of wild grapes somewhere nearby and suddenly realize you are not by your sideBut have run ahead to where the path flirts with the lip of a cliff. Immune to the sky and the wild grapes you teeter on the loose pebbles about to drop yourself off the edge.You sprint forward shouting and just as you pitch forward into air you grab the cuff of your pant-leg and then your arm and drag yourself backwards onto the solid sandy ground.You shake yourself by the shoulders and shout and touch your face and cry and say it’s all right it’s all rightIt’ll be all right.

IIYou, trying, holding your hand this timeLeading yourself along a narrow grassy track,Talking quietly and reassuringly about how warm the sun feels and what to make for dinner tonight and look there’s a robin and you follow along meekly enough at first, nodding and saying yes I saw it, and I could cook up those red potatoes and the toes of your sneakers sink into spongy moss and come out wet and you say be careful stay on the path or you could sink right in. The sun cooks bubbles to the sticky surface of the swamp and flies vibrate the still air. You are still holding hands but you start walking faster and then faster until you are not following but leading and then dragging yourself and you pant and trip and almost fall and say hey what’s the matter, slow down you’re going to get us lost slow down it’s okay slow down but you don’t slow down and your grip tightens on yourself and now you’re stumbling sloshing through standing water and patches of mud and you lose a shoe to the mud and you’re crying now, you’re both crying and the path is nowhere to be seen and the mud is reaching your knees.

y o u g o f o r a w a l k w i t h y o u r s e l f

IIIMaybe you should try staying closer to homeJust a quick jaunt down the street to the package storeAnd back, it’s familiar, easy, safe. Get a breath of fresh air, pick up some laundry detergent and maybe a bottle of coke. The wind skids some litter across the sidewalk and makes strange shapes out of your hair and you say it’s nice to get out of the house and you nod and say yeah I knowA railroad track slices through the street and you hop up on one rail and then the other balancing a moment on eachYou laugh and look back at yourself, starting to lag, and call hurry up! You turn and walk ahead and when you look back again a moment later you see yourself lying down on the tracks eyes closed, arms crossed over your chest, knees bent a little over the bump of the rail, wind moving your hair and flapping at your jacket.

IVIsn’t this nice, isn’t this relaxing you say letting the oars rest still a moment and looking at yourself propped in the stern of the boat back curved against the gunwale head tipped back. You hungry you ask and fumble behind you for the blue and white cooler that has the peaches and iced tea and sandwiches in it, and where is it anyway? You pull the oars into the boat and swivel around on the bench and paw through a heap of towels and life jackets and oh sure there it is right at the bottom. Here you go, I made yours without mayo, I know you hate it, and you turn around with the cooler just in time to see yourself straddle to gunwale look around mournfully at the diamond sun pattern on the water at you with your mouth open holding the cooler, and disappear over the side with a limp splash and an explosion of tiny bubbles and you know you never learned to swim.

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Courtney Books, Untitled, oil on canvas

V

He’s got his guitar face on when I get home from work. It’s kind of scary the first time you see it, a trance induced by acoustic strings, his facial muscles limp and his eyes barely visible under half-moon lids. The pupils, if you catch them, are absolutely fixated on a floor tile or a discarded toy, and I imagine his gaze boring a hole into the ground. I think he channels all his energy into his ears

and his fingers and lets everything else go slack. Sometimes his jaw hangs open a little, too, like he’s fresh from the dentist and can’t feel the drip-drip of spittle escaping from Novocain lips. When he picks up a guitar, he’s in that trance as soon as his fingers hit the fret. I love him so much, I’m usually there with a washcloth, dabbing up that spittle drip, while he just keeps playing.

Today I don’t have a clean washcloth so I just stand in the doorway to the screen porch and watch him. It’s a beautiful evening, humid, and behind him the air is thick with color from the setting sun. He’s got a slow, melodic “Blackbird” going, playing that song like a caress, and I close my eyes and pretend to feel it on my left cheek, where the breeze hits.

“Beatles,” I say. We have a game.He doesn’t look up. “Song,” he mumbles, under his breath. He has a theory that I only

know artists and not actual songs or compilations. I am in the midst of dispelling this theory and spend many late nights perusing his records, memorizing titles and tracks. Our game is slightly misleading; it is less play and more scrutiny. I wish to be so good at it that he breaks out of that face when I first reach the screen porch, ready to absorb his music, before he thinks to conduct a trial.

“Blackbird,” I say.He raises his eyebrows slightly, so briefly that it could be a twitch, in appreciation. Then

he raises them again, longer, to indicate that I should keep going.“It’s on—” I stop, sifting through the covers in my mind: there they are, the infamous four,

crossing the street; there they are in a collage of sketched faces and photographic images…no, not Rubber Soul…and then the pure blank space comes to mind. “The White Album.”

“Disk?”I pause.“Track number?” he says softly, in a breath. “Composer?”

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“I’m still in the doorway and he’s on the porch swing, and the space between us is the length of his Martin and full with a silent, dissonant music.”

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The corners of his lips curl up on this one, coming out of the trance a little now, although he has yet to make eye contact with me.

“Lennon. And Paul McCartney.” I say it quietly, because for me it’s a bit of a shot in the dark. A good shot, too, because he abruptly looks up and breaks into a smile. His left hand lingers on the fret, pausing in split-second time, and in my mind he throws the guitar down and stands up to kiss me. The moment passes and his right fingers

turn the pick over once before returning it to the strings. His eyelids relax slowly, almost wilting, and his pupils lock in with a floor tile near my feet. I’m still in the doorway and he’s on the porch swing, and the space between us is the length of his Martin and full with a silent, dissonant music.

* * *Most guitar days aren’t like that. I get the

song wrong and he keeps playing, quietly dis-appointed with an unchanging expression. I continue watching anyway. Sometimes I just burn, thinking he’ll drop that instrument to the floor and put that rare smile to my lips, whether or not I know his song. I imagine

he’ll stop in the middle of plucking at Friend of the Devil, forget that I said Stones instead of Dead, remember it’s just a game when I don’t call out “American Beauty” rather than keep that slack-jawed silence. Most days, it’s the guitar face and that slack jaw, and little else.

Now it’s another afternoon, humid but dark, the sky swathed in an overcast gray. I have my washcloth but I’m just watching, from my usual perch in the doorway. My hip presses into the wall there, and it is hard and

unforgiving to the bone. He’s trying to get out Tears in Heaven, an old favorite. He loves that song, and he rocks slightly with it, moving his body in and out with the words. The sound of his voice is so soft it’s at a low hum. His fingers move nimbly on the fret, pushing in all the right places and that guitar just sings.

“Clapton,” I say.

He doesn’t look up or flinch. The curves of the guitar settle

in with his legs and his arms and his chest, nestled there, like an extension of his body.

“On ‘Unplugged,’ or at least, that’s where I have it,” I say. It elicits nothing.

I shift my weight to the other foot, as the doorframe is unyielding to my hip, fighting it. I look jealously at that fluid instrument, and I yearn to be held like that. I wish he’d play me sometimes, soft and low, concentrat-ing so hard on me his jaw goes slack and his eyes roll back. We could even play a game: what’s my name, where do you keep me, what album am I on. And I would say, simply, his.

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VJake NaughtonThe Early Yearsphotograph

Ernie’s skin is an expansive thin magnet sucking my eyeballs out of their sockets. Legs flawlessly erect, torso prostrate over the piano, arms hanging downward like fishing poles: he is casting out spider webs of finger that massage the keys at his waist like a lover. His body forms a perfect rectangle until he sits down on the cracked wooden bench. Thumbs continuing to kneed, he digs an occasional elbow in into the ivory.

The rubbing gets harder, faster, hotter. The emotion he infuses feels even more intense and I try to imagine my body melding into the instrument, each one of my vertebrae transform-ing into a different pitch. Each note hits me sweet, sweaty, deeply. He plays me into a tough, chewy melody, grinding and smoothing my bones like a pumice stone. He licks up from the low C of my tailbone, to the high B of my lower back, and then runs back down again. He is working out my knots as he is working an arpeggio. His is a bittersweet blues, that rolls and crashes like waves drowning in the ocean. Like Amelia must have done when her little plane remembered gravity. Her body getting tossed like spit into a bucket, but all the while reciting what she had told me all these years ago:

“We are all part of a giant puzzle, my little Miles. Up until now, I’ve only seen fragments. I want to see the entire picture as a whole, as one. They tell me my name is Amelia Mary Earhart, but that’s not quite right. I’m trying to re-arrange things. I’m trying to swap this ‘E’ and find my ‘I’”

Amelia Mary. How closely we held on to you. On most nights in the nursing home where Ernie and I live, we are not allowed to play

music. But today, ahh today is different. Today is Saturday. It is cleaning day, which means that the nursing home is at its most sterile and smells like a combination of disinfectant and urine. It is the day that the bathrooms are slippery and the halls are cleaner than liars. It is the day my room admits to me that it has always been ashamed of my natural body, but was too afraid to mention it the rest of the week. However, it is the day that the administrators allow us to stay up until nine o’clock instead of eight o’clock. They also permit us to use the piano between the hours of five and eight p.m. The piano, of course, has also been sanitized.

