from “saracen scourge” to “terrible turk” - Department of Political ...

FROM “SARACEN SCOURGE” TO “TERRIBLE TURK”: MEDIEVAL, 

RENAISSANCE, AND ENLIGHTENMENT IMAGES OF THE “OTHER” IN THE 

NARRATIVE CONSTRUCTION OF “EUROPE” 

by 

Paul T. Levin 

A Dissertation Presented to the 

FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL 

UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 

In Partial Fulfillment of the 

Requirements for the Degree 

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY 

(INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS) 

August 2007 

Copyright 2007 

Paul T. Levin

ii 

DEDICATION 

For Berna, 

Jonathan, and Alexander.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

iii 

There is perhaps a fine line between thanking those who helped make the 

present study possible and incriminating them. However, while the responsibility for 

the views and any errors in this dissertation are wholly my own, I could not have 

written it without the help, encouragement, and intellectual contributions of the 

individuals and institutions listed below. 

The Center for International Studies (CIS) at the University of Southern 

California (USC) provided financial support for my field research in Brussels and 

Istanbul as well as for my language studies in Istanbul. CIS also provided me with an 

office space and funding to write for one year as a Dissertation Fellow at the Center. 

The School of International Relations at USC funded my writing during my last 

semester and summer there in addition to having supported my several trips to 

present research in progress at conferences in the US and Turkey. Further sources of 

financial support for conference travel etc. came from the Graduate and Professional 

Student Senate at USC, the College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences at USC, which 

funded me for one semester and summer as a Strategic Theme Research Assistant, 

the Phi Beta Kappa Alumni Association, the Walter J. Danielson Scholarship in 

Diplomacy and International Affairs administered by the Swedish Club of Los 

Angeles, and the Robert L. Friedheim Memorial Fund. 

Many kind souls assisted me in one capacity or another during my research 

trips to Brussels and Istanbul. In the former, Hadar Cars and Johan Lilliehöök

opened their homes and put me in contact with many individuals in the major 

iv 

institutions of the EU, in which respect Daniel Tarschys was also more than helpful. 

Many of the EU officials and politicians that I interviewed as part of the background 

research into the topic were promised anonymity but they include Members of the 

European Parliament and their staff, officials on different levels in three different 

DGs in the Commission (Enlargement, Trade, and External Relations), in one 

member state’s Permanent Representation to the EU, in Turkey’s Permanent 

Representation to the EU, and in the Council of Ministers, as well as ambassadors to 

foreign nations and one ambassador to NATO. Others to whom I am in debt for their 

assistance during my trips include the staff at the library of the European Parliament 

in Brussels, Nathalie Tocci (Centre for European Policy Studies), Güldener 

Sonunmut, Luc Veron, Anthony Gooch, and Sven Backlund in Belgium. Prof. 

Meltem Müftüler-Bac, Sami Kohen, Prof. Halûk Kabaaliolu, Prof. Kemal Kirisçi, 

and ahin Alpay in Turkey. 

My work has benefited from the comments of panelists and audience 

members during presentations of earlier versions of some of the chapters at the 

following conferences: The Annual Conference of the International Studies 

Association (ISA) in Portland Oregon (February 28, 2003) and Hawaii (March 3, 

2005), ISA-West Annual Meeting in Las Vegas (October 2, 2004), and the Annual 

Meeting of the Western Political Science Association in Las Vegas (March 8, 2007). 

I also received valuable input following presentations at USC’s Center for 

International Studies (November 17, 2004) and the Third Annual Training Institute

v 

on Qualitative Research Methods at Arizona State University (January 5-16, 2004). 

Particularly helpful was the input from the discussants at the two last mentioned 

conferences, Prof. Laurie Brand and Prof. Cecilia Lynch. 

Other individuals that have commented on parts of this thesis include Prof. 

Stephen Toulmin, Prof. Iver B. Neumann, Prof. Andrew Wheatcroft, and my mother, 

Dr. Lena Hammarberg. I have greatly benefited from many late-night café 

conversations about my topic with my friend and colleague Sinan Birdal as well as 

with his brother Murat Birdal. Another friend and colleague, Eric Blanchard has read 

and critiqued earlier versions of several chapters and has served as the patient and 

knowledgeable target of my perpetual brainstorming on matters relating to IR theory. 

Prof. J. Ann Tickner has carefully read and commented on several of the chapters at 

different stages of their development and significantly contributed to their 

improvement. I have already mentioned Prof. Laurie Brand, who as a member of my 

Ph.D. Thesis Committee also read and gave penetrating but constructive criticism on 

the thesis in its entirety. As the outside member of my Committee, Prof. Timur 

Kuran also read the entire thesis and contributed invaluable insights and comments. 

The influence of my Ph.D. Thesis Committee chair, Prof. Hayward R. Alker, 

on the argument in the following pages is extensive. As I consider him my long-time 

mentor and a model of intellectual breadth, openness, and curiosity, his impact on 

my thinking is perhaps better indicated by the varied nature of the works cited in the 

bibliography – many of which he brought to my attention – than by its relatively 

sparse references to his own published writings. While the theoretical framework

developed in Chapter 1 and the argument developed in the body of the thesis are 

vi 

my original syntheses, for which I alone am responsible, my interest in such key 

themes as narrative, plot structures, roles, and scripts, in the importance of studying 

language and history in the discipline of international relations (IR), and in the 

possibility – perhaps even necessity – of approaching certain IR topics from an 

interdisciplinary point of view can be traced back to Prof. Alker, directly or 

indirectly. His passion for the study of IR and its improvement combined with the 

extraordinary range of his own learning has inspired and challenged me to be a better 

and more open-minded scholar. 

Last but certainly not least, I wish to acknowledge the support and suffering 

of my companion of 14 years, my wife Berna. I might have listed her with the 

institutions that have provided me with financial support but that would not have 

done justice to her many contributions. Were it not for her, I would probably not 

have chosen this topic in the first place and I would certainly not have been able to 

approach it from the privileged position of one who has been given a personal insight 

into another culture and thus can see things from two vantage points. It was 

sometimes difficult to write what essentially amounts to an inventory of malicious 

representations of a people to whom members of my immediate family belong, but 

my wife’s unwavering faith in the importance of the study and the manner in which 

her unique individuality and complex history always illustrated the ultimate 

inadequacy of simple stereotypes urged me on. For that and so many other things, I 

thank her.

TABLE OF CONTENTS 

vii 

Dedication 

Acknowledgements 

List of Tables 

Abstract 

Introduction 

Chapter 1. Theory and Method 

Chapter 2. Exclusive Identities and Military Defeat: From First 

Encounters to the High Middle Ages (c. 632-1050) 

Chapter 3. Inclusive Identities and Military Expansion: Latin 

Christendom in The High Middle Ages (c. 1050-1350) 

Chapter 4. “Europe” and “the Turk”: The Renaissance and the 

Reformation 

Chapter 5. Mahomet the Imposter: Old and New in 17 th and 18 th - 

century European Images of Islam 

Chapter 6. “The Cruel Turk” and EUtopia 

Chapter 7. Conclusion 

Works Cited 

Appendix: Party Groups in the European Parliament 

ii 

iii 

viii 

ix 

1 

26 

106 

142 

183 

251 

303 

381 

409 

435

LIST OF TABLES 

viii 

Table 1.1. Three Dimensions of Collective Identity (meaning, or 

what is signified) 

Table 1.2. Two Discursive Strategies per the Discourse-Historical 

Approach 

Table 1.3. Levels in Textual Analysis of Identity Narratives 

Table 7.1. Chronological List of Images and Certain Related 

Features 

Table 7.2. Features Typical of Images for Each Author/Period 

Table 7.3. Features Typical of Images Associated with Each Type of 

Meta-Narrative 

Table 7.4. Features Typical of Images Aimed at Internal Opponents 

or Allies 

28 

84 

101 

385 

389 

391 

393

ix 

ABSTRACT 

This dissertation examines medieval Christian images of Muslims and their 

influence on later European attitudes toward Islam and Turks. It elaborates a theory 

of collective identity as the dramatic or theatrical performance of a socially 

constructed collective Self that can be analyzed in three dimensions. The diachronic, 

or temporal, dimension is captured in the notions of historical meta-narratives and 

scripts. The two synchronic, or atemporal, dimensions are those of social space – 

anchored in the concepts of images and role-relationships – and physical space – 

further divisible into two ways of attaching importance to the physical setting for a 

given community. The empirical chapters of the dissertation examine a number of 

significant historical periods and cases. Two chapters look at Eastern and Latin 

Christendom from the Early to the High Middle Ages, two further chapters contain 

case studies of the writings of Martin Luther and Voltaire, and the last empirical 

chapter is a case study of debates in the European Parliament during the 1990s and 

early years of the 21 st century. A concluding disscussion considers similarities and 

differences in how Turks and/or Saracens were represented in different epochs. The 

thesis argues that the generally hostile depictions of Muslims found in medieval 

writings on theology, historiography, and politics were part of struggles over the 

construction of a common Christian identity, upon which a secular European identity 

was eventually constructed. It further aims to illustrate how our understanding of the

x 

European Union’s ambivalent posture toward Turkey can be advanced as a result of 

this historical investigation.

1 

INTRODUCTION 

ABOUT THE ARGUMENT 

This dissertation examines medieval Christian images of Muslims and their 

influence of on later European attitudes toward Islam and Turks. It argues that the 

generally hostile depictions of Muslims found in medieval writings on theology, 

historiography, and politics served in part to constitute a common Christian identity, 

upon which a secular European identity was eventually constructed. It further aims to 

illustrate how our understanding of the European Union’s ambivalent posture toward 

Turkey can be advanced as a result of this historical investigation. 

Most existing studies of European images of Muslims and/or Turks cover one 

particular epoch, 1 and the fewer histories of long durée either do not focus on the 

question of Turkish membership in the EU or give it too brief a consideration. 2 This 

1 For Christian images of Islam during the Middle Ages, see e.g. Norman Daniel, Islam and the West: 

The Making of an Image (Edinburgh: The Edinburgh University Press, 1960); John V Tolan, 

Saracens: Islam in the Medieval European Imagination (NY: Columbia University Press, 2002). For 

images of Ottomans during the European Renaissance, see Nancy Bisaha, Creating East and West: 

Renaissance Humanists and the Ottoman Turks (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: University of 

Pennsylvania Press, 2004); Robert Schwoebel, The Shadow of the Crescent: The Renaissance Image 

of the Turk (1453-1517), 2nd ed. (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1969). For the 16 th and 17 th centuries, 

Barbara Fuchs, Mimesis and Empire: The New World, Islam, and European Identities, ed. Stephen 

Orgel, Cambridge Studies in Renaissance Literature and Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University 

Press, 2001). For the 18 th century French Enlightenment, see e.g. Fatma Müge Göçek, East 

Encounters West: France and the Ottoman Empire in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Bernard Lewis, 

Itamar Rabinovich, and Roger Savory, Studies in Middle Eastern History (NY: Oxford University 

Press, 1987); Rebecca Joubin, "Islam and Arabs through the Eues of the Encyclopédie: The "Other" as 

a Case of French Cultural Self-Criticism," International Journal of Middle East Studies 32 (2000). 

For the 19 th and 20 th centuries, see e.g. Edward W. Said, Orientalism (N.Y.: Vintage Books, 1994). 

2 Andrew Wheatcroft, Infidels: A History of the Conflict Between Christendom and Islam (NY: 

Random House, 2003). is a good historical overview of the conflict between Islam and Christendom 

but does not discuss Turco-EU relations. The best study of the question of identity in the Turco-EU 

relationship is perhaps Iver B. Neumann, Uses of the Other: "The East" in European Identity

dissertation will contribute to existing scholarship by, first, documenting and 

2 

contextualizing Christian and European images of Muslims and Turks over the 

course of their entire history of interaction, not just a single period. Second, in doing 

so it will pay particular attention to continuities and discontinuities that have not 

been coherently studied in this context, primarily the gradual replacement of 

“Ishmaelites”, “Mahometans”, and “Saracens” (Muslims and Arabs) by Turks at the 

center of European fantasies about the Near East, and the transformation of Christian 

historical narratives into the secular narratives of the Enlightenment and Modernity 

and the roles accorded to Muslims and Turks in each. Third, this study attempts to 

show how this history matters today, with particular focus on the Turkish EU 

membership bid. Fourth and finally, the empirical analysis will be framed by a novel 

theoretical framework that understands collective identity construction processes 

through the metaphor of drama and theatrical performance. 

A full understanding of the prospects and challenges of Turkish accession to 

the EU requires consideration of the role of collective identity formation as it plays 

out in this relationship. This is so because the potential for membership of a majority 

Muslim country in the predominantly Christian European Union forces the 

reconsideration of fundamental questions, such as what it means to be European. As 

later chapters will lay out in greater detail, Christian European states and empires for 

centuries defined themselves in opposition to Islam and the Turkish Republic’s 

Formation, ed. David and Shapiro Campbell, Michael J., vol. 9, Borderlines (Minneapolis: University 

of Minnesota Press, 1999). However, his brief discussion of the Turkish EU membership application 

is now somewhat dated, and he covers the entire history of Europe – Turkey relations in only 22 

pages.

predecessor: the Ottoman Empire. Being Christian and being European meant, 

3 

among other things, not being a Muslim or Turk. Even so, a small but significant part 

of Turkey’s landmass is geographically located on the European side of what has 

long been conventionally understood as one of the boundaries between Europe and 

Asia – the Bosphorus. Indeed, the seat of Ottoman power was long situated far west 

of the straights, in Adrianople (today’s Edirne) and Ottoman power reached even 

further into Europe as they twice lay siege to Vienna and played an important role in 

European power politics for several centuries. Moreover, Turkey has since the 

creation of the Republic in 1923 embarked on a conscious project of 

Europeanization. In other words, the question of whether Turkey is a European 

country cannot be straightforwardly answered with a quick reference to an Atlas or 

history book, in part because Europe lacks clear geographic boundaries, in part 

because Turkey has legitimate claims to being both Asiatic and European. On 

Samuel Huntington’s map of the world, Turkey is split in two by the boundary that 

separates his Western and Islamic civilizations, for which reason he describes 

Turkey rather aptly as a “torn country”. These ambiguities have given rise to 

profound questions about Europe’s own identity and borders, certainly no less so 

after Turkey entered into accession negotiations with the Union. 3 

Given the long legacy of Europeans defining Europe’s borders – its 

denotation, if you will – as well as its meaning – or connotation – against Turkey and 

3 Elizabeth Shakman Hurd, "Negotiating Europe: the politics of religion and the prospects for Turkish 

accession," Review of International Studies 32 (2006). points out how the Turkish candidacy stirs up 

issues in Europe that many wrongly assumed to have been settled, such as the relationship between 

the church and state.

