Unmosquing the West

Traditional Islam, Proselytism, and the Mausoleum of al-Shāfiʿī

Restoring old Islamic monuments and traces—such as fountains, mosques, and shrines—or editing classical Islamic texts may do more for intellectual growth, mutual understanding, and peaceful coexistence than building ten new mosques ever could. This claim challenges a broader assumption embedded in contemporary religious and cultural discourse: that expansion is the primary means of fostering recognition and understanding. In other words, neglecting deeper roots and older intellectual and material traces may be more damaging than often assumed.

Imām al-Shāfiʿī’s (d. 820) al-Risāla is widely regarded as the first complete work of Islamic legal theory. Even influential orientalist studies—such as David Samuel Margoliouth’s (d. 1940) The Early Development of Mohammedanism, which relied heavily on al-Shāfiʿī’s al-Umm in interpreting the founder of uṣūl al-fiqh—demonstrate the limitations of interpreting a tradition through only partial access to its textual corpus. Significantly, Margoliouth died in 1940, the very year Aḥmad Shākir (d. 1958) published a far more rigorous critical edition of al-Risāla.

This essay addresses the question: what happens when Islamic tradition is approached primarily through expansion and proselytization (daʿwa), rather than through restoration, interpretation, and intellectual inheritance?

Can one truly understand a tradition without inhabiting its epistemological foundations?

Consider the mausoleum of Muḥammad ibn Idrīs al-Shāfiʿī in Cairo. Al-Shāfiʿī, a 9th-century jurist, theologian, poet, and founder of one of the four major Sunni schools of law, remains a central figure in Islamic intellectual history. His mausoleum is part of a restoration project funded in part by the United States government—an initiative publicly acknowledged at the site and documented by the U.S. Embassy in Cairo.

What does it mean for a modern Western power to contribute to restoring the legacy of a foundational Islamic jurist? I leave this question open for reflection.

In secular societies, maintaining clear boundaries between the academic study of religion, its private or communal practice, and its public promotion is essential. The latter—known in Islamic terminology as daʿwa—can become contentious when it assumes organized, expansionist forms. While Western societies generally permit the construction of mosques, they are often less receptive to overt proselytization, especially when it is tied to movements seeking growth and influence.

This tension is not unique to the West. In many Muslim-majority countries, public proselytization of other religions—particularly when directed at Muslims—is restricted or prohibited. Thus, when Islamic expression in Europe shifts from personal practice or scholarly discourse toward organized expansion, it can provoke defensive reactions. These responses range from concerns about secular values to broader anxieties about the “Islamization” of Europe.

Yet the question remains: is this issue merely political or cultural, or does it also invite an internal Islamic critique?

From within the Islamic legal and intellectual tradition, one may argue that certain contemporary forms of expansion—particularly the proliferation of mosques—are not fully aligned with classical jurisprudential principles. To assess this claim, it is necessary to revisit the concept of the mosque itself.

In the Qurʾān, the term masjid often denotes a place of worship. A well-known ḥadīth, narrated in Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī, states: “The earth has been made a place of prayer for me,” suggesting that any clean space may serve this purpose.

Over time, however, Islamic societies developed a more complex institution: the jāmiʿ (congregational mosque). Derived from the root jamaʿa (to gather), the jāmiʿ was not simply a place of prayer but a center of communal life—hosting education, governance, intellectual exchange, and social services. It embodied a broader civilizational vision.

Classical jurists were attentive to preserving this centrality. They often discouraged the unnecessary multiplication of mosques when it risked fragmenting the community. The following excerpts illustrate this concern:

Andalusian judge, Ibn Rushd al-jadd (d. 1126), was asked about a man who bypasses his local mosque to pray elsewhere. He replied: if he goes to the main congregational mosque, there is no issue; but if he goes to another mosque, this is not recommended unless the imām of the first is unjust (or unrighteous).

He further noted that this opinion is also reported from Imām Mālik (d. 795) (al-Bayān wa al-Taḥṣīl, 2/195).

Some ʿulamāʾ held that the Friday prayer is valid only in the main congregational mosque. Andalusian theologian and jurist, Al-Bājī (d. 1081), said that if an excuse prevents its establishment there, it should not be held elsewhere (al-Muqaddimāt al-Mumahhidāt, 1/222–223).