In fifteen minutes, when Ernie will be forced to stop playing, he will go back to his room and I will go back to mine. An hour later, after the nurses make their rounds, and after all the other residents have fallen asleep, he will sneak over to my bed, where I will be lying naked and waiting for him. He will peel back the starch white sheets and slip under the covers next

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“After she disappeared, I became even angrier at her. For years and years I felt betrayed, until I realized that without her disappearance, I would have never found Ernie.”

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to me. He will sigh into my back hair like he is blowing down a house made of straw. He will grab the loose flesh of my stomach. We will close our eyes tight and breathe together and start to fit together in the only way that is possible for two men to assemble. Once we have gotten comfortable, I will tell him the stories from Atchison, Kansas, the town where we grew up together. I will remind him of our youth, of our parents, of our love and, of course, of Amelia.

The story I always start with is called, “The Tale of the Day We Waited Eight Hours on Amelia’s Lawn.” I do this because it is the most important story I know. I was eight and Ernie was ten. I know that is exactly how old we were, because it happened the same year that she died. Anyway, we were waiting for her to get back from one of her flights. We were waiting on her front lawn with the two lions and the wrap-around porch—sucking on ice cubes and drinking my mother’s sour lemonade. Ernie kept asking if we could go wait in the shade, but I refused to risk for-feiting the honor of being the first one into Amelia’s arms. I made us wait until our eyes went blurry from the sun. Until our fingers got wrinkled from the sweat on our glasses, and our lips shrunk to fishes from the acid in the juice. We waited and waited, until the sun’s yellow presence had faded to a tired blue glow.

I fell asleep on Ernie’s lap, but when he spotted her I could tell because his body jerk-ed like it had been stung by a bee. I woke up and there she was, smiling at us from across the street—her big aviator goggles dangling across her neck like a string of pearls. I re-member Ernie and me scrambling over each other, fighting to be the first one to make contact with her body. We ran as recklessly as thieves across the grass, and instead of hugging her in turns we knocked her down with our combined force. We laughed like we were screaming, all three of us. The sweat of our bodies melted into a glue that stuck us together in a messy blob of limbs and heads and faces. Her weight crushed my lungs in a beautiful kind of pain. We were wound up together so tight my mother had to get my father to help peel us all apart.

Ernie says he likes this story because it reminds him of what Kansas felt like when we were kids in the summertime, but his fa-

vorite is from the month we spent looking for her. Amelia was loved by all of the chil-dren in the neighborhood, not just Ernie and me. Ten years after she went missing, we all joined forces to look for her ourselves. We had decided that the government wasn’t do-ing a thorough enough job. We were sure that we could find her, so we pooled all our money together and set sail for the How-land Islands—the place where she was said to have vanished. When we arrived, we drew up a map and split into pairs. Ernie and I were a pair. This story is of the day I fell in love with him. It is also of the day we lost all hope of ever finding Aimee.

Initially, Ernie and I had decided to split up so that we could cover more ground. I was looking everywhere with binoculars—up trees and around rocks—until I walked head first into a pack of natives. It was the first time we had seen human life other than the members of our party. I remember how they looked like aliens to me with their long limbs, dark skin, and slanted eyes. It was the first time I had ever left Kansas. I remember how startled, afraid and excited I was. It took me a whole twenty minutes of monologue before I finally figured out that they couldn’t speak any English. After this realization, I began frantically trying to communicate with them, acting out a propeller, making large circles with my arms, and then including more and more grandiose parts of my body. They just watched with stone faces. They must have thought I was crazy, but I kept on going. I spun and spun until I collapsed in tears of frustration and exhaustion on the sand.

Ernie says he had been watching all this, and when he saw me fall, nobody could have stopped him from running to me. Only he was naked. He had just gone for a swim. I remember how startling the realness of his body was. I had never seen a naked man’s body so close-up before, other than my own. He knelt down next to me and cradled me in his arms like a baby. I sobbed in heavy gasps that came out as hiccups. I was amazed at how a man could hold me so well. Somehow, he knew to keep quiet as I moaned into his flesh. He sat with me for a long time until I finally became quiet. After I was finally calm, he helped me up and we walked along the beach together. He held my hand and I watched his body move. Though we had the same parts,

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I remember finding his to be so much more impressive. His legs more sturdy, his torso more sculpted. His buttocks were smoother, tighter, and higher up. His balls swayed ex-haustedly between his legs, and mine were somehow less full. He caught me staring and I quickly looked away, and that was when he grabbed me. He loved me until it hurt, like a baby sore from too many kisses.

Now, in the recreation hall, Ernie’s song ends, and the nurses help him get up from the piano bench. Soon, we will be put to bed. Soon, I will watch his chest rise and fall in the cot. I will touch his skin, now punctu-ated by the periods formed from a lifetime

spent in the sun. Soon, I will pinch the cot-ton white hair that grows in circles all over his chest. He will hug me to his stomach, his flesh loose and moldable in my hands. I will place it between my teeth, and nibble at the deliciousness that seems to cover his entire body. Soon, we make an old-man-sandwich.

As I wait for the nurse to bring me my evening medication, I remember the day when I was a child and asked Amelia Mary why she flew. She explained to me how all of the people, passions and places in the world fit together in a kind of giant puzzle. Then she told me that Ernie and I were like her

edge piece, and that we fit there because we were always reliable and grounding. She meant it as a compliment but I remember not taking it as one. To me, it just sounded boring. I wanted to be like her: oblique, jag-ged and tumor shaped. An elusive nucleus in the cytoplasm of the jigsaw. The greatest unsolved mystery of the twentieth century. After she disappeared, I became even angrier at her. For years and years I felt betrayed, un-til I realized that without her disappearance, I would have never found Ernie. I realized that on those trips, in her little plane, she must have found the “I” that she was missing. The “I” she so required. The “I” that was es-

sential to her, and that by her finding a way to complete herself, I, in turn, was able to find a way to complete myself. On that night in the Howland Islands, I finally understood how we all find our own little ways to survive. We do it with letters or with fluids. By exposing holes or plugging them up. Amelia and Miles and Ernie. Together we are able to spell her and make each other feel whole.

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A thin strip of light emerged from a cracked door. Traveling across the hallway carpet, the narrow shadow angled before peaking at the top of a dark staircase. From the bottom step only the weaving of a high and a low timbre was distin-guishable, steady and rhythmic in exchange before erupting into a climactic col-lage of sound. The stairs creaked, and the sliver of light became invisible as the

hallway flooded with light.“George, I believe it’s time for you to get going. Marionette has dance instruction in the

morning!” Whipping open the bedroom door, a doll-like woman discovered the two sitting cross-legged on an unruffled bed. Whooping in laughter, the teenagers were completely unaware of her intrusion.

“Why, of course, Mrs. Fox. Wouldn’t want to wear out my welcome!” The lean boy with patchy sideburns gathered his books, sneaking a wink to the harsh, petite woman as he slipped out the door. Mrs. Fox, hip cocked baring a bejeweled midriff, squinted at her daughter.

“What exactly were you two up to tonight?” Mrs. Fox’s lined eyes widened, her plump lips pursed in hopeful anticipation. “Some studying leading to a little extra fun, perhaps?”

“George and I? No, Mama, nothing extra tonight, I’m sorry. We were just talking about our professors, the news, even politics! Sometimes we argue and have to explain our different opinions, and I just always forget about everything else!” Marion’s eyes averted to the ceiling as she recalled their debate of business ethics, a warm tingle creeping down her torso.

“Keep it physical, Marionette. I don’t want things to get complicated. You don’t have much longer. You’re already behind from where I’d gotten with a boy by your age!” Mrs. Fox turned and left the room, the door’s creaking whine followed.

Morning came too early as the cement sky bleached itself of night turning a dull, discol-ored orange. Marion rose and stripped herself free from tangled bed sheets. Beginning her daily examination under the humming, sterile light, she tried to ignore a small, new bruise and three jagged toenails. Starting at her ankles, she slid her hands up her freckled legs, noting the smallest imperfections: tiny moles, a few inflamed follicles. Following the subtle curve of her hips, she guided her scan to the slight rise of her stomach and the concaves of her sides before reaching the bumpy ridges of her ribs. Raising both arms, she saw hints of thin, straggly hairs. Her head fell, eyes pinched in frustration. Perhaps her lips suggested

“Keep it physical, Marionette. I don’t want things to get

complicated. You don’t have much longer.

