#  Research Associate S. Zahra Moballegh on 'Narrating for Love and Change' 

 





June 21, 2024

 

 

As a Research Associate at HDS's Women's Studies in Religion Program, [S. Zahra Moballegh](https://wsrp.hds.harvard.edu/people/s-zahra-moballegh) hopes to uncover a woman's narrative voice and is looking closely at how we develop a conception of God in order to do so.

Moballegh, who is also Visiting Assistant Professor of Women’s Studies and Islam, is a scholar of philosophy and Islamic studies. She previously served as an assistant professor and researcher at the University of Tehran, Iran, at the Institute for Humanities and Cultural Studies, and the E*ncyclopedia of the World of Islam*. At the WSRP, she is exploring the question of narrative in the Qur'an, both alongside the other WSRP research associates and also in the classroom through her HDS course, "Reading Women's Narratives, Recovering the Hidden Narrator: Towards an Islamic Feminist Theology."

Below, Moballegh talks about the bravery of her students, her academic background and journey to HDS, and how the study of religion is closely tied to her lived experience.

## Philosophical and Academic Background in Iran 

I could simply say that I have studied philosophy from my undergraduate studies to my PhD degree. However, this answer would be an oversimplification. For me, philosophy was never just an academic subject—it became a complex and transformative way of living, marked by constant challenges, resistance, and profound moments of introspection.

In the year 2000, as a young student, I eagerly entered the department of philosophy at the University of Tehran, a year when female students constituted a significant 68 percent of new undergraduates in Iran. Despite this promising statistic, the philosophy classes (and almost all other majors) were predominantly led by male professors.

I recall one of our courses on Pre-Socratic philosophy in the first year. As the syllabus delved into the Pythagorean school, the professor discussed the theory of reincarnation attributed to Pythagoras.

He gave an example: If a man is not good enough, a man and dies, and as divine punishment, he will become a sheep in his next life. If the sheep is not a good enough sheep, it will become a frog in the next life. Then he asked the class what would happen if the frog would not be a good frog. Everyone made guesses—“a mosquito,” “a donkey,” “a stone.” With a mocking laugh, the professor said, “A woman, it becomes a woman. A woman is several times more distant from God than even an animal. Being a woman is God's punishment for those who are not on the path of happiness and perfection.”

Everyone in the class laughed, even my friends, who were all girls. I couldn't believe it. I looked at my friends, waiting for someone to say something. I stood up and objected with fear and anxiety. The professor laughed again. I was afraid to say more, afraid of the professor's dominance in class, afraid of the students' uniformity in confirming the professor's words, and afraid that I couldn't present a strong argument for my objection. The only thing I could think of to further object was leaving the class. I thought the other girls would leave the class behind me, but maybe no one even noticed that I had left the room.

It was not easy to continue in that environment for young women. We had to stay silent in many situations. We didn’t have enough words to argue in the same way they could. At that time, we rarely could have read any words by feminist philosophers about the relationship between language, silence, dominance, power, and elimination processes.

However, we had been born and bred in a rich mystical literature that provided us, consciously or unconsciously, with the cognitive aspects of silence. In Persian poetry and mystical tradition, there is a word for the moral act of silence: *khamooshi*. *Khamooshi* is not being passive, but is sometimes a more effective way of acting. It has many cognitive aspects.

As many Persian poets and Sufis put the tongue in contrast to the heart, where the heart is the source of true knowledge and wisdom, the tongue makes it difficult to learn and receive when it works constantly: “when your tongue stops, your heart starts to speak.” The way to learn goes through silence and listening to your inner voices and to others’ voices. This type of listening, not only by our ears but by all our cells, requires first and foremost a deep respect for “the others.” And this idea is bound with the concept of “mirroring” in Islamic mystical tradition. Each being represents the whole truth or meaning of being like a mirror. The sand is in no way inferior or less reflective of meaning than the sea. If we look and listen carefully, we will find new aspects of meaning in the apparently silent orchestra of beings.

These rich concepts of *khamooshi* and mirroring were what tacitly led us to find our way of constructing our different kind of knowing, learning, and living. We seemed to be silent and passive from the perspective of an academic system whose values were based on producing more words than meanings. But we were active and productive from our perspectives, where the intellectual virtues are based on seeing “the others” as the most precious sources of knowledge, especially those others whose standpoints and knowledge have been excluded from the official representations of knowledge.

Hence, the first step *we*, the women of silence, learned in our academic circles was that we have access to a source of knowledge that is not available in a male-centered academy. That source was in ourselves: in our collaborative and caring acts of learning and in acknowledging the multiple indications of silence.

## A Natural Progression into the Study of Religion 

To be honest, it felt like a pre-established order that led me into the critical study of religion.

I was drawn to this field not simply because I was born and raised in a religious society where many religious concepts surrounded us—both in very positive and nourishing aspects and in limiting, discriminatory ones. More importantly, observing what happens in academia led me to ponder the roots of this socio-political construction.