Tunisian jurist, Saḥnūn ibn Saʿīd (d. 854) stated: “There is no harm in building a second mosque in a village if its population is large and both are maintained. But if the population is small and the first mosque risks being abandoned, then it should be prevented, as it would constitute harm (ḍirār)” (Ibn ‘Arafa’s Mukhtaṣar, 1/356). These discussions reveal a structured and principled approach. The concern was not merely architectural but social: unity, cohesion, and the preservation of a shared intellectual and spiritual space. This is particularly significant given that these debates emerged in the Mediterranean context, where Muslims extended into southern European regions such as Crete, Cyprus, Sicily, and al-Andalus within a broader geopolitically confrontational environment.

The post-colonial era witnessed a more unstructured pattern of mosque construction, which later extended into the West. These mosques (masājid), however, could not—and still cannot—replace the traditional role of the central mosque (jāmiʿ), which historically provided care for women, the sick, the traveller, the homeless, and the vulnerable; education for children; and advanced instruction in madrasas that trained ʿulamāʾ, scientists, and intellectuals. As this fiqh-based spirit and heritage have been largely overlooked by modern Islamic movements focused on numerical growth and influence, the mosque has lost much of its function as a space for intellectual and cultural exchange with other traditions and religions in Western contexts.

Several counterarguments may be raised. One might argue that, in the West, there are not enough historical Islamic landmarks to serve as foundations for guiding Muslim communities and educating younger generations. Others may point to persistent sectarian divisions that make it difficult to gather all Muslims around a single institution, as different groups maintain their own symbolic and institutional attachments. However, these considerations do not justify the often chaotic construction of mosques in both Western and Eastern contexts, frequently driven by a limited awareness of the institution’s historical, legal, social, ethical, and civilizational dimensions.

To move from theory to practice, consider a concrete example. While managing the Grand Mosque of La Seyne-sur-Mer in Provence, France—the largest Islamic structure in the region, accommodating over 2,500 worshippers, yet lacking a library, museum, or comprehensive intellectual and educational program—I encountered a recurring challenge. Members of the community repeatedly sought funding to build additional mosques nearby, despite the evident absence of essential intellectual infrastructure in the existing center and the strong polarization within it. Its shelves were filled with pamphlets representing various daʿwa movements (Salafī, Tablīghī, Ikhwānī, and Aḥmadī), placed alongside copies of the Qurʾān. Meanwhile, the surrounding neighborhood—and the Muslim community in particular—faced serious social challenges, including drug addiction, criminal activity, and illegal immigration. This situation is not unique to this mosque, but reflects a broader pattern observable in France and other Western countries.

This contrast raises a fundamental question: what is the purpose of multiplying mosques if their foundational intellectual, social, and civilizational roles remain unfulfilled? Rather than restoring these roles, such spaces risk being overtaken by daʿwa movements driven by expansionist ambitions—movements that may contribute, at times, to the generalization of prejudice and suspicion toward Muslims on a global scale.

In conclusion, restoring classical works—both texts and institutions—and educating Muslims, particularly younger generations, through these original frameworks can foster cultural bridges and strengthen trust. One may recall, for instance, the U.S. contribution to restoring the space of learning and reflection associated with al-Shāfiʿī. What I have elsewhere described as the genealogy of Islamic legal thought in Europe may offer a safer, less confrontational, and more enriching path that better supports dialogue initiatives than the narratives of certain daʿwa movements, often shaped by claims of superiority, absolutism, and ideological agendas.

Al-Shāfiʿī profoundly influenced the 12th-century philosopher and theologian al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), who authored Maqāṣid al-falāsifa (The Objectives of the Philosophers). Its Hebrew translation was studied in a PhD dissertation by Rabbi Gershon Shertoff (d. 1984) in 1953. Notably, it was the United States that funded the restoration of the mausoleum of Imām al-Shāfiʿī, the father of Islamic legal theory, born in 767 in Gaza and buried in Cairo. This cooperation between Egypt and the United States highlights how the legacy of traditional Islam can serve as a bridge between cultures, fostering mutual recognition rather than division. It also reflects the inherently inclusive and multidisciplinary spirit of the Islamic intellectual tradition, which has historically engaged with law, theology, philosophy, and the humanities and continues to offer a shared space for dialogue across religious and cultural boundaries, unlike certain modernist exclusivist narratives or some contemporary daʿwa movements.