You’re already behind from where I’d gotten

with a boy by your age!”

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a deeper crimson? Her cheeks an artificial, infant pink? Disappointed by the absence of even the slightest interception of divine re-finement, she dressed quickly, securing the orange sash of her uniform around her waist. A single hollow tock rapped on her bedroom door.

“Marionette! You won’t believe it! I’ve stopped blinking! My eyes just--well, they don’t need to anymore!” A delicate blond wearing an identical orange sash burst into the room. With a complexion as placid as a secret pond, her slender body was held as if it were dangling by a string descended from the heavens. Her cool eyes were fixed on the unoccupied space of air in front of her.

“Fay! That’s wonderful! Only a matter of time until you make consortium! You’ll be the first in our class!” Marion beamed; Fay Katz had been her best friend ever since she could remember. They had always lived in the same apartment complex, as both their mothers were sisters of the same consor-tium.

“It was definitely the night with Bobby. The next morning my pores started to re-duce, and I stopped sweating during dance instruction! Automatically! At first it was re-ally spooky, losing your body like that. But of course, I was careful enough to make sure I didn’t go a day without pleasing Bobby since; Ricky and Joe too, it’s all about hard work and determination. Then you develop! My eyes only close now when I’m perfectly hori-zontal. Isn’t that convenient?” Fay did not gesticulate as she recited these felicitations, but continued to stare blankly forward; her tone airy yet frantically punctuated. Marion realized she had been left behind compared with this superior creature that now stood next to her.

“But what about you and George? I al-ways see you two together! I bet soon you won’t have to eat! That’s the first sign!” Fay hung in the middle of the room still staring straight ahead, still speaking in something like a frenzied monotone. Marion cycloned around her throwing books and a leotard into a satchel, trying not to push as Fay slinked towards the door, her hips bobbing at the pace of a mule’s obedient trot.

***“Two weeks?” gulped a rounder girl look-

ing horrified. Tossing starched bangs out of

their faces like donkeys’ tales swatting at flies, the girls stood outside of the dance studio in a clump shaped like a fermata.

“First selection is traditionally the third month of your junior term, that’s in two weeks. The prospect scouts are right on time,” Fay cooed at the group’s center, her hands anchored on her supple, sashless hips.

Marion looked away, no wonder why her mother had been so severe lately, con-stantly pressuring her to spend more time with George or any boy that happened to walk past their complex. Just that morning, Marion had found endless hangnail, after ingrown hair, after wrinkle from where her cheeks creased when she laughed. Her pos-ture showed no sign of freezing, as her after-school trips to the café with George had not gone without consequence. Worry clenched her stomach as she turned away from the group, a sensation that was becoming famil-iar. She no more resembled a painted doll than a tawny house cat. If she wanted to be selected by a descent consortium, she would need to develop. She didn’t know what hap-pened to girls who didn’t. There simply weren’t girls who didn’t.

“I’m sure Marionette will be next,” brayed a tall girl with a shield of slick, boxy teeth. “George follows her around like a puppy.” Marion blushed, the tingle creeping lower.

*** With the stout librarian preoccupied

helping a professor at the other end of the desk, Marion followed George through the security gate’s archway. She couldn’t recall how they ended up there that afternoon; per-haps by chance as outside a heavy mist had sullied the slate sky. But now their pursuit seemed only natural as Marion felt a compel-ling desire to creep as far past the security gate as possible.

Descending a brawny staircase, the two slithered through the labyrinth of cinder-block corridors. Reaching a foyer and set of doors marked “RESTRICTED,” the two snuck deeper, the walls sweaty, and the aisles growing cramped. The air was heady with the foreign scent of a time forgotten or erased.

A single light bulb dangled in each aisle between shelves. Marion and George went from aisle to aisle spilling a swaying, gen-

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tle light onto the dusty spines. The room seemed endless, a pit of infinite shelves and crevices stuffed with encyclopedias and maps, binders and newspapers. Dog-eared pages stuck out from the congested shelves; books jut out unevenly in no apparent or-der or symmetry. George ran his fingertips along a row of spines letting dust collect on his hands, releasing it into the air like con-fetti. Marion sneezed. The lighting was poor, but she could see that not only dust was coating these treasures. Wrapping itself like hysterical ivy, an intricate film wove itself in delicate turns and loops across the covers like snakes gathering in knotted coils. Re-moving his fingertips, Marion saw George’s hands were coated with a residual powder, a fine and gummy mildew.

Together Marion and George removed a large, bound envelope from a file cabinet’s top drawer. Unraveling the limp elastic, George began to undress the document folder, letting his fingers caress and linger across its frayed edges. The spine moaned, and the cover of the folder parted releasing dewy moisture as a sheath of images of young women in extravagant attire fluttered to the ground. Marion knelt down to examine them. Full page-length photographs of parts of wom-en’s bodies: a forehead, a stomach, a pair of lips; bottles and capsules of what looked like paint and serum. Some women were hold-ing strange tools up to their heads, their hair tousling behind them as if excited by wind. One woman pinched a miniature set of pli-ers to her eyebrow, while another wearing a towel like a turban ran a pink blade across her kneecap. It looked like hard effort, but it also looked like the strange tools and serums were responsible for their appearance. While these archaic images looked alien to Marion, peculiar legacies from a time she was inno-cent, they appeared to be sloppy versions of contemporary, divinely refined consortium women.

Marion knelt down to peel a single page off the dank, grainy floor. She could tell the image was once brightly colored, but the ink had distorted with time, leaving the page warped. The image depicted a beautiful, although imperfect, young woman with red hair spilling out in all directions as she lay upon a hill set against a speckled night sky. The words “When You Wish upon a Star…”

were etched in scrawling letters across the foreground. At the bottom of the scene, a cartoonish insect, she thought it was called, wearing a top hat was gesturing toward the speckles with a smile pulled taught across his green face. Marion stared transfixed.

“What is it?” George asked without look-ing up. He was fully invested in a map of something called “China” plastered on an adjacent wall.

“Oh nothing, just some old propaganda.” Carefully, Marion slipped the ancient Seven-teen into her satchel, maybe this is what her history books had meant by savior.

***“You’re leaving? Already? Males aren’t

supposed to make internship until their se-nior term!” Marion screeched using a tone of voice she hadn’t known she possessed. Several heads at nearby café tables swiveled. A few months had passed since they’d been caught in the archives.

“They say I’m above standard, and there’s a position available matching my qualifica-tions at Marlin & Sons in Boston. You’ll be leaving soon, too, Marion. I hear you have an interested prospect! It’s only a matter of time now that you’ve developed,” George of-fered coolly; he hadn’t ordered his usual ge-lato yet. With a mechanical grace, Marion tossed her hair, licked her lips, and sucked in her torso.

“Yes, George, you’re right. Congratu-lations on early advancement! Please take care.” Marion rose and glided out of the café balanced upon her seemingly flawless legs. Fighting the urge to blink, she let the static twilight swallow her whole.

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On March 11, 2002, one of the most controversial and consistently criticized organizations in Saudi Arabia was brought under heavy scrutiny by both the international community and Saudi denizens alike. According to Saudi newspapers, members of the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice (better known as the Mutaween) prevented 15 girls

from leaving a burning school. The girls were killed because of the fire. It was due to their uncovered heads that these religious policemen would not let them leave. One witness claimed he saw three policemen “beating young girls to prevent them from leaving the school because they were not wearing the abaya (black robe),” (BBC 2002) while another claimed that “the school watchman even refused to open the gates to let the girls out” (BBC 2002). In addition to preventing the girls from leaving the school building, the Mutaween officials allegedly “stopped men who tried to help the girls and warned ‘it is sinful to approach them’” (BBC 2002). Besides this well-known event, the Saudi Mutaween have been criticized for a variety of controversies, including the arrest of religious minorities.

In the summer of 2005, a man in custody supposedly leaked the names of multiple members of his Assembly of God Christian group to the police. The members of this group were subsequently arrested, and all religious materials, including their Bibles, were confiscated. Only public, non-Muslim religious displays are forbidden by law, yet the religious police are reported to occasionally enter private homes and disrupt worship. The U.S. State Department issued a statement saying, “Worshippers risk arrest, imprisonment, lashing, deportation and sometimes torture for engaging in religious activity that attracts official attention” (International Religious Freedom Report).

These examples of the public attention the Saudi Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice receives reflect quite negatively on the group, especially from the perspective of an American society with church and state separation. Not only do the Mutaween seemingly make religious freedom impossible, they also cause the physical harm and sometimes death of Saudi citizens for trivial purposes. However, the Mutaween’s role in Saudi society extends much further than what is normally represented, and serves an important role in the daily lives of Saudis. The Mutaween make sure people perform their daily religious rituals such as prayer and regulating the closing of shops during the Friday prayers. They

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“To ensure that the community of the

faithful enjoined the right and forbade

the wrong, morals enforcers known as Mutaween (literally,

“those who volunteer or obey”) have been

integral to the Wahabi movement since its

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also regulate the sale of consumer products, including CD’s, videos, and toys to ensure they are of a moral nature. In addition, they enforce dietary laws, including the prohibition of pork and alcohol.