Islam, 4 a good explanation of contemporary reactions to Turkey’s application for 

4 

EU membership in EU countries requires a careful examination of precisely this 

history and of how it matters today. For this reason, this dissertation engages in a 

historical study of the processes by which peoples from diverse geographical regions 

and cultural, linguistic, and religious backgrounds have made sense of themselves as 

members of a group called “Christians” or “Europeans” in a place called 

“Christendom” or “Europe”, by telling stories of this place, its people and their 

interactions with Other, different peoples: “Saracens”, “Ishmaelites”, and “Turks”. 

Inclusive and Exclusive European Identities 

Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, former French president and in charge of the 

drafting of an EU Constitutional Treaty at the Convention on the Future of Europe, 

remarked in November 2002 that Turkey’s accession would mark the end of the 

Union because of the formers “different culture, ... different approach, ... different 

way of life”. In so doing, he gave voice to existing and widespread skepticism in 

Europe EU toward the prospect of Turkish membership. Nevertheless, EU officials 

were quick to distance themselves from his remarks. d’Estaing’s statement did not 

reflect official EU policy, they reassured Ankara. “L'Europe n'est pas un club 

chrétien", asserted one French representative at the Convention. The reaction was 

much the same when the outgoing Dutch EU Commissioner for the Internal Market, 

Fritz Bolkenstein, expressed his concern that the admission of Turkey would lead to 

4 This statement has been contested by Paul Rich, "European Identity and the Myth of Islam: A 

Reassessment," Review of International Studies 25 (1999). and need not be taken on face value. 

Following chapters will provide plenty of historical evidence as well as references to further research 

in support of it.

the “Islamization of Europe” and thus that the “deliverance of Vienna in 1683 will 

5 

have been in vain”. 5 

Such exclusionary statements are provocative to many proponents of 

European integration because they run counter to their view of Europe as something 

more than a static entity defined by culture or religion. According to this view, 

Europe is instead defined by a set of shared values or ideas. In the words of EU 

President Jean-Claude Juncker: “The recognition that men and women have 

inalienable rights is the very basis of the European idea. Observance of these rights 

[…] is a prerequisite for being part of the European family.” Thus, some have argued 

that we may see the Copenhagen Criteria – the first of which demands respect for 

human rights and the existence of a viable democracy for accession to the Union – as 

the hitherto most precise statement of a European identity. 6 

Substituting a set of universal political and humanistic values for cultural and 

religious criteria, this is a distinctly secular European self-image that (on most 

accounts) has its roots in the ideas of natural rights developed during the European 

Enlightenment and expressed in the French Declaration of the Rights of Man. The 

(supposedly) medieval identification of Europe with Respublica Christiana was 

rejected by 18 th -century thinkers like Voltaire, Kant, Rousseau, and Montesquieu in 

favor of secular notions of European unity. These pioneers were followed in the 

5 Peter Ford, "Wariness over Turkey's EU Bid," The Christian Science Monitor, June 10 2004. 

6 William Wallace, "Where does Europe end? Dilemmas of Inclusion and Exclusion," in Europe 

Unbound: Enlarging and Reshaping the Boundaries of the European Union, ed. Jan Zielonka (NY: 

Routledge, 2002)..

early 19 th -century by the likes of Saint-Simon and Augustin Thierry, the latter of 

6 

whom proposed a European project based not on a shared religion but on 

Enlightenment ideas emphasizing “peoples, parliament, and federalist principles”. 7 

Today’s proponents of a secular basis for a European identity carry on this legacy, 

favoring a secular and inclusive conception of Europe based on the above mentioned 

values and urging us not to return to an exclusive and ultimately medieval definition 

of Europe as a “Christian club”. 

These two competing European self-images – one inclusive, the other 

exclusive – will figure prominently in the historical analysis in later chapters. It may 

thus be instructive to illustrate them and the respective attitudes toward the Turkish 

candidacy that they typically engender, with quotes from two European politicians. 

Those who embrace an exclusive European identity are likely to emphasize the 

essential differences between a Europe that ultimately rests on Christian values and a 

mostly Muslim Turkey. The word “essential” is here carefully chosen to suggest both 

that such differences are centrally important and that they concern values that 

constitute the unchangeable essence of Turkey and Europe respectively. A statement 

by François Bayrou, leader of the center-right UDF party and at the time of writing a 

serious contender in the French presidential elections, illustrates this position as it 

pertains to the Turkish candidacy: 

7 Carl H Pegg, Evolution of the European Idea, 1914-1932 (Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North 

Carolina Press, 1983), p. 4..

La Turquie est un pays musulman qui n'appartient pas à l'Europe. Peut-on 

imaginer que le plus grand pays de l'UE soit le moins européen? 8 

7 

On this view, then, the fundamental differences between Muslim Turkey on 

one hand and Europe on the other mean that the former can never join the EU, at 

least not if the Union is to remain properly European. On the other side, those who 

support the more inclusive vision of Europe are likely to reject the argument that any 

such essential differences – whether religious, cultural, or racial – exist, or at least 

that they a priori disqualify Turkey from membership. This had been the actual 

position of the EU ever since the Commission in 1989 confirmed Turkey’s eligibility 

in principle (though postponing membership in practice) and some even argue that 

article 28 in the 1963 Association Agreement between Turkey and then EEC 

similarly held up membership as the ultimate goal of cooperation. These early 

assurances were seldom officially reiterated during the following decades and were 

often unofficially denounced, but at the 1999 Helsinki summit Turkey’s official 

candidacy status was finally affirmed. We could give examples of this position from 

official EU documents, but the rejection of the exclusivist attitude is expressed 

clearly enough by Francis Wurtz, president of the United European Left/Nordic 

Green Left party group in the European Parliament. Wurtz (also of the French 

Communist Party) strongly denounced those who opposed Turkish membership on 

religious or cultural grounds: 

8 “Turkey is a Muslim country that is not a part of Europe. Can one imagine that the largest country in 

the EU would be the least European?” François Bayrou , president of UDF, quoted in "Droite et 

Gauche Françaises sont Fortement divisées," Le Monde, August 11 2002.

C'est la position traditionnelle des forces conservatrices, qui considèrent 

l'UE comme un club chrétien où la Turquie n'aurait pas sa place. Nous 

ne partageons absolument pas cette conception. La Turquie aura sa 

place dans l'Union européenne si elle le désire dès lors qu'elle satisfait 

aux critères démocratiques valables pour tous les pays candidats. 9 

8 

Wurtz’ position is but the logical conclusion of the inclusive European selfimage 

expressed by EU President Juncker above. If the “European family” is defined 

by a set of political ideas regarding democracy and human rights, even a Muslim 

country like Turkey ought to be allowed to join this family as long as it embraces 

these ideas in both principle and practice. In reality, however, many (though 

certainly not all) proponents of an inclusive European identity are just as skeptical of 

Turkish membership as those who advocate an exclusive collective self-image, albeit 

for different reasons, chief among which are doubts that Turkey truly embraces these 

democratic ideals. Later chapters will show that we can find traces of these two 

broad types of collective identity in Christian and European writings about Muslims 

from the Middle Ages and onwards. The historical investigation will also raise some 

questions about how different these two identity-types really are and what they 

actually entail. 

OUTLINE 

A complete examination of all Christian and European writings on Muslims 

or Turks is beyond the scope of any single study, this dissertation included. 

9 “This is the traditional position of conservatives who consider the EU as a Christian club in which 

Turkey has no place. We certainly do not share this view. Turkey could have its place in the European 

Union if she wanted, as long as she satisfied the democratic criteria applicable to all candidate 

countries.” Francis Wurtz, European deputy and national director of PCF "Droite."

9 

Intuitively, two distinct methodological approaches emerge as possible responses to 

this problem of scope – the in-depth case study and the broad historical overview – 

each of which has strengths and weaknesses. Limiting itself to a particular area 

and/or short span of time, the single case study allows for a more exhaustive survey 

of relevant primary documents, thereby reducing the risk of missing important 

sources and giving a slanted or incomplete account of images studied. On the other 

hand, it allows neither comparison over time and space nor analysis of continuity and 

change, thus increasing the risk for the investigator of failing to see the forest for the 

trees. This study is concerned with individual images but also with the big picture, 

and the single case study does not seem appropriate for the latter task. This 

dissertation looks at what types of tree (i.e. image) dominate what areas of the forest, 

so to speak, how they grow and spread or die, what kind of soil they thrive in, and 

how they affect their surroundings. However, it also considers the forest as a whole 

(larger discourse formations that stretch over time), its growth and development, its 

interaction with the broader environment, its functions, and the uses made of it. This 

study does so by combining two approaches mentioned above, the broad historical 

overview in the first two empirical chapters of the dissertation and the in-depth 

approach in the multiple case studies of subsequent chapters. What follows is a more 

detailed outline of all chapters. 

Chapter 1. Theory and Method 

This chapter outlines the theoretical framework and methodology. The 

dissertation makes use of an interdisciplinary approach, drawing on social

psychology, 10 sociology, 11 cognitive linguistics, 12 and theories of narrative from 

10 

diverse disciplines 13 to develop a coherent and innovative theoretical framework that 

– despite the multiplicity of influences – we could simply call constructivist. To be 

more precise, however, it builds on work in social psychology and micro-sociology 

in conceptualizing identity as a synchronic (atemporal, “latitudinal”) and relational 

understanding of Self in relation to significant Others (role-relationships). Drawing 

on social psychology and literary theory, it also views identity as a diachronic 

(temporal, “longitudinal”) narrative of self, a biography that explains where we came 

from and that gives meaning to our lives. Finally, based on work on metaphors and 

conceptual blending in cognitive linguistics, this dissertation further argues that 

individuals in collectives such as nations and even civilizations understand 

themselves as part of such groups by projecting onto them similar important rolerelationships 

and historical narratives as the group relates to other groups and 

10 E.g. Peter J. Burke, "The Self: Measurement Requirements from an Interactionist Perspective" 

(paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Sociological Association, Chicago, 

September 5 1977); Peter J. Burke and Donald C. Reitzes, "The Link between Identity and Role 

Performance," Social Psychology Quarterly 44, no. 2 (1981); George J. McCall and J. L. Simmons, 

Identities and Interactions: An Examination of Human Associations in Everyday Life, Revised Edition 

ed. (NY: The Free Press, 1978); Henri Tajfel and John C. Turner, "An Integrative Theory of 

Intergroup Conflict," in The Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations, ed. W. G. Austin and S. 

Worchel (Monterey, CA: Brooks-Cole, 1979). 

11 E.g. Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the 

Sociology of Knowledge, First Anchor Books Edition ed. (NY: Anchor Books, 1989; reprint, 1989); 

Herbert Blumer, Symbolic Interactionism: Perspective and Method (Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: 

Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1969); Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (Woodstock, 

NY: The Overlook Press, 1973). 

12 E.g. George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and its 

Challenge to Western Thought (NY: Basic Books, 1999). 

13 E.g. Roland Barthes, "An Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narrative," New Literary 

History 6, no. 2 (1975); Margaret R. Somers, "The Narrative Constitution of Identity: A Relational 

and Network Approach," Theory and Society 23 (1994); Hayden White, The Content of the Form: 

Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation, 2nd ed. (Baltimore, Maryland: The John Hopkins 

University Press, 1987); Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth- 

Century Europe (Baltimore, Maryland: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973).

evolves over time. Because we make sense of, for example, a state using the 

11 

metaphor of the state or even a continent as a person, we can portray her as able to 

play certain roles in her relations with other states or to have a biography. A second 

synchronic dimension is particularly relevant for collective identities, since such 

collective actors are often seen as extending over a certain physical or geographic 

area. The basic notion underlying the theory of conceptual metaphors is that of the 

transfer of meaning from an object in one familiar area – the “source domain” – to an 

object in a different and unfamiliar area – the “target domain” – in order to make 

sense of the latter. This idea of transfer of meaning from “old” to “new” is also a 

more general theme throughout this dissertation. 

Because the construction and maintenance of such roles and narratives as 

were mentioned above is largely performed discursively, we can study identity 

construction by analyzing relevant discourses. Four kinds of Christian and secular 

European sources from 632 A.D. to the present day – fiction (poetry, plays, novels) 

theological tracts, historiographical writings, and political works and speeches that 

discuss Turks and/or Muslims – are here analyzed to identify the images they 

construct of the Muslim and Turkish Other. These images are subsequently 

interpreted in terms of the role(s) in which they place both the Muslim/Turkish Other 

and (by juxtaposition) the Christian or secular European Self, in terms of the spatial 

representation of these actors that emerges from the texts, and in terms of the 

historical narrative in which the roles are embedded. An interpretive methodology of 

qualitative text analysis that builds on work in Critical Discourse Analysis is

12 

employed, which – informed by the above theoretical suppositions and knowledge 

of the historical context – proceeds inductively to search relevant texts for 

descriptions that are then grouped together into distinct types. This typology is 

continuously refined and updated in a recursive process as the analysis proceeds. 