Academia, at least in my country, is a place for subordinated people to participate in a productive knowledge system. However, this system simultaneously commits discrimination in invisible ways by defining what is normal, natural, standard, or true. Other forms of speech, knowledge, research, teaching, and learning in this system are regarded as strange. We, as women, were regarded as *strange researchers* within that system, and these dual concepts of standard/strange that justify discrimination have their roots in theology.

I believe academic discrimination is deeply rooted in the theological policy of the Abrahamic religions and was later amplified by Western modernity. The God of these religions is the God of the Word/Logos, who speaks clearly, eloquently, and with pure reason. In canonical interpretations, speech and intellect are intertwined, defining divine speech as rational. Reason, as Descartes explains, is the faculty that illuminates and discovers the essence of things. A rational person, guided by divine reason, speaks decisively and logically. Conversely, instability, doubt, and fleeting emotions are rejected in rational discourse, thus excluding those who do not conform from academia. Feminist philosophers have criticized this rational ideal.

Theological virtues are embedded in power relationships, economic, and political interests, shaping academic truth regimes, as Foucault describes. Missing from this discourse are virtues like open-mindedness, doubt, inclusiveness, acknowledgment of ignorance, critical thinking, empathy, and efforts to enfranchise marginalized groups. To change this discourse, we must uncover its theological roots and refine the underlying theological concepts to improve the social order.

So, as a woman from a religious society, the study of religion is closely tied to my lived experiences.

## Participating in the Women’s Studies in Religion Program 

I have always believed in the necessity of revising the concept of the divine in Islamic tradition. While there are alternative images of God in the Islamic tradition, they are not taken seriously enough to influence social and political orders. When I was writing the entry on "Woman (and femininity) in the Qur'an" for the *Encyclopedia of the World of Islam*, I found the idea of a narrator god who lives with us, has emotions like human beings, and advocates for women in her stories. This was contrary to the non-narrative parts of the Qur'an.

To develop this idea, I needed to be in a place where I was not excluded as a strange researcher, where I could think both interactively and freely. The Women's Studies in Religion Program at HDS offered more than just that to me. It has been not only a place to concentrate on my research but also a place for practicing critical thinking while being very sympathetic to each other's work.

The atmosphere of interconnecting our research is incredible and unique at the WSRP. Research associates come from very different backgrounds, and their research may seem completely separate; however, when we gather around the cozy table in the Carriage House, there is one thing that makes everyone feel connected to each other's work: the understanding that we can always see the problem from a different perspective, and every perspective can add something fresh to our work. Here, we practice seeing each point of view as valuable and capable of opening new horizons.

The Carriage House is where I can truly experience what Gadamer calls the fusion of horizons: we can reach a new, more comprehensive, and richer understanding through sharing our different perspectives. I must confess that WSRP is unique in creating this atmosphere. It closely aligns with the ideal proposed by feminist philosophers in a womanist epistemology: we should endeavor to include more insights from different perspectives to achieve stronger objectivity.

In the Carriage House, we practice careful listening, critical thinking, and expanding our perspectives through sympathetic learning from each other. As a researcher, I had been so lucky to be part of this community. I believe the WSRP is the realization of what I had just read in feminist epistemology works. I see the idea of Edith Stein—that knowing is based on empathy—has been deeply understood here in the Carriage House. She was dismissed from the academy as a *stranger* at that time, but her small treatise on empathy has found its way into the academic lives of many now.

## Teaching at HDS and Learning from Students 

In spring 2024, I taught a course at HDS called, “Reading Women's Narratives, Recovering the Hidden Narrator: Towards an Islamic Feminist Theology.” We began by reading texts from ancient periods, starting with the epic of Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh, the King of Ur, was portrayed as 2/3 divine and 1/3 human. We also examined parts of Hesiod's *Theogony*, where gods were depicted as integral to nature and humanity, not separate from them.

We then progressed through history to explore how the gods gradually disappeared from nature, leading to the concept of one deity. We tried to understand that the experiences of humanity and divinity have not always been as we perceive them today.

The next part of our class discussed how various images of God affect our political and legal theories and systems. This is crucial because, even in modernity, where we believe God has been removed from the political realm, theological foundations still influence the formation of political systems.

We then explored how different images of God can shape our legal systems and the language of legislation. Legislation has a prescriptive language—a grammar of “should” and “ought”—based on an image of God as a commander who knows everything and determines good and evil. If we adopt different images of God or different ideals of humanity, the language of legislation could also change.

In the third part of our course, we tried to reconstruct this approach through a close reading of women’s stories in the Qur’an to identify who is telling these stories and how they are narrated.

My most significant takeaway is how much I learn from my students, or better, my friends. The classroom is an opportunity to share perspectives through acts of listening, caring, and generously sharing experiences. Although I have analyzed Qur’anic stories for a long time and many times, the students always bring new insights. I am constantly surprised by their bravery in interacting with the texts and their passion for learning, knowing, and sharing their perspectives.

—*Interview conducted and edited by Rachel Mallett, HDS news correspondent*



 

 

 



 

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