The presence of a religious police or moral authority is a debatable concept even within the bounds of Islamic Law. After examining the history of the Mutaween and comparing their current practices against the traditional Islamic concept of Muhtashib, one finds that a moral authority can be equitably incorporated into a modern society. Yet, Mutaween fail to accomplish this reasonable goal.

History and Basic Principles

Wahabi HistoryThe case of the Saudi Mutaween cannot

be fully understood without a general understanding of its history in relation to the Saudi state and the tenants of Wahabiism.

The Ottoman Empire was the predominant force in Arabia from the early fourteenth century until the end of World War I. The Ottoman legal system was organized in such a way which allowed a great deal of local control, as long as this control did not conflict with the state. While it was officially an Islamic state, at many times Jews and Christians gained prominence in the central politics of the Empire. During this time, the religious scholar Mohammed Ibn Abd al-Wahab began to question many of the customs and rituals commonly found among Muslims of that time, most importantly prayer and worship to saints, trees, rock formations, and other holy objects. He studied the fiqh of ibn Hanbal and heavily disapproved of the legalistic hairsplitting of Islamic jurors, favoring a Muslim state that scourged itself of all alterations since the third century after the time of the Prophet (Schwarz 2002).

Ibn al-Wahab was driven into the desert for his preaching, and converted an Arabian tribe led by Ibn Saud to his teachings. After a series of military struggles, the Wahabis defined themselves as a powerful unit that managed to sack and loot many major cities of the Persian Gulf. The most significant of these cities was the Southern Iraqi town of Karbala, where the Shiite shrine of Hussein was located. The Wahabis legitimized their warfare with other Muslims by declaring

that those who did not adhere to the Wahabi doctrine of Islam, or more importantly those who worshipped shrines and saints, were not truly Muslim. Eventually the Wahabis managed to gain control of the Arabian Peninsula, including the Holy Cities of Medina and Mecca, and the strategic urban center of Riyadh. The newly defined state was labeled Saudi Arabia, after the member of the Saud family who founded it, but it could just as easily have been named Wahabi Arabia, as this was the ideology which the Saudis espoused (Schwarz 2002).

Once the Saudis controlled the Arabian Peninsula, they swiftly set about reforming the previously Ottoman society into a system of Islamic law in their own fashion, with the ideal of returning society to the way it ran during the time of Islam’s advent and the life of the Prophet. To ensure that the community of the faithful enjoined the right and forbade the wrong, morals enforcers known as Mutaween, “those who volunteer or obey,” were created and have been integral to the Wahabi movement since its inauguration. Mutaween have served as missionaries, as enforcers of public morals, and as public ministers of the religion who preach in the Friday mosque. Pursuing their duties in Jeddah in 1806, the Mutaween were observed to be constables for the timeliness of prayers with large staffs. These workers were ordered to shout, scold, and force people to take part in public prayers five times a day. In addition to enforcing male attendance at public prayer, the Mutaween have also been responsible for supervising the closing of shops at prayer time and looking out for infractions of public morality such as playing music, smoking, drinking alcohol, having hair that is too long or uncovered for women, and dressing immodestly (Wahabi Theology). It is these roots that the present day Mutaween authority comes from.

The Hisba While a group known as the Mutaween

was an innovation of ibn Wahab, the idea of a moral authority was not. The system of Hisba (literally, “verification”—the Muhtasib being one who verifies) has been an active part of Muslim society, albeit not explicitly defined by Qur’an or Hadith, since its onset. This system was originally a mechanism in which

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to ensure an economic environment that was free of deceit and followed good moral standards when dealing with people, and the one who oversaw this practice was known as the Muhtasib.

The first known “separate department of Hisba, with a full time Muhtasib assisted by qualified staff was introduced by Abbasid Caliph Abu Ja’far al- Mansur in 157 A.H.” (ibn-Taymiya 1982); however, some claim

that Caliph Umar began this practice within a decade of the Prophet’s death. It is also said the Prophet “would, so often, undertake inspections of markets to see that the merchants did not engage in improper behaviors. Wherever he would see someone indulging in an evil he would forbid him. In this regard, the prophet has been termed as the first Muhtasib in the Muslim history” (ibn-Taymiya 1982).

In any case, the aim of the Hisba authority was multi-faceted and included ordering the common people to perform the five prayers

at the proper times, punishing people who refused with flogging or imprisonment, and supervising the prayer-leaders and those who gave the call to prayer. They ensured the prayer leaders didn’t neglect the duties of their office and that the ones who gave the call to prayer didn’t veer from the prescribed form. In addition to overseeing these religious institutions, they could evoke the military, the magistrate, or anyone commanding obedience to aid them (ibn-Taymiya 1982). Along with ensuring fairness in the marketplace, the Hisba authority was also meant to guarantee obedience to the religion in general.

Commanding Good, Forbidding EvilThe way in which a traditional Islamic

political system runs is extremely detailed and beyond the scope of this paper. However, a small degree of understanding is helpful. The Law of God, as defined by the Qur’an and the example of the Prophet, is called the Shari’a and is the ultimate law applicable to all human beings; it is binding on all people. However, not all of the Law is completely clear or present in the Qur’an and Prophetic example. Therefore the jurors engage in a process known as ijtihad, or legal reasoning, to decide what the Law is. This is known as fiqh, or opinion, and is not considered binding, unlike Shari’a.

This realm of law encompasses the local control, much how a modern day libertarian government would possibly work. People get their legal questions answered by muftis of their choosing and come to agreements based on their own terms. However, the central government, unlike a libertarian society, is a strong entity as well. It most significantly deals with matters of the state, such as foreign diplomacy, infrastructure, military, taxes, schools, criminal punishment, etc. The ruler’s responsibility in this system is to provide for maslaha, or the public’s common good. It also ensures that Islam can be freely practiced throughout the state.

This concept of maslaha is important to clarify. Maslaha means to act with the public’s best interest, and it is up to a ruler to make sure the necessary action is taken if something threatens society’s interests. This is currently relative, for if Saudi society was in such a state that no one fulfilled their basic religious

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duties (such as prayer), the government may determine that it is for the public’s own good that they correct such behavior.

A common concept which supports this is, “All Islamic authorities have the sole aim of ordaining what is proper and forbidding the improper, whether it be the greater military authority like the Prime Ministry, the lesser such as the police and the magistracy, or the financial authority, and the Hisba authority” (ibn-Taymiya 1982). A ruler cannot command the improper or forbid the proper. This concept means he cannot command people to do what is directly against Shari’a, or forbid them to do what is directly commanded of them.

One can certainly believe this means it

is the government’s duty to outlaw all acts deemed improper by Islam and make people do anything deemed proper. Of course, this could also mean that all authorities must outlaw the bad and ordain the good for themselves only. This is one fundamental question which must be taken into consideration when asking whether or not a moral authority can enforce religious ritual and good morals on a populace.

Obligatory PrayerA look at prayer is necessary in examining

this issue, because it is the most visible example of a morally good act that is enforced by religious police. There are a plethora of morally good acts that may fall under the jurisdiction of such an entity, but an examination of prayer is sufficient to examine the issue.

All Muslims are commanded by God to observe five daily prayers, which is one of the pillars of the faith of Islam. To accept Islam, one must accept that they will perform these prayers daily. Unlike other parts of Islamic

law, which are defined through ijtihad, there are no discrepancies or matters of opinion when it comes to the five obligatory prayers.

Therefore, it is very likely that every Muslim performs these prayers. Of course humans are forgetful and one may forget, but once reminded, he or she should put up no resistance to pray. Prayer is an obligation to God and one’s own whims do not change that fact. The Qur’an warns:

“And who is more astrayThan one who follows his ownLusts, devoid of guidanceFrom God? For God guides notPeople given to wrong-doing” (28:50)

Implementation

Codifying the Good If prayer is defined in the Qur’an as a right

of God and an obligation of mankind, is there a Qur’anic means to make laws against people who are not praying? Can it be codified as a crime? An Islamic state is not obligated to force Muslims to pray, because at its bare minimum, it simply must allow Muslims to practice their religion. Ibn-Taymiya states, “The affairs of men in this world can be kept in order with justice and a certain connivance in sin, better than with pious tyranny. This is why it has been said that God upholds the just state even if it is unbelieving, but does not uphold the unjust state even if it is Muslim” (ibn-Taymiya 1982). A state is not illegitimate if it does not enforce piety, but it is not legitimate if it does not pursue justice. Laws on morality may not be an obligation of a state, thus the question becomes whether or not the government has any grounds in mandating at all.