Using this methodology, we find images of Muslims and Turks and identify the roles 

they are given in various Christian and European historical narratives, as well as 

what roles Christendom and Christians, Europe and Europeans, are playing by 

juxtaposition. Through careful consideration of the use of these constructs in their 

historical context, we seek to identify the political, social etc. functions that they 

serve. 

Chapters 2 and 3: The Medieval Foundation. 

These two chapters together constitute a broad survey of Christian images of 

Muslims focused on a period that stretches from the first recorded encounters 

between eastern Christians and Muslims in the 7 th century until the mid 14 th century. 

Structured by the theoretical framework developed in Chapter 1, the textual and 

historical analysis in Chapters 2 and 3 aims to determine the outlines of the 

prevailing historical meta-narrative(s) of this period, identify the major images of the 

Muslim Other and the corresponding images of the Christian Self, identify any 

significant scripts, identify any significant spatial markers or tokens, and determine 

any links between tokens, scripts, images as well as their function in the metanarrative 

as well as their “practical” function for those that invoke them.

13 

Chapter 2: Exclusive Identities and Military Defeat: From First Encounters to the 

High Middle Ages (c. 632-1050) 

The first empirical chapter looks at early and primarily eastern Christian 

Medieval constructions of “the Saracen” and the “Ishmaelites” (Christian names for 

Muslims and Arabs during the Middle Ages) since it would be on this foundation 

that later European images Ottoman Turks would be built. 14 By placing their new 

and frightening foe in familiar roles acting out a Biblical narrative that tended toward 

Tragedy as the defining principle of the story – but where the ultimately happy 

ending was held out as the reward for those who prevailed – Christians made sense 

of their Arab conquerors and gained a sense of control, however illusionary, over 

their situation. Two such roles are studied here, both of which emphasized the 

fundamental difference between Christians and Muslims and were particularly suited 

for the tragic tone of this meta-narrative: Saracens as the Scourge of God’s Fury, a 

role in which they were punishment for Christian sins, and as the Antichrist or the 

Fourth Beast of the Apocalypse, in other words, roles portraying Muslims as an often 

dehumanized and fundamentally different Other. 

Placed in these two roles, Muslims and Arabs were not seen as subjects in 

their own right, possessing a legitimate or even competing religion, but rather as an 

instrument through which God communicated with his chosen people, their 

conquests being but the text in which God’s writing could be read. In the context of 

Arab expansion and Christian submission, it was the duty of Christians merely to 

14 “Over time new forms of condemnation proliferated,” argues Andrew Wheatcroft, “but they were 

all raised upon a framework initially elaborated within a few decades of first contact” Wheatcroft, 

Infidels, p. 51. Se also e.g. Chapter 4 in this dissertation.

14 

refrain from converting (being misled by the Antichrist) and to repent for their sins 

(for which the Arab conquerors were punishment). Only then would God again favor 

his people. The casting of Muslims in these roles thus functioned to reinforce 

Christian identity in times of great trials, and ultimately, then, the depictions of the 

Saracen and Ishmaelite Other in Christian writings of the time were not about 

Muslims, but about the Christians themselves. Using the terminology of semiotics 

somewhat loosely, we may say that (the image of) the Muslim Other was merely the 

sign or signifier that signified the role/identity of the Christian Self. 

Chapter 3: Inclusive Identities and Military Expansion: Latin Christendom in the 

High Middle Ages (c. 1050-1350) 

Chapter 3 considers later medieval European images of Muslims, according 

to which the latter were cast in the familiar roles of Pagans and Heretics and thus as 

different and inferior to Christians, but not fundamentally or irrevocably so. In fact, 

unlike the two roles discussed in Chapter 2, these more inclusive roles were part of a 

Biblical historical meta-narrative that had shifted toward the more optimistic Comic 

mode and these images even presented Muslims as possible candidates for 

conversion to Christianity. Nevertheless, an interesting and counterintuitive finding 

is that while the exclusionary images examined in Chapter 2 were frequently used in 

the context of Muslim conquests to argue against resistance to the new masters, the 

later, more inclusive images were more often used to spur Christians to violence 

against Muslims, who would face a choice between conversion and death. Much like 

those discussed in the previous chapter, these images first emerged in eastern 

Christendom and then traveled west to Europe. They were embraced there because

they were well suited to the growing self-confidence and strength of Latin 

15 

Christendom, which was the result of the drastic population growth and economic 

development of the 11th century and of the “Renaissance of the 12th century”. The 

inclusive and expansive self-images thrived during a time when Christians would go 

on the offensive – in the Crusades – rather than retreat. 

Paradoxically, this newfound aggressiveness also stemmed from a sense of 

spiritual uncertainty and a crisis of identity, particularly within the church. The 

growth of European cities and the expansion of economic activity generated not only 

wealth but also tremendous social stress and increasing demands for spiritual 

leadership that the often corrupt and promiscuous rural secular clergy (any ordinated 

priest below Bishop-level and outside of any of the religious Orders) failed to satisfy. 

We see the result in the rise of religious zealotry and the proliferation of heresies 

across Europe at this time. This chapter therefore argues that Pope Urban II’s call for 

a Crusade to retake the Holy Land now in “pagan” hands (at Clermont in 1095) 

should be seen as the inauguration of a protracted effort to reassert the church’s 

authority over the spiritual leadership in Latin Christendom. It was an attempt to 

unify Europe and control the often rebellious spiritual energy of the Pope’s subjects 

by focusing their attention and that of warring princes on an external enemy. 

Including Muslims in the category of Christian heretics also allowed Pope Innocent 

III to transfer the established legitimacy of violence against Muslims to violence 

against “internal” Christian heretics like the Cathars, a practice that had not been 

previously accepted. Placed in the same role as Muslims in the Holy Land, the

Cathars and many others became the internal enemy that threatened the spiritual 

16 

unity and purity of Christendom and were consequently subjected to genocidal 

attacks in the Church’s struggle to maintain their privilege of defining the identity of 

Christendom. 

This chapter also considers an uncommon but positive variation on the Pagan 

image: that of the Chivalrous Pagan. The most common instantiation of this image is 

found in the legends and stories surrounding Saladin during the High Middle Ages. 

Far from all portrayals of him were flattering, and he was more often seen as God’s 

punishment for the sins of the Christians living in the Crusader kingdoms. 

Nevertheless, he enjoyed an unusual degree of respect in Europe and in some texts 

becomes a righteous observer of the decadent state of European Christendom, in 

others a model compared to whom the sinful and impious Christians fall short. This 

variation of the Pagan image is significant because it shows both the possibility of 

imagining something different from the prevalent constructions of the Other, and its 

limits. Few if any surviving medieval texts were able to break free from the Christian 

Biblical meta-narrative and almost without exception, the use of the Chivalrous 

Pagan image was followed by a lament on the theme of: “If only he were a 

Christian!” Ultimately, this image, too, was about the Christians themselves – a 

means by which to reprimand and keep errant members of the own group in check 

and thereby maintain its boundaries. The same can be said of the image of the Lustful 

Muslim, which was also prevalent throughout the Middle Ages. Here, the Christian

preoccupation with sex and chastity generated fanciful accounts of Muslim 

17 

perversion and promiscuity that served to instruct Christians on how not to behave. 

Chapters 4 and 5: Reformers and Philosophes. 

The first two empirical chapters identified a basic Christian historical 

narrative, the typology of roles associated with it in which Muslims could be 

“placed”, and the manner in which medieval Christians employed them to construct a 

shared and distinct identity. Building on this foundation, chapters 4 and 5 examine 

what happened to this narrative and these roles during the Reformation and the 

Enlightenment (including a brief discussion of the Renaissance). One attempt to 

count the number of texts discussing the Near East during only the 16th century 

generated thousands of citations. Given this volume of material, it is not possible to 

conduct a broad survey of the kind found in the first two empirical chapters. Instead, 

the last three empirical chapters of this thesis make use a smaller number of 

“strategically” chosen case studies of important thinkers to se what became of the 

medieval legacy. 

Chapter 4: “Europe” and “The Turk”: The Renaissance and the Reformation 

This chapter argues that the European Christendom during the Renaissance 

and the Reformation saw four major transfers of meaning with respect to the images 

of Muslims previously identified. First, Ottoman Turks gradually took over the role 

as Europe’s and Christendom’s primary Muslim “Other”, inheriting the roles 

discussed above that formerly were used to depict Saracens, Agarenes, and 

Ishmaelites. Second, the growing European interest in the Classical heritage

18 

introduced ancient Greek frames of references with which the Christian metanarrative 

could be reinterpreted and elaborated by including new roles like that of the 

barbarian. However, this development did not constitute an eclipse of the Christian 

worldview by a radically different secular humanism, and the mostly Christian 

humanists retained the basic elements of medieval Christian images of the Saracen 

even as they rearticulated them in classical terms and applied them to the Ottoman 

Turks. Third, the Classical revival in Renaissance Europe involved the transfer of 

ancient Greek frames but also more recent – and very hostile – Greek Orthodox 

representations of the Turks who conquered Constantinople in 1453 and vanquished 

the Easter Roman Empire. Finally, beginning in the 15 th century many European 

representations of Turks were shaped as much by the proximity of the Ottoman 

military threat as by the European context of growing theological divisions between 

Catholics and Protestants. In many ways, this paralleled the manner in which rival 

eastern Christian sects had viewed the Arab invasions of the 7 th and 8 th centuries as 

divine comments on, or results of, their doctrinal disagreements. It also suggests that 

the image of “theTurk” had become so entrenched by the early half of the 16 th 

century that it could function as a model in its own right, which could be used for 

more or less benign purposes of interpreting other actors. 

The empirical core of the chapter is an analysis of Martin Luther’s views on 

Turks and Muslims, which shows that especially the exclusive medieval images were 

alive and well during the Reformation. Considering the 16 th -century context of 

Ottoman military advances relatively deep into Europe and the perception among

Luther and his Christian contemporaries that they were likely only years from 

19 

being conquered by the Sultan’s armies, this reaffirms our earlier observation that 

exclusive identities find fertile soil in communities where a siege mentality prevails 

and meta-narratives that tend toward Tragedy dominate. 

Chapter 5: Mahomet the Impostor: Old and New in 17 th and 18 th -century European 

Images of Islam 

This chapter continues of the themes from the previous chapter. Building on 

recent reinterpretations of the traditional understanding of the Enlightenment and the 

role of religion during this period, it argues that 17th and even 18th-century Europe 

experienced less of a radical break with a religious, medieval past than a gradual and 

uneven transformation in which Christian influences coexisted with a growing 

secular sphere. According to some historians, earlier research on the Enlightenment 

exaggerated the number of prominent European atheists and Deists as well as their 

political achievements. The famous correspondence between Leibniz and Samuel 

Clark were not – as is sometimes intimated – arguments between a Christian and an 

atheist: most proponents of Newton’s “philosophy” – including Newton himself and 

Samuel Clark – were freethinking but devout Christians. 15 And the milestone 

abolition in 1764 of the powerful Catholic order of the Jesuits in France was not, as 

Diderot’s co-editor of the Encyclopédie, d’Alembert claimed, the philosophes’ 

victory over the Catholic church. Instead, the victory properly belonged to the 

15 Leibniz was, in Voltaire’s words, “like Newton, worshiping a god, and seeking counsel of no man.” 

François Marie Areouet de Voltaire, "Letter to Frederick-William (of Prussia) Nov 28, 1770," in 

Voltarie: Candide and Other Writings, ed. Haskell Block, M (NY: The Modern Library, 1956), p. 

311.

20 

Catholic order of the Jansenists and their numerous supporters, many of whom sat 

in the increasingly assertive Parisian parlement that in the end prevailed over both 

King and Pope on the issue. 

With this in mind, this chapter examines how the “poster child” of the 

Enlightenment – Voltaire – portrayed Muslims in his famous play about Mohammed. 

It has been argued that Voltaire’s use religious imagery to criticize the church was 

indicative of 18 th -century Europe’s rejection of its medieval religious past, and the 

play has sometimes been depicted accordingly: as anti-Christian. This chapter 

compares and contrasts the images of Mohammed in the play with the two major 

kinds of images laid out earlier in the dissertation, and argues that despite important 

differences, the underlying logics of both the exclusionary and inclusive medieval 

images, and sometimes even the details, were retained in Voltaire’s new and more 

secular images. Following the sources of Voltaire’s depictions of the Prophet via two 

17th century biographies of Mohamed – by Pierre Bayle and Dr. Humphrey Prideaux 

respectively – these images are traced back to Christian writers of the Middle Ages. 

The analysis of Voltaire’s play generates four conclusions. First, the claims about 

Voltaire’s anti-Christianity are exaggerated. Second, regardless of his intentions, he 

perpetuated the medieval narrative and its images of Muslims. Third, in a 

fundamental sense Voltaire was still engaging in the same discursive activity as his 

medieval Christian forerunners, whose writings on Islam also constructed images of 

the Other that were really statements about the writers’ own identity and that of the 

group to which they belonged. If the medieval image of the Muslim Other was the

signifier of a Christian identity, the “Enlightened” version was the signifier of a 

21 

European identity. Finally, while the meta-narrative of the Enlightenment differed 

significantly from its Biblical predecessor, a number of important parallels ensured a 

continued place for older images of Muslims in the new meta-narrative. The latter 

was particularly conducive to the more inclusive type of identity and its 

corresponding images. As this analysis suggests, the extensive societal changes of 

the Enlightenment lead to transformations in, but not the abandonment of the 

medieval images of Muslims. 

