but sometimes adherence to the script transformed me into someone who could believe in the script. The Islam that I needed was not intellectual, but operational. After coming down from ayahuasca, you realize that what you do might actually make you what you are.
With this rethinking of my Muslim body, my practice—and the roots of my practice, the predecessors from whom I inherited this technology of Muslim selfhood—began to matter to me in new ways, and I could reconsider the discipline of my brothers at the mosque who rolled up their pant legs because they wanted to imitate the Prophet, whose garments never passed his ankles. These brothers were also the ones who taught me to sit when I pissed because it had been the Prophet’s way. Maybe they weren’t so bad. A lifetime ago, I had a run as one of those guys, but I ditched it all to become the kind of Muslim who consumes psychoactive teas with Amazonian shamans. Muslims often speak of the pant leg–rollers as Salaf—a weapon to use against those who go too far; but what’s a Salaf? Had I been one? After the drugs and visions and Supreme Mathematics, could I be one again? If drug mysticism had opened the door for a new Salafism, could my Salaf turn also be a mystical turn?
AS LONG AS YOU FEAR SOMEONE
“Don’t Fear All Islamists, Fear Salafis,” declares the headline of a New York Times editorial dated August 20, 2012. The piece defines Salafs as “ultraconservative Sunni Muslims vying to define the new order [in this case, postrevolution Tunisia] according to seventh-century religious traditions rather than earthly realities.”3 Salafs are not the same as jihadi militants, says the author, Robin Wright, and many Salafs are antiviolence and politically quietist. But nonetheless, the Salafs’ goals remain “the most anti-Western of any Islamist parties.”
When an article explicitly tells you in its headline to fear people, I feel confident in calling it an example of fearmongering.
“A common denominator among disparate Salafi groups is inspiration and support from Wahhabis, a puritanical strain of Sunni Islam from Saudi Arabia,” Wright explains. She is careful to say that not all Salafs are Wahhbs, “but Wahhabis are basically all Salafis.” For Wright, the issue is that Wahhbs are seeking influence in Tunisia by supporting the Salafs, “as they did 30 years ago by funding the South Asian madrassas that produced Afghanistan’s Taliban.” But at no point does she establish what exactly separates non-Wahhb Salafs (“ultraconservative Sunni Muslims”) from Wahhb Salafism (“a puritanical strain of Sunni Islam”). The matter is further complicated in Wright’s conclusion, in which she warns, “There is something dreadfully wrong with tying America’s future position in the region to the birthplace and bastion of Salafism and its warped vision of a new order.”4 The birthplace and bastion of Salafism, according to Wright’s analysis, is Saudi Arabia, which also happens to be the birthplace and bastion of what she calls Wahhbism.
So Wright’s major points are that Salafism should not be conflated with the broader category of Islamism, not all Salafs are violent, and not all Salafs are Wahhbs, but because all Wahhbs are Salafs, and Salafs are supported and inspired by Wahhbs,
but sometimes adherence to the script transformed me into someone who could believe in the script. The Islam that I needed was not intellectual, but operational. After coming down from ayahuasca, you realize that what you do might actually make you what you are.