As stated previously, not praying is

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denying God one of His rights. In fact, there is a category of crimes defined as crimes against the rights of God and made unlawful by Islamic states. These crimes are known as Hudud crimes. The Qur’an names several Hudud crimes, or crimes against God; some list a punishment, others do not. Extra-marital sex, apostasy, and drinking are among these crimes punishable by the state (Al-‘Awwa 1982). One could argue that purposely failing

to fulfill religious obligation is a blatant front to one’s belief in God and therefore an act of apostasy.

Including failure to fulfill religious obligation, as apostasy, is a dangerous business. There are many commandments and prohibitions made clear in the Qur’an, yet the Qur’an also accepts that man will sin. It states:

“Say: ‘If ye do love Allah, Follow me: Allah will love you and forgive you your sins: For Allah is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful’” (3:31).

Sinning does not make one an apostate. In addition, if acts of disobedience are acts of

apostasy, there is no reason to label and have separate punishments for crimes like adultery, drinking, stealing, murder, etc. They would all be grouped as crimes of apostasy.

One could interpret the definition to mean that only the refusal to practice the five main pillars of Islam makes one an apostate. If one fails to pay Zakat (alms), pray, fast for the month of Ramadan, go on Hadj (pilgrimage), or accept the Shahada (acceptance of God as

singular and Muhammad as his last prophet) after already doing so, they would be tried for apostasy. However, Hadj becomes troublesome because it is something that one must only perform once in their life, and we don’t know when people will die. Other than Hadj, the refusal to perform these duties could be considered to be Hudud.

Yet this conclusion isn’t clear in the Qur’an, which states:

“Anyone who, after accepting faith in Allah, utters Unbelief – except under compulsion, his heart remaining firm in faith- but such as open their breast to Unbelief, on them is the Wrath from Allah, and theirs will be a dreadful

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Penalty” (16:106).

This verse appears to say only the active, persistent denial of the religion of Islam constitutes apostasy. That is the complete denial of the Shahada after already once believing it, or openly and clearly stating that God does not exist and Muhammad is not a prophet. In addition to the Qur’an, the life of the Prophet does not clearly establish not praying as apostasy. The groups of people, who claimed to be Muslim yet may not have been true believers, were never actually labeled as apostates during the time of the Prophet. In addition, the Qur’an warns against failure to pray, but does not say it makes one an unbeliever.

It says of the failure to pray:

“So woe to the worshipers Who are neglectful Of their Prayers, Those who (want but) To be seen (of men), But refuse (to supply) (Even) neighbourly needs” (107:4-7).

It does not go so far as to say that not praying is apostasy. The failure to pray is then most likely not a crime against God. It could possibly be something which God will later hold these people accountable for, but there is no clear ruling that they must be punished on Earth for a Hudud crime.

Failure to pray cannot be a Qisas crime, which is a crime against people. When one doesn’t pray, their action has little or no direct impact on other people. Perhaps their example leads others to not pray, or perhaps they teach their children to not pray, but the level of speculation involved here is too much to seriously consider it to be actively harming other people (Bassiouni 1982).

This leaves the ruling authority to one other outlet, where failure to adhere to religious duty could be actively prosecuted and punishment issued. The leader may list it as a Ta’azir or discretionary crime, and retain the right to prosecute, despite the fact that it is not Qisas and may not be Hudud. Ta’azir crimes include anything not defined in the Qur’an, such as traffic violations. It is here in which the ruler can use maslaha, or common good, to legitimize such actions. However, Ta’azir is not a group of laws in which the ruler can issue any preferred punishment. A Ta’azir law must never prohibit one from

practicing their religion (Benmelha 1982). One must therefore look to see if forced religious ritual stops a person from practicing religion. There is an infamous verse in the Qur’an stating, “There is no compulsion in religion” – and this seems to say quite plainly that one can not force another to practice religion. Indeed, perhaps given a strictly literal Zahiri understanding of this text, it means just that. This verse has more contexts, however, and when one considers that Hudud crimes (some of which only affect the perpetrator) can be prosecuted, this verse most likely does not apply to Muslims. The actual verse proclaims:

“Let there be no compulsion in religion: Truth stands out clear from Error: whoever rejects evil and believes in Allah hath grasped the most trustworthy hand-hold, that never breaks. And Allah heareth and knoweth all things” (2:256).

Most scholars agree this is probably speaking of the conversion of non-Muslims to the religion of Islam. This act can and should not be forced.

For Muslims, it is a different story, as one has already seen from the types of crimes which are considered Hudud, and which are prosecutable. People can be prosecuted for not following a religious rule, and therefore there is no discrepancy between this certain verse and the act of making Muslims pray.

There are certainly good reasons for wanting all Muslims to pray. Ibn-Taymiya writes that God gave the Prophet “the most excellent system and laws, revealed to him the most excellent Book, dispatched him to the best community ever formed for men,… and made the Garden of Paradise accessible to none will He accept anything but the Submission (Islam) which he brought, so if anyone prefers another religion it will not be accepted of him and in the Life to Come he will be among the losers” (ibn-Taymiya 1982).

Of course, as verse 2:256 makes clear, non-Muslims cannot be forced to commit to Islam. However, the punishment for not believing in God and denying recognition of Him, such as refusing to pray, is immense. It is an act of compassion to attempt to get people to pray,

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either by explaining to them the wrong in not praying or by requiring they do pray to make it habitual. The Prophet is reported to have said, “If one of you sees something improper, let him change it with his hand; if he cannot, then with his tongue; if he cannot, then with his heart. That is the weakest of faith” (ibn-Taymiya 1982). Muslims are commanded to change the wrongs of society in whatever capacity they can. This could certainly mean that a ruler, who has the power to enact law, could write legislation making unambiguous religious ritual an obligation of Muslims. In addition, such codification would ensure Muslims act as role models to non-Muslims and portray the religion of Islam in a positive way.

Sheikh Nasser ibn Hamad al-Rasheed of Saudi Arabia inquired Riyadh Symposium in 1980, “Would it not be better to implement the Shari’a strictly in order to win God’s favor and eternal bliss in the Hereafter and thus to enjoy security and order as our forefathers did in the past?” He then makes the claim that by doing this, “the Prophet’s prophecy will come true in having a crime-free society and thus a traveler could ride thousands of miles without any fear apart from the fear of God, and the wolf who might attack his flock of sheep. This way of life of our forefathers is now being implemented in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.” Sheikh Nasser feels that it is incumbent on a Muslim society to enforce all rules of the Qur’an, and then a perfect society will arise from it.

Ibn-Taymiya makes a somewhat

contradictory claim when discussing the role of punishment in society, stating that “these punishments are designed to protect religious and worldly interests from the wrong of wrongdoers, whereas the punishment of those who wrong only themselves is left to their Lord” (ibn-Taymiya 1982). Such a view seems to say that the state has no reason to punish people for simply wronging themselves, as those acts will be punished by God. Not praying could certainly fall under this.

Reform thinker Sir Syed claims that there are two parts of man, one that deals with God, “and another which relates to his fellow beings … what he calls his religion is the part which belongs to God exclusively. If his beliefs are good or bad, only God is concerned with them … We should concern ourselves with that part of man, which relates to his fellow beings and this part is concerned with mutual love, friendship, and co-operation” (Siddiqi 1982).

Enforcing the GoodAs shown, there are arguments to be made

for and against making laws about morally good acts as defined by the Qur’an. If they were codified, the enforcement of these laws is the realm which the Muhtasibs would reside. Therefore, it is intrinsic to define how their role should be executed, if it should exist at all.

The actual role of a Muhtasib in any given society was held by a single person. However, this person was allowed to invite anybody

trustworthy to help in the endeavor. The Saudi system of a committee consisting of a special police force or Mutaween would be in accordance with tradition if they are led by a single Muhtasib. The Mutaween should not have more power than that single Muhtasib, seeing as how they are employed by him or her.

The Muhtasib’s jurisdiction extends to “ordaining that which is fitting and proscribing the improper in those spheres

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not reserved to the governors, the judges, the administrative officers, etc” (ibn-Taymiya 1982). So they are not to step on the toes of other offices of government. If a judge issues a fatwa, the Muhtasib cannot overturn it. If a leader issues a law that the Muhtasib does not agree with, he or she has no power to execute punishments contrary to that law. Ibn Taymiya claims that it is the Muhtasib’s “duty to inflict a discretionary (Ta’azir) punishment” (ibn-Taymiya, 1982), nothing more.

If one returns to the original case in which the Mutaween prevented a group of schoolgirls from leaving a burning school, it could be said that they overreached their authority. This is because the fire department is a government ordained force and holds jurisdiction over fire crises.