Chapter 6: The Cruel Turk and EUtopia 

The last empirical chapter considers the more recent Turkey-EU history and 

the extent to which aspects of earlier images have been discarded, retained, or altered 

in contemporary Christian and secular images of Turkey and Turks. Using primarily 

debates and questions in the European Parliament, chapter 6 examines developments 

since 1995, when the Customs Union envisioned in the 1963 Association Agreement 

was finally completed and at which time the question of Turkish membership was 

again raised in earnest, beginning the process that has led to this year’s opening of 

Accession negotiations. The image of Turkey that emerges in Parliamentary debates 

on Turkish human rights abuse and treatment of the country’s Kurdish minority has 

much in common with earlier images, not the least with the more inclusive historical 

images described above. The latter images were, as we know, originally used to 

incite Christians in the Middle Ages to take up the Cross against Muslims. The 

Heretic Saracen could only be saved by converting to Christianity and the Sick Man

of Europe could be healed only by modernizing along the lines of the European 

22 

military, economic, and rational bureaucratic model. Similarly, it is a widely shared 

belief that the Turkey of today can only achieve lasting economic and political 

progress through the EU, and for this to happen it must of course first reform to meet 

the Copenhagen Criteria for membership in the Union – in other words, become 

more fully European. For, as one prominent EU scholar argues, “’Europe’ is 

identified with the EU; denial of accession to the EU is thus seen as a denial of the 

claim to share a European identity. 16 

Conclusion 

More or less consistently throughout the history of Christian as well as 

secular European depictions of Muslims and Turks, the value of the Other is 

measured by the degree to which it is like the European Self, and his ultimate 

salvation lies only in his complete assimilation and thereby the destruction of his 

separate identity. Furthermore, the function of telling stories about the Other is not 

primarily to understand him but to work out the meaning and boundaries of the Self 

by comparing and distancing it to the Other – thereby identifying what the Self is and 

what it is not or ought not be, only very seldom what it ought to be. The image of the 

Other functions as the signifier of the meaning of Self. At the core of European 

narratives about Muslims and Turks lies a contradiction between two kinds of 

attitudes toward the Other (and thus towards Europe itself): the first one inclusive – 

demanding assimilation – the second exclusive – requiring distance and difference; 

16 Wallace, "Where does Europe...?," p. 81.

in William Connolly’s words, identity as sameness and identity as difference. 

23 

Variations in emphasis between the two terms of this dichotomy can in turn be 

linked to changes in the tendency toward either Tragedy or Comedy in the historical 

meta-narrative that provides the interpretive frames and references for identity 

construction processes. It is this tension and the legacy of centuries of struggles over 

it, which generates the current ambivalent resistance toward the Turkish application 

for membership in the EU. 

A small number of historical meta-narratives, roles, scripts, and types of 

spatial attachment that served to reinforce the boundaries between the Christian or 

secular European Self and the Muslim or Turkish Other, have dominated the 

relationship between these communities for many centuries. We could describe the 

legacy of these constructions as an ideational structure that inhibits the imagination 

and prods Europeans to interpret themselves and the Other in certain specific ways 

so as to secure a separate European identity. Nevertheless, the Andalusian example 

and the existence of the rare alternative images of the Turkish and Muslim Other in 

history, such as the Chivalrous Saracen, show that it is possible to imagine 

something different and to create patterns of interaction with the potential to 

transform said structures. 

The European Union is presented with a difficult choice by proponents and 

opponents of Turkish membership: On the one hand the Union may accept the first 

Muslim country – which by then would likely be the most populous member state – 

and, as opponents point out, thereby extend the borders of Europe to Syria and Iraq.

This would significantly redefine the geographic area conventionally denoted by 

24 

the proper noun “Europe” as well as its intellectual and emotional connotation. On 

the other hand, supporters of Turkey’s membership bid argue, the Union can exclude 

Turkey from what will then be seen as a “Christian club”, run the risk of Turkey 

turning toward Islam and the east, and end up with an unstable Islamic state by its 

borders. Whether or not these scenarios are the only realistic possibilities, the 

outcome of the Turkish accession negotiations will have a profound impact on the 

greater region. Moreover, if, as this dissertation argues, identity concerns play an 

important part in this process, traditional international relations theories with their 

preoccupation with economics, institutions, or power politics and relative inattention 

to history are inadequately equipped to help us understand it. This is a topic with 

significant real world implications and better theory is needed to make sense of it. 

As a study of the historical construction of cross-civilizational encounters, 

particularly of that between Christians and Muslims, this dissertation also hopes to 

help us better understand more generally the very fragile and troubled relations 

between what has long been reified as two separate civilizations: Europe and the US 

on one hand and the Muslim world on the other. Casually following depictions of 

Muslims in US contemporary media while reading seventh and eight-century 

Christian representations of Muslims, it is often surprising how little has changed in 

the Millennium-and-half that has past since. A self-critical look at these images and 

the uses they have been put to throughout history is prerequisite for intercivilizational 

dialogue that is neither monologue nor aggression, and which may

even lead to the reconsideration of our civilizational boundaries. 

25

CHAPTER 1. THEORY AND METHOD 

26 

THEORY: A DRAMATURGICAL FRAMEWORK FOR UNDERSTANDING HISTORICAL SELF- 

OTHER RELATIONS 

The theoretical framework presented in this chapter is the result of an attempt 

to provide a structure and conceptual apparatus for the historical examination of 

collective identity construction processes. To this end, it draws on work in 

international relations, sociology, social psychology, history, and the history of ideas. 

More precisely, the ideas laid out here are informed by work on social 

constructivism, phenomenological sociology, role/identity theory, structuralist 

theories of narrative as well as certain post-structuralist work on discourse. Needless 

to be said, none of these theories nor their respective disciplines are exhaustively 

represented or “tested” in the historical analysis of the following chapters – which 

operates on a lower level of analysis – so if any hypotheses presented in this work 

fail to be borne out, this clearly need not refute the theories upon which it relies. 

Conversely, problems with the validity of assertions or interpretations in mentioned 

theories would affect the validity of claims put forth here only to the extent that they 

are premised on those specific assertions or interpretations. While in this way 

inspired and informed by a variety of sources, some of which may seem like strange 

bedfellows, the theoretical framework guiding this study stands on its own and – 

ideally – forms a coherent whole that suffers no more from internal contradictions 

than do all good theories of politics, society, or history.

Three-Dimensional, Performative Collective Identity 

The theory of collective identity construction proposed below has three 

27 

content dimensions, each of which this chapter will address in detail. This threedimensional 

view assumes that collective identities define how groups a) exist in and 

relate to physical space, b) interact with and relate to significant other groups in what 

we may call social space, and c) extend over time. The three constitutive dimensions 

are thus spatial/topographic, relational/social, and temporal/historical. Uniting them 

is a dramaturgical metaphor borrowed from Erwin Goffman and interpreted broadly 

as enacted storytelling (whether on stage or the screen), which captures the 

performative element of collective identities and emphasizes important aspects of 

each of the three dimensions. 17 Figure 1.1 presents a table listing these dimensions, 

the elements of each that are most relevant to this study, and how they fit in with the 

overarching dramaturgical metaphor. 

17 This framework also bears some resemblance to Kenneth Burke’s “dramatistic” pentad of 

“grammatical” elements, which he argues is present in all symbolic action. The pentad consists of the 

following elements: act (what is being done?), scene (where is it being done?), agent (who is doing 

it?), agency (how are they doing it?), and purpose (why are they doing it?). Burke’s dramatist theory 

of symbolic action is useful and partly overlaps with the approach developed here, but there is a 

difference in emphasis: his focus is on action whereas we are concerned with the construction of 

collective identity. We also try to avoid placing as heavy emphasis on the intention of the agent of a 

certain act as does Burke, since this brings up the difficult issue of trying to establish what he/she 

really meant by the act. Our focus is instead on the semantic structures and extra-linguistic context 

that imbue any symbolic act with its meaning regardless of the author’s intentions. See Kenneth 

Burke, A Grammar of Motives (NY: Prentice-Hall, 1945).

Table 1.1. Three Dimensions of Collective Identity (meaning, or what is signified) 

28 

(Synchronic) 

(Diachronic) 

Physical space (Who? Where?) Social space (What (not)?) Time (When? Where to/from?) 

Bounded territory (“set design”, 

representation of area associated 

with protagonists and 

antagonists: the besieged village 

or fortress, home, “tara”) 

Topophilia (identification 

with/representation of specific 

symbolic places: the “lion’s den” 

of the villain, the cowboy’s open 

prairie) 

Role relationships (actors 

inter-acting as standard 

characters: the hero and the 

villain, master and 

apprentice) 

Narratives – historical, 

autobiographical (the plot/story 

told in the script or play) 

Social scripts (recognizable, 

often genre-specific standardized 

scenes: the makeover, the 

cliffhanger opening, the final 

duel, the comeuppance) 

The dramaturgical metaphor is a useful heuristic when thinking about 

processes of collective identity construction in several ways. Perhaps most 

importantly, it highlights the centrality of narrative as a form of meaning structure 

that allows individuals and groups to organize their social world into a coherent and 

meaningful whole. If we begin with the reasonable assumption that trans-historical 

and collective identities like Christendom or Europeans are seldom if ever “natural”, 

“given”, or unproblematic entities we are compelled to examine how such entities 

are created, which in turn demands careful consideration of the constitutive function 

of historical meta-narratives. The latter provide a given group with a distinct history 

(its collective “biography”) and emplots the group within a larger story that imbues 

its past and current travails with a greater significance. Individuals can thereby 

identify with a collective actor in much the same way that the members of an 

audience identify with the protagonist of a play or film, the group in a sense 

becoming a character that relates to other groups in ways partly structured by the plot 

of the narrative. In other words, the interpretation of the collective “Other” and its

elationship to the collective “Self” (us and them) is conditioned by narrative 

29 

structures in ways analogous to how an actor’s interpretation of a given role and of 

how he or she can interact with the other characters is conditioned by the plot and 

character descriptions of the script being performed. Moreover, the suggestion 

implicit in the dramaturgical metaphor that collective identities – like characters in a 

play – must be performed is another one of its strengths. When it comes to more or 

less artificial entities like Europe, both territorial boundaries and membership need 

to be established and enforced, or in other words performed. 

History and Modern Sociology 

It is nearly a truism that our postmodern or late modern era is characterized in 

great part by the multiplicity and complexity of our social networks, the quantity and 

diversity of instantly accessible information, and the ease and frequency with which 

we interact or travel across great distances. 18 Contemporary social and cognitive 

psychologist have studied how, in order to function in such a complex world, we rely 

on coping mechanisms that reduce, simplify, categorize, contextualize, and evaluate 

the nearly infinite amount of data we continuously face 19 . Given that these studies 

were designed specifically to describe late modernity – a rather distinctive era – 

some may reasonably question their universality and be suspicious of any attempts to 

apply them to earlier modern or pre-modern eras. However, neither the challenges 

18 C.f. Manuel Castells, The Information Age: Economy, Society, and Culture. Vol I, The Rise of the 

Network Society, 3 vols., vol. 1 (Malden, MS: Blackwell Publishers, 1998).. 

19 W. Bentley MacLeod, "Complexity, Bounded rationality, and Heuristic Search," Contributions to 

Economic Analysis and Policy 1, no. 1 (2002); Douglas L. Medin, Bria H. Ross, and Arthur B. 

Markman, Cognitive Psychology, 3rd ed. (San Diego: Harcourt College Publishers, 2001), pp. 430- 

432, ff. 539.

arising from the complexity of social interaction nor the coping mechanisms 

30 

developed to deal with it is something unique to our time. While Christians in 

seventh-century Syria or Medieval Europe were not able to surf the Internet, follow 

the multiple simultaneous storylines of several sit-coms, or fly across the globe in a 

matter of hours, they nevertheless had to deal with the near unending stream of 

sensory perceptions and information that characterizes human existence. 

Moreover, their daily social environment was multifaceted and included a 

number of distinct but overlapping social networks related to their family, church, 

village or town, or workplace. They faced a multitude of sources of authority and 

objects of loyalty, including the head of the household, village elders, local clergy 

and patron saints, feudal lords, monarchs or emperor/empress, pope or patriarch, 

Jesus Christ, and God. They also concurrently experienced or were aware of macrolevel 

phenomena such as wars and foreign invasions, plagues, draughts, doctrinal 

controversies, and the existence of different ethnic groups and even competing 

religions. In short, the fact that social life in Europe during the Middle Ages or later 

epochs appears simple relative to late modern societies should not obscure the fact 

that the absolute level of social complexity in the 12 th century required coping 

mechanisms much as life in 21 st -century Europe does. 

While some of the coping mechanisms or interpretive practices in question 

are likely culturally and historically specific, some concepts developed by modern 

psychologists and sociologists can be fruitfully applied to earlier epochs such as 

those examined in later chapters, if this is done with sufficient caution. This is less a

statement about the universality of the human condition than a suggestion that we 

31 

use one set of theoretical and methodological tools (to the extent possible) to 

determine the respective importance of universals versus historical contingencies. 

The following section outlines these theoretical tools and concepts. 

The Relational, Social Dimension: Roles, Role/identities, and Images 

For individuals in Medieval Europe and Eastern Christendom as for us today, 

one of the fundamental coping mechanisms was the practice of grouping objects and 

people with which they interacted into types. In The Social Construction of Reality – 

a seminal study of the sociology of knowledge that informed the work of pioneering 

IR Constructivists like Nicholas Onuf and Alexander Wendt – sociologists Peter 

Berger and Thomas Luckmann describe the process of typification of people as 

placing them in various roles, which not only “define” these Others but also their 

relation to ourselves. 20 Schank and Abelson (borrowing from L. Hemphill) use the 

concept of role-specific “expectancy rules” to represent how embracing a certain role 

gives rise to expectations of certain behavior. 21 Social interaction was and is greatly 

simplified by the fact that such expectations – normative and/or anticipatory – are 

typically part of the social stock of knowledge available to all actors in a particular 

situation. Both the Medieval priest and his parishioners, or the feudal lord and his 

20 Berger and Luckmann, Social Construction, pp. 30, 72-79. 

21 Roger Schank and Robert Abelson, Scripts, Plans, Goals and Understanding: An Inquiry into 

Human Knowledge Structures (Hillsdale (NJ): Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1977), pp. 119-120, 

144. Hayward R. Alker introduced me to this joint work in artificial intelligence (AI) and 

computational natural language comprehension, written by a psychologist and a computational 

linguist. Few IR scholars know of this canonical albeit now somewhat dated work on AI, but its 

formalized model of human symbolic interaction provided the inspiration for many of the ideas 

outlined in this chapter.

prince, knew their respective roles and acted according to their understanding of 

32 

the typical relation between these roles. On the other hand, interaction became 

difficult when there was substantial disagreement over what roles the actors were 

playing or what type of behavior was to be expected from someone playing these 

roles, and I it seems likely that cross-cultural differences in the “repertoire” of roles 

were a major source of such disagreement in the context of Christian-Muslim 

encounters. 

We do not only typify others into roles, but also ourselves, and the same can 

be said of Medieval Christians. Based on symbolic interactionist work on 

role/identity by George J. McCall and J. L. Simmons, Sheldon Styker, and Peter 

Burke 22 , we can describe an important element of any person’s identity as the 

collection of those of his/her roles that (i) are most frequently invoked in social 

interaction (saliency) and that (ii) define the relationships to which he/she is most 

committed (affective importance). In a simplified example, a pious rural priest in 

Medieval Europe may have defined himself primarily through interaction with one 

significant other, the members of his congregation, with whom he interacted daily 

and who occupied a central place in the rather lonely life of our celibate priest. Apart 

from the formal (but not unimportant) roles of priest and his parishioners, he may 

have used Biblical templates and viewed them, metaphorically, as a “flock of sheep” 

and himself as their spiritual “shepherd”. This example illustrates the inherently 

22 Burke, "The Self"; McCall and Simmons, Identities and Interactions; Sheldon Stryker, Symbolic 

Interactionism: A Social Structural Version (Menlo Park, CA: The Benjamin/Cummings Publishing 

Company, 1980).

social and relational nature of roles, and suggests that the manner in which our 

33 

priest represented the other was of central importance for defining his own roleidentity 

(and vice versa). Burke urges us to recognize that there is an intimate 

“relationship between identities and counteridentities – that people defined 

themselves as much by what they are not as by what they are.” 23 

Burke further argues that we represent the other in any social interaction or 

relationship mentally, by an idealized (or ideal-typical) “image” in which the other is 

playing the role that corresponds to his/her/their place in the relationship. Our own 

role-identities are similarly represented in an image of the role that represents our 

place in said relationship. 24 These images tend to have affective connotations of 

varying strengths and valence, but we will see how most medieval Christian 

representations of Muslims were highly negative. As our example with the priest 

suggests, these mental images need not be exclusively visual images although this is 

often an important component, especially when the image is metaphorical. It is 

unlikely that our priest actually literally identified himself with the role of spiritual 

“shepherd” to the extent that he would have mentally represented a member of his 

congregation by the corresponding image of a sheep, when interacting with said 

parishioner! In a less simplified example, any metaphorical self-images where he 

was herding his “sheep” to greener pastures or correcting any member who walked 

astray would more likely have been but a contributing element in a more complex 

23 Burke, "The Self", pp. 10-11. 

24 Burke, "The Self"; Burke and Reitzes, "Identity and Role Performance," pp. 83-92; McCall and 

Simmons, Identities and Interactions; Stryker, Symbolic Interactionism, p. 132.

34 

and sophisticated understanding of the central role he occupied with respect to his 

congregation. Regardless, images provide researchers with a way of studying 

role/identities that otherwise may well be unobservable. 

(Stereo)Types 

According to Berger and Luckmann, typifications of social interaction, and 

thus of the Other, become increasingly anonymous “the farther away they are from 

the face-to-face situation.” 25 With this progressive anonymity and abstraction of 

types and roles, the latter are increasingly unlikely to capture all the specific 

characteristics of any given individual whom we place in these roles. We can then 

say that a stereotype is the persistent typification of certain people into one type or 

role that tends to function as a counteridentity, that it is constructed in a more rather 

than less anonymous process and therefore often lacks direct observational support, 

and that it is represented by an image of an Other that often carries a negative 

affective association. This theoretical framework calls attention to the fact that 

stereotypes are coping mechanisms, that they function partly to simplify our 

understanding of and interaction with a multitude of dissimilar others by grouping 

them into a type, a known Other who is supposed to have certain characteristics 

(therefore, e.g. actual Turkish individuals become mere instantiations of “the Turk”) 

and occupies a familiar role with known expectancy rules. 

This may seem counterintuitive since stereotypes instead often have the 

effect of producing a lack of agreement on the roles that the Other as well as we 

25 Berger and Luckmann, Social Construction, p. 31.

ourselves play (a result of their distorting and sometimes hate-filled 

35 

characterization of the Other), which complicate rather than simplify interaction. It 

runs counter to our intuition for good reasons. Of course, interaction is not always 

benevolent or cooperative, and in the case of violent or discriminatory actions, 

hateful stereotypes may simplify the task of the persecuting party. Had our pious 

priest taken up the cross and embarked on one of the Crusades to the Holy Land, it 

would have been easier for him to kill “stereotypified” pagans or heretics than it 

would have been had he seen them as individuals with names, families, and their 

own stories. However, there are instances in which stereotypes are not meant to 

simplify interaction with an other, but rather to limit or avoid interaction altogether. 

To the extent that a stereotype is a counteridentity, its function is to help define our 

own identity by juxtaposing it to the stereotypical other. With respect to some 

counteridentities, our intuition that stereotypes problematize interaction is correct, 

because any open lack of agreement between self and other on their respective roles 

may constitute a threat to the identity constructed for self, and interaction increases 

the risk of revealing this disagreement. Solutions to this problem include attempts to 

limit or avoid interaction and attempts to either impose one’s own typifications by 

force or vanquish the other. As we shall see, the representations of the Muslim Other 

examined in this dissertation fall in both of these categories of counteridentities. 

Social/Intersubjective Identities and Collective Identities 

Stereotypes, role/identities, and typifications in general are seldom held only 

by isolated individuals. As a rule, they are intersubjective or social constructs, and

are often “inherited” from previous generations. We obviously could not feasibly 

36 

re-invent language every time we open our mouth and expect to be understood; 

instead, we have to rely on pre-established meanings and grammatical rules. In much 

the same fashion, our rural priest would not invent the roles of head of congregation 

or crusader priest from scratch but rather enter into or assume this role along with the 

pre-existing social expectancy rules with respect to how a rural priest or crusader 

priest ought to and normally does behave. When performing the part of the priest, he 

contributed to the social reproduction of the role. At the same time, he would often 

have needed to interpret how it applied to a particular situation and sometimes 

improvise, thereby potentially altering the expectations associated with the role. Not 

only he, but also his counterpart in any particular interaction contributed to this 

ongoing dialectic process of acting out and re-writing typifications, a process that 

one could call structuration, to use Giddens’ word. 

These social constructs, then, emerge out of social, meaningful interaction. 

The most important kind of such interaction is linguistic, or discursive. 26 Not only 

26 For George Herbert Mead, language was a social process whereby significant (meaningful) gestures 

are exchanged. Vocal gestures were but one special type of gesture, other significant gestures were 

non-verbal, such as a nod or a wink. What characterized significant as opposed to non-significant 

gestures was that the former “called out” the same response in the other as in him/herself. Language 

enables us to “hold” these responses in the “mental field” of the individual, “so that they are there in 

relation to that which we indicate.” George Herbert Mead, George Herbert Mead on Social 

Psychology, selected papers, edited and with a revised introduction by Anselm Strauss (Chicago: The 

University of Chicago Press, 1977), p. 175. (But see also 154 ff., 168-169, 174). Searle embraces a 

rather similar view of language when he writes that a crucial distinguishing feature of linguistic (as 

opposed to non-linguistic) communication is that when taking some mark or sound for a linguistic 

piece of communication, a message, I must assume that it was created by someone else as a result of a 

certain kind of intentional behavior (i.e. the message “calls out” the same reaction in both of us). He 

also suggests that “Speaking a language is engaging in a (highly complex) rule-governed behavior.” 

John R. Searle, Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language (NY: Cambridge University 

Press, 1976), p. 12.. See also the chapters by John J. Gumperz (pp. 215-228), Emanuel A. Schegloff

does language allow for complex meaningful interaction among a multitude of 

37 

actors, it also provides an external “memory bank” where information about roles, 

types, and stereotypes can be stored and transmitted over time and space. As Fentress 

and Wickham point out, social memory is to some extent historically and culturally 

contingent, and during the Middle Ages the written word played a less central role in 

the transmission of social memory than did oral media like songs and folk tales. 27 

“Discursive”, as used here, is not restricted to written texts but includes oral 

discourse, nevertheless, the importance of oral communication during the Middle 

Ages poses problems for historians, who – lacking direct access to medieval oral 

history – are generally limited to those written texts that have survived, but there are 

ways to deal with these problems. 

Like the Song of Roland, many of the more important products of the oral 

tradition were at some point written down, or at least they substantially informed 

writers of poems such as the Middle English romance King Horn. Plotlines and 

characters from folk-tales or Biblical episodes of perceived social and political 

relevance, populated with contemporaneous individuals were depicted in visual form 

of varying permanence, including the decorative art and very architecture of many 

medieval churches. We therefore have some indirect access to medieval popular 

discourses, and using triangulation and contextual knowledge we can make informed 

(pp. 229-249), and Monica Heller (pp. 250-264) on discourse as a form of interaction, all in Deborah 

Schiffrin, Deborah Tannen, and Heidi E. Hamilton, eds., The Handbook of Discourse Analysis 

(Malden, MS: Blackwell Publishers Ltd., 2001). 

27 James Fentress and Chris Wickham, Social Memory, New Perspectives on the West (Cambridge: 

Blackwell Publishers, 1992).

guesses about some of their features. Careful reading of a text and knowledge of 

38 

its context will often reveal clues as to whether its interpretations and assertions run 

counter to prevailing norms or is representative of mainstream ideas. For our 

purposes, Christian apologetic tracts or transcriptions of sermons are particularly 

illuminating because they tell us what occupied the attention of the clergy, whose 

weekly sermons were central to the oral dissemination of knowledge, rumors, and 

propaganda, to the perpetuation of the kind of images we are concerned with here, 

and to the construction of a shared Christian identity. Generally, medieval historical 

writings are less interesting to us because they tell us what actually happened than as 

evidence of what their authors deemed worthy of preservation and of how they made 

sense of their world. 

As they have been described so far, roles and role/identities are both 

relational – in the sense of requiring a significant other – and social – in the sense of 

typically predating the individual who assumes the role and in the sense that in so 

doing, he agrees to abide by the conventionally and socially defined expectancy rules 

associated with it. However, this dissertation is concerned with historical processes 

of constructing collective – not just relational and social – identities. We may 

condense the assumptions about the relations between these three aspects of 

role/identities in a simple statement: All role/identities are relational and social, but 

not all are collective. 28 To illustrate, our priest would likely have identified himself 

28 I should perhaps write “almost” because it appears theoretically possible for a person to invent an 

entirely new relational role/identity that pertains only to him/herself and a particular other, without 

relying on preexisting social norms and constructs or intersubjective understandings (including the

as not only the spiritual shepherd of his congregation, a social and relational 

39 

identity, but also as a Christian. Being Christian is obviously a socially constructed 

identity but it is also a collective identity since it entails being a member of a larger 

group or collective. Like other role/identities, collective identities are associated with 

expectancy rules that motivate and direct individual behavior, but collectives are 

typically also represented metaphorically as entities or actors in their own right – 

“States are people too”, in Alexander Wendt’s playful words 29 – with roles to play 

and with expectancy rules that apply to their actions. Thus, our fervent priest would 

likely have understood the whole of Christendom as an actor possessing the ability to 

have relationships and interact with, for example, “the Ishmaelites” or “the Ottoman 

Turk”. Indeed, as experimental work on social identity theory (SIT) has shown, these 

relationships are essential to the formation of collective identities. 30 

The Temporal, Historical Dimension I: Scripts 

Typifications of the collective Self and corresponding Others are perpetuated 

in the discourses that form the various repositories of a society’s cultural heritage – 

in our case poems, theological tracts, dramas, historical chronicles etc. – and are in 

this sense necessarily social. In analogous fashion, just as individuals do not hold 

such constructs in autistic isolation, the typifications themselves are not stored in 

disjointed lists. Instead, the typified collective Self and Other in these documents 

agreement of the other in question). In practice, however, this would seem to be extremely infrequent 

and would likely lead us to typify this person as mentally ill. A non-relational role/identity is not 

theoretically conceivable as the latter are relational per definition. 

29 Alexander Wendt, Social Theory of International Politics, ed. Steve Smith, vol. 67, Cambridge 

Studies in International Relations (NY: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 215.. 