In addition to having limits on their jurisdiction, the Muhtasib must follow certain codes of conduct. They must always be impartial when enforcing laws, for they “are in the position of a trustee commanding obedience and what is required of them is impartiality and justice: such are the commander, the magistrate and the Muhtasib” (ibn-Taymiya 1982). Along with impartiality, the Muhtasib cannot hold doubt for behavior that has been approved by the state. If the state doesn’t outlaw it, the Muhtasib cannot outlaw it.

The Muhtasib cannot engage in ijtihad to punish people, because the job is not that of the juror or the scholar. His or her job is only to enforce what there has already been, an ijma’a, or consensus for the entire community. The Muhtasib should always involve the community help in endeavors and should never look to instill personal beliefs or opinions on the majority. Finally, a Muhtasib cannot act overzealously, nor invoke larger problems than the one they are wishing to prevent, and must use a degree of wisdom to determine when it is appropriate

to punish. They should not force a greater injustice to occur than the one which is occurring (ibn-Taymiya 1982). In the case of prayer, it has been stated that a Ta’azir crime may be ordained. As a result, it is the job of the Muhtasib to enact punishment on those who defy this law. They cannot enact punishment on non-Muslims, as this goes against Qur’anic injunction. Nor can they engage in acts of spying or conduct a punishment on informants, for the Qur’an specifically outlaws it when it says:

“O ye who believe! Avoid suspicion as much (as possible): for suspicion in some cases is a sin: And spy not on each other behind their backs. Would any of you like to eat the flesh of his dead brother? Nay, ye would abhor it...But fear Allah. For Allah is Oft-Returning, Most Merciful” (49:12).

When punishing for failure to pray, ibn-Taymiya explains, “if beating is inflicted for omission of a duty, e.g. for omission of the Prayer, or for failure to honor liabilities… in such cases the beating is administered blow upon blow till he performs his duty” (ibn-Taymiya 1982). This keeps in line with the fact that Muhtasibs cannot be overzealous when punishing. If beating is the prescribed punishment for failure to pray in public, then the Muhtasib may only inflict penalty until the person decides to pray.

This may seem harsh and coercive. However, one must also view the situation in its entirety. One must pray if they are Muslim and refusing to do so is something

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questionable in itself. In addition, to avoid punishment one need only walk indoors or into any private place, for a Muhtasib cannot spy. One who displays defiance in the situation is more than likely making a public spectacle of not praying. This may be disruptive to others or spread false messages about the religion to the public. A leader may use his better judgment to protect society from such an occurrence. The Muhtasib is not so much coercing one into practicing religion, but rather ensuring indecent behavior is not publicly displayed.

The same holds true for more than just prayer, such as the dress code. In public, other people see you and they may not wish to be exposed to revealing clothing. The Islamic reason for modest dress encompasses a long argument in itself, which includes the fact that it prevents people from mentally sexualizing each other. There is significant Qur’anic support and general ijma’a for modest dress, so for a state to impose a dress code is not incredibly unjust. In addition, in

a country such as Saudi Arabia, covering up can help protect people from the sun and sandstorms. The government, similar to how it creates seatbelt laws to provide safety and forbids public lewdness to protect public decency, has a reason based in compassion, not just strictness, to codify and enforce such dress code laws.

The Place of the Hisba in Today’s Society

Keeping in mind the concept of making laws based on upholding morality and enforcing those laws in a modern day society is a complex endeavor. The concept of maslaha is essential to this task and one can certainly claim prayer is for the common good of people. However, there are extended effects of implementing common good in this situation. One must examine the overall effects that the Muhtasib’s actions have on the people. For instance, when people are forced into prayer, does prayer maintain the same value as it would if they had freely chosen to pray? Does the strict enforcement of law within Saudi Arabia cause a reverse effect when the citizens leave the country? Does forced prayer deter people from the religion? All of this must be considered when making maslaha decisions, because they are all very possible negative effects of forcing religion on the people. Ibn-Taymiya proposes a progressive way to address the need of morality in society, and yet not discourage people from being moral in the process.

“One way could be to evolve this institution at a natural pace. As a first step, the Muhtasib’s office could be established with limited functions. Then a process of training in morality and ethics may be started for the professional staff of the Hisba. Gradually more functions may be added. A powerful council may be established to oversee the work and conduct of the Hisba. This council may deal with complaints against the Hisba staff and grant exemplary punishments where necessary. The Hisba staff may be highly paid so that temptations of worldly life do not coax them away from their statutory role. Another dimension could be widespread dissemination

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of information on the malpractices of various trades, professions and government departments to raise the level of social consciousness. The increased consciousness on malpractices will generate an active society and discourage offenders of public morality. To lend a wider acceptability to the institution, grassroots participation of the public is necessary. For example a committee of merchants of a particular trade may be elected but headed by a Muhtasib staff. The Muhtasib may influence and pressurize the delinquent traders through this committee. Similarly in government offices Muhtasib’s staff may be associated with each office who would perform his official duties primarily by persuasion and cooperation of the staff” (ibn-Taymiya 1982).

Ibn Taymiya’s answer as to how to incorporate a system of Hisba into a modern day society is wise on many accounts. First of all, it recognizes that the idea of Hisba is not a bad institution. Muhtasibs can serve as a means to protect people from the corrupt and deceitful when it comes to economy and society. It is hard to argue against ideals set forth either by the Qur’an or the societal laws of the time. In addition to ensuring that people deal with each other fairly and not cheat others in the first place.

He also addresses the issue of commanding religious morality in society and getting realistic results. He proposes working with the people who have the most authority and creating Hisba representatives to oversee them. This could include business owners, politicians, or public safety institutions like police. The Muhtasib would act as an authority that ensures that all these socially intrinsic factions are behaving in the utmost moral of ways. Also keeping in mind that the Hisba themselves have certain restrictions; for example, they could only advise what is morally right to the extent that there is ijma’a, or consensus on it.

If these institutions could function with justice and morality, it would set a precedent for the people to follow. For instance, if a businessman closes his shop and actively

participates in prayer when required; his employees may be inspired to do the same. If a police officer does not overstep his or her bounds and keeps order through just means, the people may be inspired to deal with each other in the same way. If a politician can go about politics without deceit or corruption, a political system beneficial to the people can arise.

The Muhtasib must keep in mind that “Gentleness is vital in all this. As the Prophet, on him be peace, said: ‘Gentleness beautifies all that contains it; harshness disfigures all that contains it’ ‘God is gentle and loves gentleness in all things. He rewards it as he does not reward harshness’” (ibn-Taymiya 1982). It is hard for people to avoid the lures of contemporary society. The Muhtasib must always remember this and teach people morality with compassion. In this way, the Saudi Mutaween could compromise on the question of whether forbidding evil and ordaining good is simply advisable to those in charge or to everyone. Under such a

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system, those in charge would be the ones from whom such a standard is demanded of, and those not in charge would do the same and apply it to themselves.

Such an approach allows for a system of morality where piety and justice trickle down from the top to the bottom. Those who lead set a precedent for those whom follow. If they act in the most morally just capacity, the masses may very well do the same. It certainly keeps in line with notion that “He who establishes a good precedent gets the

reward for it and the reward of all who act upon it till the Day of Resurrection, without diminishing their rewards in the least” (ibn-Taymiya 1982).

Problems with the Saudi SystemThe Hisba-like institution of the Mutaween

in Saudi Arabia may on some levels operate like a traditional Hisba authority. They ensure that in public the dress code is enforced, prayer is observed, and shops are closed when it is time to pray. On the other hand, the Mutaween diverge quite significantly from the bounds of a Hisba authority in many other aspects.

First of all, there are instances, most notably the burning schoolhouse case, in which the Mutaween overstep their authority and fail to recognize that a greater wrong can occur when commanding what is believed to be good. The uncovered women most likely would not have destroyed society and because they could have been saved means a greater good could have resulted, for the Qur’an reveals:

“On that account: We ordained for

the Children of Israel that if any one slew a person - unless it be for murder or for spreading mischief in the land - it would be as if he slew the whole people: and if any one saved a life, it would be as if he saved the life of the whole people. Then although there came to them Our apostles with clear signs, yet, even after that, many of them continued to commit excesses in the land” (5:32). Another main way in which the Mutaween

fail to behave like a true Hisba authority and fail to adhere to the Qur’an is that they

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engage in a significant amount of spy activity and suspicion. Entering private houses is strictly forbidden, as the previous Qur’anic verse made clear, and as al-Tabarani reported the Prophet to have said, “If you have a suspicion, do not pursue it” (Young Muslims). The Hisba’s realm rests only in the public behaviors of people in the society, not in what goes on in their private residences. This is relevant for Muslims as well as non-Muslims. The Mutaween even went as far to post a Web site in 2004 to 2005, allowing people to anonymously report any un-Islamic activity, so the Mutaween could properly disperse of it (Saudi Arabia). Once again, the Qur’an states:

“And spy not on each other behind their backs” (49:12).