30 Tajfel and Turner, "An Integrated Theory."

40 

were frequently depicted as acting out their mutually constitutive roles in the form 

of typified characters in a number of conventionalized scenes or episodes. The latter, 

which we shall call scripts, were in turn framed as scenes or acts in a larger story that 

imbued its component parts with a greater significance. The notion of roles has been 

examined above and the question of narratives will be addressed below, but what 

about that other component of historical meta-narratives: the episode or script? This 

idea derives from the notion – found mainly within the tradition of 

phenomenological sociology – of the social script. It there refers to an often unstated 

but formulaic or ritualized set of “instructions” for how to act in a specific 

interaction-situation, such as during Holy Communion, usually presented in a 

narrative format with actors playing assigned roles, such as priest and recipient of the 

Sacrament, interacting in a predetermined sequence. 31 Knowledge of such scripts is 

part of the commonsensical “background competence” of any “well-adjusted” 

individual in society; it allows individuals to organize their interactions against the 

background of a shared understanding of the proper ordering of their behavior 

(“ordering” in the dual sense of organizing by imposing a manageable structure as 

well as establishing a chronological order). Unlike the ethnomethodological notion 

of social scripts, the scripts examined in this dissertation are not “unstated” since we 

find them in written texts, and they are – at least on the face it – descriptions of 

31 This conception of scripts is similar to that developed in Schank and Abelson, Scripts, Plans, Goals. 

They elaborate on the restaurant example.

certain types of situations rather than instructions for how to behave in them, 

41 

though we shall see that the latter distinction breaks down upon further scrutiny. 32 

Considering its narrative form, the script could be seen as a rudimentary kind 

of narrative but a more precise usage distinguishes the script from the more general 

narrative, which does not provide as detailed behavior guidelines as the former and 

which may in itself contain any number of scripts within its folds. Better to think of 

scripts in terms of the various kinds of standardized sequences of events or episodes 

that we normally find to varying extent in different genres of narrative storytelling, 

including drama and film. This notion roughly corresponds to the limited number of 

standardized story functions that Vladimir Propp found in all Russian folk tales, 33 to 

Lévi-Strauss’ mythemes, and to the basic component of any narrative that Roland 

Barthes terms the sequence: 

A sequence is a logical string of nuclei [small units of text], linked 

together by a solidarity relation: the sequence opens when one of its 

terms is lacking an antecedent of the same kin, and it closes when 

another of its terms no longer entails any consequent function. To 

take a deliberately trivial example, consecutive functions like ordering 

a drink, receiving it, consuming it, and paying for it, constitute an 

obviously closed sequence, for it is not possible to mention anything 

prior to the ordering or posterior to the paying, without moving away 

from the homogenous set designated as consummation. Indeed, a 

sequence is always nameable. 34 

32 One of the assumptions guiding Alker’s analysis of the plot-structure of Toynbee’s Jesus story is 

precisely the rejection of this distinction: “Descriptive story elements should be readable as imitable 

and modifiable recipes for human behavior” Hayward R. Alker, Rediscoveries and Reformulations: 

Humanistic Methodologies for International Studies, ed. Steve Smith, Cambridge Studies in 

International Relations (NY: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 113. 

33 See below. 

34 Barthes, "Introduction to the Structural," p. 253.

Like sequences, scripts are episodic: they have a clear beginning and an 

42 

end and are thus (in a sense) self-contained. They are usually organized 

chronologically, consisting of a sequence of events that unfold according to the 

script. They are nameable, which is another way of saying that they are typifications. 

When Claude Lévi-Strauss describes native Canadian clan stories as “histories which 

are highly repetitive; the same type of event can be used several times, in order to 

account for different happenings”, he is observing the existence of a limited number 

of types of scripts available to any given culture. 35 Specific types of scripts are often 

associated with specific roles. For example, Chapter 2 argues that the casting of 

Muslims in the role of the Antichrist evoked the Apocalyptic or Eschatological 

Script. As this example reveals, the activation of a certain script often gave important 

clues as to where in the historical meta-narrative the actors found themselves. 

Medieval Christians who interpreted current events as following the Eschatological 

Script situated their time near the end of the Biblical historical narrative. This 

example also illustrates that scripts (like roles) gain their full significance only when 

embedded within a larger story, such as the Christian narrative of the world from 

Creation through the Fall, Incarnation, and Resurrection to the Second Coming. The 

simple invocation of the Eschatological Script implied that the Apocalypse was near 

at hand and thus also Christ’s Second Coming, which would inspire both fear and 

hope in Christians familiar with the Biblical historical meta-narrative. The next 

35 Claude Lévi-Strauss, Myth and Meaning: Cracking the Code of Culture (NY: Schocken Books, 

1995), p. 40.

section presents a conceptualization of such narratives and discusses how they 

43 

contribute to collective identity construction processes. 

The Temporal, Historical Dimension II: Narratives 

According to Roland Barthes, “there is not, there has never been anywhere, 

any people without narrative… Like life itself, it is there, international, 

transhistorical, transcultural.” 36 Similarly, Hayden White argues that narrative – 

described as a “meta-code” that transcends particular cultures – is so pervasive in 

human experience that “the absence of narrative capacity or a refusal of narrative 

indicates an absence or refusal of meaning itself”. 37 Such claims are ambitious, but 

we need not go quite as far as Barthes or White in asserting the ubiquity of narratives 

to admit their enormous significance and prevalence in the kinds of documents 

examined in this thesis. The creation of historical or biographical narratives is a 

powerful – and, yes, perhaps inescapable – means by which individuals and 

groupings as large as entire civilizations make sense of their world and their place in 

it. 38 Autobiographical narratives explain how and why we came to be where (and 

what) we are now, and often project where we are heading in the future. Paul 

Ricoeur suggests that in “narratives the self seeks its identity on the scale of an entire 

life”. 39 According to Berger and Luckmann, such a “biography is a reflected-upon 

whole in which the discrete actions are thought of not as isolated events, but as 

related parts in a subjectively meaningful universe”. The meanings of this universe 

36 Barthes, "Introduction to the Structural," p. 237. 

37 White, The Content of the Form, pp. 1, 2. 

38 See e.g. Somers, "The Narrative Constitution." 

39 Paul Ricoeur, Oneself as Another, trans. Kathleen Blamey (Chicago: The University of Chicago 

Press, 1994), p. 115.

“are not specific to the individual, but socially articulated and shared.” 40 As we 

44 

will see, Christians during the Middle Ages sought their identity in biblical worldhistorical 

narratives and later Europeans also developed historical meta-narratives 

within which they constituted their common “European-ness”. 

So much for what we do with historical meta-narratives, but what are they? 

On the most basic level, narration is how we tell stories and historical narratives 

consequently tell stories about the past. According to Hayden White, an essential 

component of historical stories is the element of chronology. The events described in 

historical narratives are arranged “in the temporal order of their occurrence”, but this 

is not enough, this sequence of events must then also be “organized into a story by 

the further arrangement of the events into the components of a ‘spectacle’ or process 

of happening, which is thought to possess a discernable beginning, middle, and 

end.” 41 Only when narrated in this fashion are the events “revealed as possessing a 

structure, an order of meaning, that they do not posses as mere sequence.” 42 White 

distinguishes historical narratives from two other forms of historical presentation, the 

annals and the chronicle. The annals form “lacks completely this narrative 

component, since it consists only of a list of events ordered in chronological 

sequence.” The chronicle aspires to narrate events as “spectacles” or as part of a 

story, but differs from historical narratives in its “failure to achieve narrative closure. 

40 Berger and Luckmann, Social Construction, p. 65. 

41 White, Metahistory, p. 5. 

42 White, The Content of the Form, p. 5.

45 

It does not conclude as much as simply terminate.” 43 Building on White, Margaret 

Somers suggests that “causal emplotment” “permits us to distinguish between 

narrative on the one hand, and chronicle or annales, on the other”, 44 adding that 

another “crucial element of narrativity is its evaluative criteria”. 45 

Chapter 2 will challenge the assertions that annals and chronicles necessarily 

lack causal emplotment and evaluation, but we are less concerned with 

distinguishing between different kinds of historical discourse than with identifying 

the characteristics common to all historical narratives. For that purpose, we can be 

satisfied with the following tentative sketch: A historical narrative claims to tell a 

true story about the past and is characterized by chronological arrangement, 

dramatization, emplotment, evaluation, and (perhaps) narrative closure. The term 

“historical meta-narrative” is intended to signify what Hayden White calls the “deep 

structure of the historical imagination” of a given period. 46 It is “meta” because it 

exists beyond any specific narrative text (even though some meta-narratives might be 

traced to single texts, such as the Bible, which serve as the foundation for the larger 

narrative). For example, later chapters will argue that medieval Christian chroniclers 

wrote historical narratives that both presumed and perpetuated a view of the world 

that was given by the Christian historical meta-narrative, while certain 

Enlightenment historians framed their writings on the past in ways consistent with a 

dominant Enlightenment meta-narrative of history. The notion of historical meta- 

43 White, The Content of the Form, p. 5. 

44 Somers, "The Narrative Constitution," pp. 616-617. 

45 Somers, "The Narrative Constitution," p. 617. 

46 White, Metahistory, p. 2.

narrative does not preclude the possibility of several competing and/or partially 

46 

overlapping historical meta-narratives co-existing at any given point in time, nor 

does it deny that meta-narratives can be transformed, recontextualized, or discarded 

entirely over time or that a dominant meta-narrative may face challenges and 

resistance. Conversely, we should be equally open to the possibility that one metanarrative 

may achieve hegemony or near hegemony over the popular “imagination” 

of a given time, and that it may display resilience over time. As Northrop Frye 

writes: 

The Bible is the supreme example of the way that myths can, under 

certain social pressures, stick together to make up a mythology. A 

second look at this mythology shows us that it actually became, for 

medieval and later centuries, a vast mythological universe, stretching 

in time from creation to apocalypse, and in metaphorical space from 

heaven to hell. 47 

Frye’s “mythological universe” is nearly equivalent to what we have in mind 

when using the term “historical meta-narrative” and, indeed, the very Christian 

mythological universe that according to him prevailed over many centuries will 

feature prominently in following chapters. 

The Spatial Dimension: Spaces and Places 

We have observed that human communities understand themselves as 

extending over both time and social space, but we must not forget that they also 

inhabit a physical space. That many groups identify more or less strongly with a 

certain territory is vividly illustrated by the nationalist preoccupation with the 

47 Northrop Frye, The Secular Scripture: A Study of the Structure of Romance, 5th ed. (Cambridge, 

Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1976), p. 14.

“fatherland” or “motherland”, and the territorial state. As Daniel Deudney puts it, 

47 

“national identities and communities are constituted by a ‘here-feeling’ derived from 

the shared habitation of a place, as well as by a ‘we-feeling’ of group solidarity and 

attributes shared in common” (emphasis added). 48 A highly territorial collective 

identity assumes the existence of a given area within which only members of the 

group do or should live, and the possibility of drawing clear boundaries that 

demarcate the territory. Alternatively, a group may emphasize its ties to one or 

several highly symbolic places rather than claim the exclusive right to populate a 

larger area. Citing Yi-Fu Tuan 49 , Deudney uses the evocative term topophilia to 

describe an attachment to either a place or territory, but we will here use it only in 

reference to the identification and attachment to specific and highly symbolic places. 

(While this may be a departure from Deudney’s and Tuan’s uses of the word, it can 

hardly be faulted for defying any widely established conventions regarding this 

rather fanciful and recent creation.) However, that topophilia in this sense certainly 

need not preclude territorial identification or conflict is clearly shown by the 

centuries-old struggles between Christians, Jews, and Muslims for control over 

Jerusalem and its holy sites, or the lingering emotional attachment of Serb 

nationalists to the place – on Kosovar territory – that in 1389 was the site of the 

Battle of Kosovo; Kosovo Polje. 

48 Daniel Deudney, "Ground Identity: Nature, Place, and Space in Nationalism," in The Return of 

Culture and Identity in IR Theory, ed. Yosef Lapid and Friedrich Kratochwil, Critical Perspectives on 

World Politics (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc., 1997), p. 130. 

49 Yi-Fu Tuan, Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and Values (New York: 

Columbia University Press, 1974).

Nevertheless, the importance of the spatial dimension for the construction 

48 

of collective identities varies. A heavy emphasis on territoriality and place is 

precisely what distinguishes at least certain forms of nationalism from other forms of 

collective identification, which obviously implies that territorial ties play a less 

central role in constituting other kinds of groups. Indeed, later chapters will show 

how the physical space dimension of Christian and European identities has changed 

over time, both in terms of its importance as a source of identification and in terms of 

its connotation and denotation. A central argument in this dissertation concerns the 

tension and balance between universal and parochial collective self-images (or 

inclusive and exclusive identities) evident throughout the history of Christendom as 

well as in 21 st -century Europe, and the balance struck between the two at any given 

time often depended in part on the role of bounded territory in defining said entities. 

In short, whereas I have argued above that the social and temporal dimensions are 

necessary and important elements of any collective identity, the importance and 

function of physical space appear to vary over time as well as between groups, as 

later chapters will illustrate. 

Narrating, Performing, and Marking Identity and Difference 

The significance of a certain space or place to a given community may seem 

obvious – a result of a natural and automatic attachment to the place of our birth – 

but the relationship between “we-feelings” and “here-feelings” is never a direct 

function of a simple fact such as birthplace. Members of the global Islamic 

community – the Ummah – distinguish themselves from non-Muslims in part by

their special ties to a number of holy places, foremost among which is Mecca, not 

49 

by reference to where they were born. Even the nationalistic or patriotic attachment 

to our “fatherland” necessarily references places and areas other than that of our birth 

and childhood, for no Russian child is born all over Russia, and the size and shape of 

these areas are more or less arbitrarily determined. The point is that they do have to 

be determined and their significance in some way established – our attachment to a 

specific place or space is neither automatic nor natural. Topophilic or territorial 

identities are social constructions. 

As such, they need to be constantly reproduced – discursively as well as in 

linguistic and non-linguistic social interaction, through both narration and roleenactment. 

Clearly, the three dimensions of physical space, time, and social space 

are interrelated. Accounts by nationalist historians of the origins and territorial roots 

of a nation, as well as references by religious groups to scriptural historical 

narratives as evidence of their special ties to the land of their holy sites, demonstrate 

how the spatial dimension can be legitimized by being woven into a group’s 

autobiographical, historical narrative. These examples also suggest that social and 

physical space can be constructed so as to coincide and reinforce each other by 

linking the ‘us’ and ‘them’ populating these narratives – typified into their respective 

roles – with a ‘here’ and ‘there’. However, the demarcation of ‘here’ and ‘there’ 

involves the maintenance of a border between ‘us’ and ‘them’ and usually requires 

more than historical narratives.