This shows that such a Web site is absolutely against Qur’anic command, and, as ibn-Taymiya says, the Muhtasib can not “engage in secret probing into a doubtful affair” (ibn-Taymiya 1982).

S. Schwartz made the observation that the Mutaween didn’t really fulfill the role of an enforcer of moral good in society at all. He says:

“Apparently unknowing, the Wahabis paralleled the Bolshevik regime in Russia and the Fascist state in Italy, both of which used local vigilance committees to control public life. That one state was based on a narrow interpretation of Islam, while another cleaved to revolutionary socialism and the third to futurist nationalism meant very little; the state form was virtually identical” (Schwarz 2002).

One who enforces moral good cannot present narrow interpretations like Wahabiism to be considered legitimate Muhtasibs. The Mutaween in Saudi Arabia have at times acted more like a secret police than a religious guide; more like a protector of a state ideology than a religious goal. To correctly act as a Hisba institution, they must broaden their scope of what is religiously acceptable, completely halt the activity of spying, and allow themselves to see the greater good in each case.

The Mutaween is one of the major answers the Saudi Arabian regime has developed in order to produce a moral society. They claim to do just that. However, the Saudi Mutaween at times have overstepped the bounds the Qur’an lays out for Muslims, most notably in the realm of spying. In other situations, they have overstepped the bounds of traditional Muhtasibs, opting to act more as a secret police than as a moral enforcer.

Conclusion

As one can see, the idea of a religious police is by no means inherent to Islamic law. The history of the Mutaween in Saudi Arabia certainly differs from the traditional implementation of a moral authority. Though not an everyday occurrence, their antics have gone so far as to cause death and break laws made clear in the Qur’an.

However, the Mutaween does not need to be completely disbanded. By restructuring the institution to coincide more with the reformed Hisba form which ibn-Taymiya touches on and concentrating efforts on Saudi authorities instead of the masses, they could better serve as enforcers of morality in society.

Works Cited

The Holy Qu’ran Note: All Qur’anic Verses have been taken from the Yusuf Ali English

translation.Al-‘Awwa, Muhammad Salim, “The Basis of Islamic Penal Legislation,” in

The Islamic Criminal Justice System (M. Cherif Bassiouni, e. 1982), p. 127-47.Bassiouni, M. Cherif, “Quesas Crimes,” in The Islamic Criminal Justice

System (M. Cherif Bassiouni, e. 1982) Benmelha, Ghaouti, “Ta’azir Crimes,” in The Islamic Criminal Justice

System (M. Cherif Bassiouni, e. 1982), p. 211-25. Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights and Labor. United States. State

Department.International Religious Freedom Report. USA: GPO, 2004ibn-Hamad al-Rasheed, Sheikh Nasser. Influence of the Qur’anic Teaching “To

Enjoing the Good and Refrain from Evil Deeds” on Crime Prevention. Rome: Ministry of Interior, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, 1980.

ibn Taymiya, Trans. Holland, M. Public Duties in Islam. Leicester, UK: The Islamic Foundation, 1982.

“Rise of the Wahabi Movement.” Amina. 11 May 2006 <http://www.amina.com/article/wahabism.html>.

“Saudi Arabia.” Reference.com. 11 May 2006 <http://www.reference.com/browse/wiki/Saudi_Arabia>.

“Saudi Police ‘Stopped’ Fire Rescue.” BBC News March 15, 2002Sayeed, S.M.A. The Myth of Authenticity. Philadelphia, PE: Decent Print

Enterprises, 1995.Schwartz, S. The Two Faces of Islam: The Tradition of Sa’ud from Tradition to

Terror. New York, New York: Doubleday, 2002.Siddiqi, M. Modern Reformists Thought in the Muslim World. Islamabad,

Pakistan: Islamic Research Institute, 1982.“Wahabi Theology.” Country Studies. 11 May 2006 <http://countrystudies.

us/saudiarabia/27.htm>. “Young Muslims.” The Lawful and Prohibition in Islam. 11 May 2006

<http://www.youngmuslims.ca/online_library/books/the_lawful_and_prohibition in_islam/ch4s4p6.htm>.

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UW President Charles Van Hise proclaimed that he would “never be content until the beneficient influence of the University reaches every family in the state.” It was in this spirit that Van Hise created the Wisconsin Idea in 1904, a vision that has endured for more than 100 years. As the world shrinks and the University grows, it becomes increasingly important for the University to maintain its tradition of outreach in Wisconsin, while extending its programs to encompass a larger national and global community. Many UW-Madison undergraduates are rising to the challenge. Illumination is proud to highlight not only those students making a difference in Wisconsin, but also those serving around the country and abroad. Using the University’s incredible resources to extend its borders, these students keep Van Hise’s vision alive.

To learn more about the Wisconsin Idea, visit http://www.wisc.edu/wisconsinidea.

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In 2006, a new initiative was created on the UW-Madison campus. That initiative was the Collegiate Association for Multiple Sclerosis (CAMS), a non-profit student organization that raises funds and awareness for multiple sclerosis (MS) through events on college campuses. What started as the pet project of UW-Madison student Kevin Peach two years ago has grown to include over 75 members and associations at three other Big Ten

universities. According to Peach, “It is amazing to see how a small organization like CAMS can act as a catalyst for promoting awareness for multiple sclerosis at other schools.” The mission of the Collegiate Association of Multiple Sclerosis is to inhibit the afflicting and detrimental effects of MS. The aim of this association is to organize, network, research and advocate for programs that aid those diagnosed and afflicted with Multiple Sclerosis. This association strives to give back to the world what it has given us.

Every other Tuesday at the UW-Madison Memorial Union, a group of CAMS students gathers to discuss the next step to fight MS. For the last two years, the group has been dedicated to inhibiting the further spread of this deadly disease by way of raising awareness as well as by hosting various fundraisers. This spring, CAMS members will be visiting local high schools in the Madison area to discuss the nature of Multiple Sclerosis as well as promoting the development of afterschool programs to learn more about chronic diseases and what they can do to combat them.

CAMS is not an organization unique to the UW-Madison campus, but includes chapters at three other Big Ten Universities. CAMS has formed chapters at the University of Illinois-Champaign-Urbana, Indiana University and the University of Michigan. These branches are overseen by the founder and President of UW-Madison’s chapter, Kevin Peach. Lauren Laucius spearheaded the founding of the chapter at Illinois while Tommy Peth initiated development of the Indiana chapter and Jake Emery led formation of the Michigan chapter. The growth of these chapters has been accelerated by the dedication and enthusiasm of these student leaders. Their recent efforts include holding fundraising events and promoting awareness of multiple sclerosis. “My aunt is afflicted with MS, so when Kevin asked me to head the University of Illinois chapter, I had this great sense of purpose” explained Lauren Laucius. This has not only encouraged people to help, but has epitomized a mobilized movement of altruistic individuals to rid the world of an aggressive disease. The work of these student

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organizations has been truly inspirational. “What I think makes this organization

so strong is how passionate its members are” Jake Emery, president of the Michigan chapter, said. This semester, all four CAMS chapters will be holding fundraisers in the spring to contribute to Peach’s goal of raising over $10,000 in funds. These funds will be used for MS research initiatives, as well as raising awareness at various high schools. Tommy Peth, president of the Indiana chapter explains, “Just by the way Kevin talked about his organization and the vision he had for it, made me want to play a pivotal role in its success and that is definitely what it has been, a great success!”

The reason for the group’s expansion lies in the grounds of its creation: to help people with MS. According to the National MS Society, approximately 400,000 Americans have MS and every week about 200 more are diagnosed. Worldwide, about 2.5 million people suffer. Yet, these numbers are just mere estimates, because MS is so difficult to diagnose. In fact, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention do not even require U.S. physicians to report new cases.

Multiple Sclerosis is a serious, chronic disease that has detrimental effects on the central nervous system, including the brain and spinal cord. It is an autoimmune disease whereby the immune system erroneously attacks the myelin sheath by way of sending white blood cells and antibodies against the myelin proteins. The effects of this damage slowly block the nerve signals which coordinate muscle control. Symptoms typically are evident between the ages of 20 and 40 years.

MS is an unpredictable disease that can cause blurred vision, loss of balance, poor coordination, slurred speech, tremors, numbness, extreme fatigue, problems with memory and concentration, paralysis, blindness and more. These problems may be permanent or may come and go, which makes MS hard to treat. Although the diagnosis is generally between age 20 and 50 years, it is not considered fatal because most people with it live a normal life expectancy with limitations. In severe MS, people have symptoms on a permanent basis including partial or complete paralysis, and difficulties with vision, cognition, speech,

and elimination. The organization consistently interacts

with the National MS Society and provides major volunteers for the WalkMS event held annually here in Madison. Last year, CAMS raised over $5,000 to benefit research and community awareness in the Madison area. In order to help fund research for treatments and to eliminate the disease, CAMS holds fundraising events like last semester’s: “Buy a cup, helps those with MS” at the Nitty Gritty where $650 was raised. “It was an awesome spectacle to see how many people were willing to help the cause,” Peach said. The organization plans on expanding in the fall, with hopes of recruiting more members and establishing daughter programs in the surrounding high schools.

This semester CAMS plans to hold an MS Ball at the Overture Center and participate in the annual National MS Society WalkMS on May 4. “I hope that this year we will have a strong student and faculty-based representation at the walk. It is truly a unique and fun experience. The best part of doing the walk is just having the opportunity to meet individuals afflicted with MS and to hear their story,” Peach stated. The CAMS organization is not overwhelmingly large, nor is the amount of raised donations sufficient to eliminate this disease; rather the impact and effort students have made has left a footprint of their dedication. Every day that this organization exists brings us one step closer to finding a cure for Multiple Sclerosis.

For more information contact Kevin Peach at camsuw@gmail.com.

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Claire Allen is a fourth-year student majoring in Anthropology and History and pursuing a certificate in Religious Studies. She will be graduating this May, and she hopes to continue writing wherever she lands next year. callen1@wisc.edu.

Libbie Allen: “No One Tells Me How to Walk” and “Off the Top of Your Head” are part of my series of silk screens called “Destruction for Construction.” This series deals with physical modifications humans have made to themselves or others, throughout history, in the hopes of constructing an ideal visible identity. eallen1@wisc.edu

Davyd Betchkal: Nature smells itself. betchkal@wisc.edu.

Courtney Books is a graduating senior in the departments of Spanish and Art. Through her art, her main objective is to play with identity as something malleable and fickle, meanwhile inviting the viewer to assess their own position as a spontaneous spectator. cjbooks@wisc.edu.

Michelle Bridwell is a senior majoring in art education. She enjoys creating art in a variety of media, of which painting is her favorite. Her art reflects her interest in the beauty of nature, literature, history, and music. mmbridwell@wisc.edu.

Mary Chen: mfchen@students.wisc.edu.

Mary Coats is a senior BFA student in Painting and President of the UW Cycling Club. Mary is interested in the manner in which we as humans endure in the face of great sorrow and pain. In many of her paintings, she envisions a world that has nearly been destroyed. If one was lucky enough to make it through this calamity, now it’s time to figure out how to keep living. Along with the strength and hope that comes with this choice to endure, also comes anger, fear and a deep sense of loss. Mary is interested in looking at this aftermath along with the things she has lost and the things she is afraid of losing. She stresses the importance of confronting these fears and considering their importance. When she ventures outside of her painting studio, Mary enjoys riding her bicycle and doing yoga. coats@wisc.edu.

Samantha Gray: srgray@wisc.edu.

Georgia Harden is a sophomore and and Fine Arts major. aule4@yahoo.com

Stephanie Hemshrot: I am a first year student at UW-Madison majoring in art. I enjoy exploring new places, whether far away or close to home, wherever that may be, and collecting images through photography. I find that the world is an interesting place and enjoy framing it through the perspective of a camera lens.shemshrot@wisc.edu.

Kitty Huffman: Two years into my studies at the University of Theater and Drama in Romania, I decided to move to the United States to further my education. Not having any friends or relatives to help me I had to enter the working world to afford paying for school. In the fall of 2006, after 3 years of break, I finally managed to go back to school. I enrolled first to the University of Wisconsin Baraboo, and in 2007 I am continuing my education at the University of Wisconsin Madison with emphasis on Fine Arts. I am interested in sculpture and non static forms, and school is giving me a great opportunity to learn, and interact with people who have the same interest. khuffman@wisc.edu.

Corey Losenegger is in his third year studying art with a focus on sculpture. In the past couple years he has been an engineering, computer science, philosophy, and political science major. Currently, he is trying to find some way to coherently bring all these interests into his artwork. losenegger@wisc.edu.

Matthew Mahaney: When not writing Victorian-era missed connections on Craigslist, Matthew Mahaney is usually playing either ping-pong or Wii sports. He is also a senior English/Creative Writing major in his spare time. mjmahaney@wisc.edu.

Leif Martinson: Writing poetry is sort of a compulsive disorder that through the advances of medical technology I hope someday to be cured of. lmartinson@wisc.edu.

Jake Naughton: jnaughton@wisc.edu.

Meg Neuville: In my art, I like to combine various materials such as yarn, wax, paper, oil paint, and found objects to portray memory and time. I am interested in the effects I can create with texture and layering. In these prints, I use wax and layers to create an obscure, momentary, and mysterious mood. meg.neuville@gmail.com.

Nicole O’Connor: noconnor@wisc.edu.

Kevin Peach: peach@wisc.edu.

Keelie Ritter: kkritter@wisc.edu.

Katie Sachs is a Creative Writing major, currently working on her Senior 695 thesis with Ron Wallace. She is unsure of her post-graduation plans, but hopes to pursue a singing career in either Austin, D.C. or Boston. Right now, she is excited for warm weather and summer in MadTown! She is from Amherst, Massachusetts, and her favorite color is green. sachs1@wisc.edu.

Ellen Siebers: siebers@wisc.edu.

Adam Sitte: I am graduating with degrees in History, Languages and Cultures of Asia,

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and Middle East Studies. I spent a semester in Egypt, where I volunteered with refugees in both Cairo and the West Bank, and I hope to return to the Middle East to work with refugees after graduation. sitte@wisc.edu.

Amber Solow: I grew up in Blair, Wisconsin. After graduating in 1994, I attended UW Eau Claire for two years where I fell in love with photography. I worked and lived in the ‘real world’ in Madison until Spring 2007 when I returned to school in order to learn more of the technological side of art. asolow@wisc.edu.

Christie Taylor: whatulysses@gmail.com.

Jamie Utphall is a sophomore secondary English education major. New to Madison this semester, she has begun working with REDzine, a new publication on campus celebrating multicultural women’s artistic expression, and volunteering as a Schools of Hope tutor. Aside from academics and service, she has a strong affinity for tenor saxophone and ice cream. utphall@wisc.edu.

Joe Wong is a junior English major, and his shower doesn’t work. joejameswong@gmail.com.

The following authors in this issue of Illumination have been recognized by the Friends of the University of Wisconsin–Madison Libraries for the quality of their writing and will receive a Friends Certificate of Recognition.

Fiction – Claire Allen, “Bell Bottom Blues”Nonfiction – Adam Sitte, “Mutaween”Poetry – Mary Chen, “Abstinence”

Ellen SiebersThe Little Bearmixed media

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f i n a l t h o u g h t s :a t r i b u t e t o a n o l d f r i e n d

As we all know, the continual changes to the campus skyline are a common occurrence here at the UW. Soon there will be a new silhouette in place of the present day Meiklejohn house. Within

a few years, our beloved ILS house will be torn down and replaced by something more suitable for a rapidly expanding campus. Many will miss the living-room style classroom full of comfortable couches that give off a home-sweet-home aurora. One cannot forget the tiny spiral staircase that seemingly descends into a dark abyss, but luckily leads to yet another classroom.

The Integrated Liberal Studies department is an area of study that includes reading a wide variety of literature including excerpts from Socrates, to the latest news. Students also participate in service learning courses or events such as a consensus conference to bring attention to pressing issues on campus. The ILS department is full of courses that enrich one’s college experience on many levels. Students are not only exposed to a milieu of topics not typically found in the college curriculum, but each individual is encouraged to actively participate in the community. This relationship to and appreciation of ILS is something that many of the past editor-in-chiefs and founders of Illumination have in common. The ILS experience has heightened our academic standards and challenged us to the fullest. This piece is a small tribute to the Meiklejohn house. You are loved and appreciated by many, and will be missed considerably…but the spirit of ILS will always remain!

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This journal was designed using Adobe InDesign CS2 on a Macintosh computer. The typefaces Optima and Adobe Janson Pro were used for titles and Janson was used for the main text. Originally designed by Nicholas Kis in 1690, Janson was one of the top choices for fine bookmaking in the 1930s because of its clean design, legibility and attractiveness.

illumination THE UNDERGRADUATE JOURNAL OF HUMANITIES

a r t l i t e ra ture e s s a y s

FEATURING

Ritual ∙ Mary ChenMutaween ∙ Adam SitteBell Bottom Blues ∙ Claire Allen

ARTWORK BY

Stephanie HemshrotCourtney BooksCorey Losenegger

spring 2008