Territorial identities are perhaps best exemplified by some forms of 

50 

nationalism, and the extensive apparatus which (quite literally) surrounds the borders 

of the modern state illustrates the use of physical symbolic markers to establish and 

defend territorial identities. Flags, passports, border check-points, the uniforms worn 

by customs officers at international airports etc, these can all be seen as physical and 

symbolic markers of a state’s territorial identity, or as the ‘props’ is uses to establish 

its difference and separateness from other states. In the case of the modern state, 

these markers signify an exclusive territory, separate from that of other states, but 

this need not be the case. Holy sites are often “marked” with the construction of 

temples like the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, but as this example shows, need 

neither threaten or be threatened by the existence of markers asserting ties to a 

nearby, or even the same, place by a separate group, such as the Temple Mount. 

(Unfortunately, this example also suggests that such coexistence may be politically 

and practically difficult.) 

Let us clarify two points with respect to what we have called physical 

symbolic markers. First, the assertion that physical entities such as border controls 

have a symbolic function is not meant to deny that they also may have other, more 

practical, functions. Besides symbolizing a state’s territorial boundaries, border 

controls and physical borders also exist to keep outsiders out or to enable the 

regulation of trade and trafficking. Indeed, a fence in the California desert may make 

it more difficult for a person to get from one side to the other, but to a small child it 

may not have any symbolic significance at all. This leads to the second clarification,

namely that like props in a play, physical identity markers say little in and of 

51 

themselves and receive meaning only with awareness of the symbolic context, when 

seen as part of a narrative or when being used by actors playing out their roles. The 

fence in the desert may require little more than a parent acting out the role of U.S. or 

Mexican citizen, explaining to the child that the fence is a border that separates their 

country from another, for the child to grasp at least its most basic symbolic 

significance. Something similar can be said about a national flag, but here the 

potency of the object as a marker of a national identity can be drastically enhanced if 

related effectively to the national historical narrative. A good example is the story or 

myth behind the crescent and star on the red Turkish flag, which traces it to the moon 

and star supposedly observed by Turkey’s founder, Kemal Atatürk, reflected in a 

pool of blood covering the soil on the battlefield during the war of independence. 

Props delineating a space or signifying a place may thus have important nonsymbolic 

functions and need to be given meaning for their symbolic powers to be 

activated, but this is of course true for all physical identity markers, not just 

territorial or topophilic ones. A wooden cross is both a physical object and a symbol, 

and when hung in a chain around the neck it identifies the bearer as a Christian 

without necessarily referencing any particular territory or place. While this began as 

a discussion of spatial markers in particular, we may thus broaden it to an 

examination of physical identity markers in general and their part in the process of 

identity construction/maintenance.

According to the social constructivist framework developed here, an 

52 

identity marker perpetuates or reproduces a system of meaning relations from which 

it in turn gains its meaning. To those with even minimal knowledge of the Bible (but 

only to them), the cross symbolizes the story (or script) of Jesus’ crucifixion. Thus, 

the prop itself becomes a carrier of the narrative from which it derives its meaning; 

much like the Turkish flag “tells” a story to those initiated about sacrifices made by 

the soldiers who defended Anatolia against the invading Greek forces during the war 

of independence. From this perspective, physical identity markers are not very 

different from the most important carriers of meaning, the symbols of a language – 

words, letters, utterances, sentences etc. –, which create new meaning when 

combined in a particular pattern but whose meaning simultaneously depend on the 

larger meaning to which they contribute. The word “cross”, for example, is 

constituted by five letters, each of which in turn derives its specific significance in 

this case from the word itself. The “c” in the Roman numeral designation “mcxxi” 

and the “c” in the word “cross” signify entirely different things. Similarly, the verb 

“cross” in the sentence (i) below has a different meaning than the noun in (ii). 

(i) “We couldn’t cross the US-Mexico border.” 

(ii) “Jesus died on the cross for our sins.” 

Here, too, the words that contribute to the overall meaning of the sentence in 

turn owe their meaning to the context of the sentence. As some readers may already 

have recognized, this symbiotic relationship between part and whole is similar in

kind to what Alexander Wendt describes as the “mutually constitutive” 

53 

relationship between agent and structure. 50 In this study, the broad meaningstructures 

are grand historical meta-narratives populated by typifications of self and 

other in the form of a number of roles, which in turn acquire their particular meaning 

and significance in the context of the plot of the narrative. This may have the 

appearance of tautological circularity; however, these relationships are not entirely 

circular. The comprehension of any component of a given narrative demands some 

preexisting background knowledge and social, discursive competence, what 

Fauconnier calls “backstage cognition” and Gadamer “pre-understanding”, much as 

the comprehension of a word requires a broader knowledge of vocabulary and the 

rules of grammar in addition to an understanding of the sentence context. Closed 

circular systems are indeed problematic, but a guiding assumption of the theoretical 

framework here developed is that a basic element of the processes by which humans 

make sense of the social world is the transfer of meaning from one system, domain, 

or mental space to another, thus opening up any potentially closed systems. 

Something Old, Something New… 

In a series of books and articles, Berkeley-based cognitive linguist George 

Lakoff has elaborated a theory of conceptual metaphors that is relevant to the ideas 

developed here. 51 In describing the basic logic of conceptual metaphors, Lakoff 

distinguishes between what he calls the source domain, which contains the source of 

a metaphor, and the target domain onto which the metaphor is “mapped”. The 

50 Wendt, Social Theory. 

51 See especially Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh.

statement “Gore stumbled on the finish line” takes the very concrete idea of 

54 

stumbling and falling before reaching the goal line – of failing – from the source 

domain of sports and maps it onto the rather more abstract target domain of U.S. 

Presidential elections. As Lakoff points out, such metaphorical mapping should not 

be dismissed as insignificant – the quaint result of creative newspaper headline 

writers. There are several reasons why conceptual metaphors ought to be respected 

for their power. First, they pervade ordinary discourse to a much greater extent than 

is usually appreciated, as suggested by the fact that the last three sentences alone 

contain at least a half-dozen metaphorical expressions. It is indeed difficult to 

construct sentences without relying on the non-literal meaning of common concepts 

like “construct”, “contain”, “concrete”, “power”, “dismiss”, “appreciate”, “great 

extent”, or “point out”, to mention but a few such notions used in this paragraph. 

Second, metaphors fill an important cognitive function as they help us grasp 

abstract or complicated ideas by relating it to simpler, more familiar and often 

concrete objects and phenomena. Almost everyone has fallen when running, has seen 

a field of runners approach the finish line, and can visualize a runner stumbling 

before reaching it. One need not grasp the finer points of electoral politics or know 

much about the 2000 Gore-Bush election to understand the expression depicting 

Gore as the fallen runner. Third, many metaphors bring emotional associations to the 

target domain: Because most of us have experienced falling or cringing when the 

runner we cheer for falls, we unconsciously project the memory of pain, 

disappointment, or embarrassment onto Gore’s failure in the 2000 elections when

interpreting the metaphorical expression. Fourth and finally, in addition to 

55 

generating affective associations, a metaphor can activate in the target domain a 

whole system of relations, assumptions, expectations, and associations present in the 

source domain. The current example portrays an election as a race, which suggests 

that there must be a winner and a looser, that the best athlete wins, that the looser 

should display good sportsmanship, that cheating is not allowed, that anyone who 

stumbles has only himself to blame etc. It also invites the use of other sports 

metaphors, such as notions of “a close race”, “photo finish”, “sore looser”, and gives 

a choice between portraying the election campaign as a marathon or the 100-meter 

dash, and so on. The element of falling brings to mind a child learning to walk or 

run, physical comedy routines with banana peels or loose shoelaces, and/or general 

associations of clumsiness or ineptitude. In other words, a single metaphor can frame 

or influence the way we think and talk about an issue in unexpected, sometimes 

subconscious, and often quite powerful ways. 

The underlying source of this power is the way in which a conceptual 

metaphor takes a familiar idea and maps it – along with all its cognitive and affective 

“baggage” – onto a different, and usually less familiar, idea. However, the general 

mechanism of understanding the new and unfamiliar by relating it to something old 

and familiar is an essential component of all, or nearly all, knowledge creation, not 

merely the use of metaphors. For example, the theory of conceptual blending 

elaborated by cognitive linguists Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner is based on the 

related notion that new meaning can emerge from the blending of elements from

distinct mental spaces, as in the case of metaphors, but also of analogies, 

56 

counterfactuals, or concept combinations and “even the comprehension of 

grammatical constructions”. 52 In their article “Blending Basics”, Seanna Coulson and 

Todd Oakley usefully illustrate the logic of conceptual blending with the bumper 

sticker statement “My karma ran over my dogma.” The interpretation of this 

statement involves a conceptual integration network consisting of four mental 

spaces. Elements from two distinct input spaces – one containing cars and dogs and a 

philosophical space containing the notions of karma and dogma – and a generic 

space containing a structure common to all spaces in the network in which one entity 

exerts force over and vanquishes another, come together in a fourth blended space 

that contains the new, emergent meaning. The rhetorical force of the statement is a 

function of how we are led to represent the replacement of a person’s dogmatic 

beliefs by good karma using the analogy of a dog being run over by a car, a mapping 

strongly suggested by the combination the generic frame invoked by the words “run 

over” and the phonological similarity between the monosyllabic words “car” and 

“dog” and the polysyllabic words “karma” and “dogma”, which also adds the 

comical flavor and the power of a pithy phrase to the blend. 53 

However, we could object to Coulson and Oakley’s analysis that this blended 

construction, while elegant and funny, could have been more forceful had the two 

input spaces and the generic space corresponded in more respects than they do. 

52 Seana Coulson and Todd Oakley, "Blending Basics," Cognitive Linguistics 11, no. 3/4 (2000): p. 

176; Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, "Conceptual Integration Networks," Cognitive Science 22, 

no. 1 (1998). 

53 Coulson and Oakley, "Blending Basics," pp. 178-180.

Whereas the replacement of dogmatism by faith in karma is clearly meant as a 

57 

positive development, few people would view their dog being run over by a car in 

the same light. In the context of the generic space of one object colliding with and 

destroying another, then, there is phonological but not moral or affective similarity 

between the objects in the two input spaces. I am here pointing out the unfulfilled 

potential of this particular blend simply to emphasize a basic point regarding 

conceptual blending. Like the more general phenomenon of meaning and knowledge 

creation through the extension of familiar ideas to the unfamiliar of which 

conceptual blending is a subspecies, the latter owes its potential as a forceful 

rhetorical/conceptual tool primarily to its ability to bring a range of related 

“baggage” to the concept created in the blended space. Our understanding of the 

emergent blended meaning structures is premised on our familiarity with the 

elements and structures of the different input and generic spaces, but it is further 

informed and framed by a large number of sometimes peripheral assumptions 

regarding the affective, cognitive, social, political, and rhetorical dimensions of those 

structures and elements. In other words, the last two of the four points made above 

regarding the importance of conceptual metaphors clearly also apply to conceptual 

blending: Blending is a powerful tool because it invokes affective associations as 

well as presuppositions and expectations concerning a range of familiar logical, 

physical, ethical, and social relations. 54 The first two points – about the ubiquity and 

54 According to Coulson and Oakley, the emergent properties of the structures in the blended space 

(i.e. the new meaning) are the results of the mental processes of composition, completion, and 

elaboration. Composition refers to the basic process of combining elements from different spaces,

cognitive functions of metaphors – apply equally well, considering Coulson and 

58 

Oakley’s assertions that “conceptual integration is in fact a fundamental aspect of all 

human experience”, and (citing (Fauconnier & Turner, 2000)) that it “is involved in 

everything from perceptual processing, to the experience of pain, to knowledge of 

cause and effect”. 55 

The process of meaning transfer that is present in both conceptual metaphor 

theory and conceptual blending theory (“something old, something new”) thus 

appears to be a very basic epistemological mechanism, perhaps underlying all 

interpretive and explanatory activity. We do not claim to have proven such an 

ambitious claim, however, nor does our argument require it. We merely put forth the 

limited claim that the kinds of social and historical processes of collective identity 

construction described in this chapter work according to the basic logic of 

“something old, something new…” With Hayden White, we regard historical 

narratives “as allegorical, that is, as saying one thing and meaning another.” 56 

Christians and Europeans used well-known narratives and formulaic social scripts 

similar to Lakoff’s mapping, whereas the resulting activation – described in the footnoted passage 

above – of a range of preexisting associations and understandings is captured by their notions of 

completion and elaboration. “Completion is pattern completion that occurs when structure in the blend 

matches information in long-term memory” (p. 180). Such information may include the knowledge 

that dogs run over by cars often die, and the pattern may thus be completed with the inference that the 

dogma will meet a similar fate. In the related process of elaboration our representation of the 

elements and events of the blend – in the form of mental simulations, visualizations, or even its 

physical enactment – fills in the blanks and elaborates on the rudimentary elements actually made 

explicit in the blend. (For example, crumbling and tossing a wad of paper into a trashcan constitutes 

the physical elaboration of the analogical blend trashcan basketball.) Coulson and Oakley, "Blending 

Basics." 

55 Coulson and Oakley, "Blending Basics," p. 182. 


populated by familiar characters to make sense of new situations and unfamiliar 

59 

people(s) like Muslims and Turks. 

Metaphorically speaking, the proof of this assertion is ultimately in the 

pudding, or in a convincing empirical analysis of such sense-making processes in the 

chapters to follow. Nevertheless, a few further theoretical observations concerning 

the process of meaning extension from familiar to unfamiliar that is associated with 

the use of narratives, scripts, and roles will set the stage for that analysis. First, the 

roles and scripts in question owe their familiarity to a variety of factors, but are all 

more or less publicly available in a society’s “repertoire” of characters and typical 

situations. Some of the characters are almost universally known; what Jung called 

archetypes. Others are culturally and historically specific, and we will see that 

Biblical passages provided ample background material for medieval Christians to 

draw on when challenged to interpret new and unfamiliar events and peoples. 

Second, by helping to frame how Europeans viewed and thought about themselves 

and the Turkish other, these typified characters and plot lines thus filled important 

cognitive functions. We might even say that the roles, scripts, and narratives in 

question are analogous to the rules of grammar that govern the way we talk and 

write, predisposing us to talk and think in terms of subject, verb, and object, 

prohibiting many of the infinite number of possible word combinations, enabling 

others, and making still other constructions incomprehensible or even inconceivable. 

Their power thus partly lies in their pre- or meta-cognitive status, which partially 

shields them from conscious scrutiny.

Third, this chapter observed that images of self and other often have 

60 

metaphorical components, and when this is the case, the affective power of 

metaphors contributes to the effectiveness of the images. In contrast, nonmetaphorical 

images of self and other, scripts, and narratives lack the forceful and 

intimate affective association with and memory of personal experiences typical of 

the most basic metaphors, such as those referencing the source domains of bodily 

movements and basic human experiences. However, as any reader of a good novel or 

viewer of a good film knows, narratives possess their own significant powers over 

the emotions of their audience. Good narratives ensure our identification with the 

protagonist and his/her goals, giving us a stake in his/her conflict with the antagonist 

that keeps us on our seats until its final resolution, and by allowing us to follow the 

character with whom we identify through fortunes and trials we become emotionally 

invested in that character’s fate and in the outcome of the story. Historical narratives 

also make use of such literary devices but gain further persuasive power from 

contextual factors, such as their claim to represent past events as they really 

happened. For example, the affective importance of the Biblical meta-narrative in 

medieval Christendom was further enhanced by its status as uncontested truth, its 

constant repetition, the widely shared perception that the listener/reader was also a 

participant in the unfolding narrative, the high stakes involved in whether he/she 

identified with the protagonist (salvation or eternal damnation), and the importance 

of Christianity as a source of collective (and personal) identity.

Fourth and finally, a metaphor can bring a large number of contextual 

61 

elements from a source domain to bear on its target domain, but roles, scripts, and 

narratives are significantly richer in terms of what they bring to their subject. I have 

already discussed such features of roles as the expectancy rules and rolerelationships 

with which they are associated, and roles embedded in a narrative or 

script are even more potent. The initiation of a particular social script – e.g. a Greek 

Orthodox mass – imposes on the participants more or less rigid rules for how they 

should behave: Who says or does what to whom, in what order and place, using what 

props. Barthes describes the simplicity with which a text can invoke a particular type 

of sequence (or script) – through the simple mention of a key word (“head-word”) – 

despite the complexity of the set of implications it immediately evokes: 

The conventional narrative language internalized by the reader comes 

readily equipped with such essential head-words. The self-contained 

logic which structures a sequence is inextricably tied to its name: any 

function which initiates a seduction imposes, from the moment it 

appears, by virtue of what is conjured up by the name, the whole 

process of seduction, as we have learned through all the narrative acts 

that have fashioned in us the “language” of narrative. 57 

The use of a narrative to make sense of an event does not produce as detailed 

and rigid guidelines for how to respond to it as scripts do, but narratives can generate 

even stronger emotional investment in an event and significantly influence its 

interpretation. Understanding an event as part of a particular type of narrative – a 

tragedy, for instance – predisposes us to anticipate a certain conclusion and to act 

accordingly. Invoking a particular narrative – the Biblical historical meta-narrative, 


for instance – opens the doors (metaphorically speaking) to a warehouse 

62 

containing an entire arsenal of Biblical characters, plot lines, conflicts, social scripts 

etc. that can be wielded in battles over the interpretation of the event in question, and 

metaphors and conceptual blends are but two weapons in this extensive arsenal. In 

the context of a historical meta-narrative, individual events and actions cease to be 

isolated occurrences and acquire new significance as the elements driving a story 

toward its dramatic conclusion. Individual actors are transformed into familiar 

characters with predetermined roles to play in a known drama. Such interpretive acts 

can have a tremendous effect on behavior as individuals struggle to relate to their 

social environment, and the widespread acceptance and frequent invocation of 

certain narratives, roles, and script in a given society can generate large-scale 

patterns of collective behavior that otherwise may not have occurred. In short, these 

things matter. 

Indeed, before concluding this overview of theory with a discussion of 

history and collective memory and then moving on to a description of the 

methodology used in the study, I should perhaps clarify a potential source of 

confusion regarding the theatre metaphor underlying my conceptual framework. 

While the metaphor of drama or theatre is useful as an organizing frame for a 

discussion of collective identity construction processes, it can also be misleading. It 

usefully ties together the various elements of the theoretical framework developed 

here – narrative, script, role, performance, props etc. – and embeds the synchronic, 

relational dimension of collective identities within the diachronic, narrative

dimension. It further appropriately emphasizes the power of emplotment and 

63 

narration as well as the need to constantly reproduce socially constructed collective 

identities by performing the roles, scripts, and plotlines associated with them. 

However, the theatrical metaphor should not be taken to suggest that historical 

narratives are no more than fairy tales and thus can easily be re-written or ignored, 

that role identities are “fake” and can easily be abandoned when the performance is 

over, or that ultimately rational and self-interested actors choose between roles and 

scripts and manipulate them to suit their purposes. 58 Neither should it be understood 

to imply that social life is but a “game” or that high stakes are not involved. Precisely 

because historical narratives and collective role performances are elements of a 

group’s identity, they are existential matters. Serious threats to the validity of such 

narratives threaten the group’s very existence as such and are thus likely to be 

fiercely resisted. It is true that because of their importance, the interpretation of 

historical narratives and images of the collective self and its others often do become 

the battleground of politics, and political and religious leaders often use them as 

tools to manipulate people to serve their own interests. In fact, such practices form 

the subject matter examined in this thesis. Nevertheless, even the shrewdest of 

political agents lives in a social context and talks and thinks using symbolic 

structures that predates him or her. To assume that he/she can easily step out of this 

context and disinterestedly pick and choose elements interpreted as he/she chooses, 

58 In their otherwise excellent work on role/identities, social psychologists McCall and Simmons make 

some assumptions to this effect, basing their understanding of the agent behind the role/identities on 

exchange theory and thus assuming the existence of a rational actor able to some extent to pick and 

choose between different roles. McCall and Simmons, Identities and Interactions.

underestimates the ubiquity of the social, discursive typification processes 

64 

outlined above, as well as their power to frame cognition and influence our 

emotional responses to events typified in given ways. The main weakness of the 

theatre metaphor is perhaps that it activates associations with play, pretense, and 

leisure in addition to our understanding that when a play ends, the actors abandon 

their roles and return to their normal lives. In contrast, the theoretical framework that 

guides this dissertation assumes that the actors live and die in character and on stage, 

performing the plots of the historical narratives that encapsulate their entire lives. 59 

The following remarks on history will further clarify this issue. 

On History and Collective Memory 

This dissertation examines the historical evolution of ways in which 

Christians and Europeans have made sense of themselves by allocating a particular 

set of roles to Muslims and Turks in the Christian and European grand historical 

meta-narratives and accompanying social scripts. As such, it is clearly a historical 

study (even though it is not a “History dissertation” per se). It is also a 

historiographic study in the sense that it not only investigates historical phenomena 

but also looks at how history has been written. Autobiographical narratives are an 

essential component of an individual’s personal identity, and we have argued above 

that societies similarly construct collective identities partly by creating collective 

autobiographical narratives, or histories. The writing of history can thus be a central 

59 This is not to suggest either that the actors are slaves to their roles – as I have explained above, 

there is always room for interpretation – nor that there is necessarily only one narrative that guides all 

aspects of their lives.

part of societal identity construction processes and the chapters to follow look 

65 

carefully at this function. 

A constructivist view of history clearly underlies this approach, for if writing 

on history were merely the objective collection and accurate reporting of past events 

as they “actually happened”, little room would be left for the construction of 

identities through narration and interpretation. There is, in fact, plenty of room. To 

paraphrase Collingwood, the problem with history is that it no longer exists. More 

precisely, historical events no longer exist because, by definition, they occurred in 

the past, and historians must therefore re-construct them using clues stored in the 

collective memory of their respective societies. Unfortunately, work on collective 

memory shows that it is often selective, inaccurate, and highly sensitive to matters 

other than the facts of the event recalled, such as attitudes toward the event, the 

extent to which it has been verbalized in conversations, time passed, etc. 60 Maurice 

Halbwachs’ influential writings on collective memory similarly emphasize the ways 

in which the needs of the present infringe on the integrity of our memories of the 

past. In his study of religious collective memory, he argues that the partial loss of the 

original meaning of Christian dogma necessitates the reinterpretation of the dogma 

by theologians of different historical periods, and that for this reason, “the theology 

60 See e.g. the collection of essays in James W. Pennebaker, Dario Paez, and Bernard Rimé, eds., 

Collective Memory of Political Events: Social Psychological Perspectives (Mahwah, New Jersey: 

Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Publishers, 1997).

of each period is inspired by a dialectic which is partially that of the time.” 61 

66 

Hence, religious collective memory 

obeys the same laws as every collective memory: it does not preserve 

the past but reconstructs it with the aid of the material traces, rites, 

texts, and traditions left behind by that past, and with the aid 

moreover of recent psychological and social data, that is to say, with 

the present. 62 

History is thus socially re-constructed in the context of present needs. 

However, we should be careful not to reduce history to fiction, as that would 

misconstrue both genres. Granted, some writings on history are more fictional than 

others, but good historical narratives are those that can make legitimate and 

convincing claims to faithfully describe only events that actually occurred. My 

objective here is not to give an exhaustive definition of history – neither the 

academic discipline nor its subject – but to defend a constructivist view of historical 

interpretation that does not fall prey to the excesses of what has been called the 

presentist approach to history. 63 The realization that historical narratives are not 

61 Lewis A. Coser, ed., Maurice Halbwachs On Collective Memory, The Heritage of Sociology 

(Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1992), p. 117. 

62 Coser, ed., On Collective Memory, p. 119. 

63 See Coser’s introduction in Coser, ed., On Collective Memory, p. 25. Note that the term presentism 

is here used in a slightly different sense than in Barry Buzan and Richard Little, International Systems 

in World History: Remaking the Study of International Relations (N.Y.: Oxford University Press, 

2000), pp. 18-19. Buzan and Little use the label to criticize IR theorists preoccupied with the present 

who only use history as a source from which to cherry-pick anecdotes or examples that corroborate 

their theories, which in reality are modeled on contemporary international relations. Coser instead 

uses the term presentism to denote the (according to him, flawed) assumption that the writing of 

history is always determined chiefly by present concerns. To illustrate the difference between the two 

understandings, we may imagine that Coser might well accuse Buzan and Little themselves of 

presentism, were it not for the fact that they believe that this weakness of IR theory can be overcome 

and that history thus can be written in a manner not wholly determined by present concerns and 

biases. See also John M Hobson, "What's at stake in 'bringing historical sociology back into 

international relations'? Transcending 'chronofetishism' and 'tempocentrism' in international 

relations," in Historical Sociology of International Relations, ed. Stephen Hobden and John M

simply disinterested recollections of historical events the way they actually 

67 

happened but the fruit of each new generation’s need to re-interpret and reappropriate 

the past, must be tempered by the observation that no generation is 

entirely free to imagine history as they wish. The interpretation and writing of 

history takes place in a societal context that is itself the product of history and is 

therefore neither independent of it nor prior to it. 

The statement that history produces the present societal context is in one 

sense obviously true and almost banal, but the question of how this fact structures 

present interpretations of the past is less obvious. It does so in ways both direct and 

indirect. First, while Collingwood rightly noted that history or the past is different 

from the present in that it no longer exists, we should add that the past differs from 

fiction or fantasy in that it once did exist. Major events in a person’s life such as the 

sudden onset of a life-threatening disease, the death or birth of a close family 

member, the relocation to a different country, or the beginning of a new career 

demand our attention and practically force us to adopt an attitude toward and 

interpretation of the events. We may choose – consciously or subconsciously – to 

ignore the issue, but even doing so requires an act of repression that, as any first-year 

psychology student knows, is often detrimental to our mental wellbeing in the long 

run, and even such a choice involves the adoption of an attitude toward the issue in 

question. In much the same way, major societal events like foreign invasions, 

Hobson (NY: Cambridge University Press, 2002). See especially his discussion of what he terms 

“chronofetishism” and “tempocentrism”.

evolutions, assassinations of political leaders, natural disasters, the emergence 

68 

and spread of new religions, or rapid economic and industrial transformations 

directly and deeply affect large numbers of people and demand their attention and 

that of later generations. 

This is not to say that historical accounts simply describe past occurrences as 

they “actually” happened, or to deny that they may contain fictional events and facts. 

Interpretation is an unavoidable aspect of writing history. 64 However, the past works 

in indirect ways to influence such interpretations. As we have argued above and as 

later chapters will demonstrate, interpretation is a social act in which we draw on 

established societal repertoires of narratives, scripts, and roles. These existing 

structures of meaning are the products of history, gifts from earlier generations that 

frame the ways in which the current generation makes sense of the world, past and 

present. Earlier historical writings and interpretations have their own inertia, and 

their reinterpretation or outright dismissal, though possible, is seldom 

uncontroversial and never effortless. The element of path-dependency is usefully 

illustrated by the Christian dogma discussed by Halbwachs. Once a determination 

between orthodox and heretic doctrines had been made and publicized, such as the 

establishment of the Nicaean Creed at the Council of Nicaea (325), successive 

generations of Christians were faced with a fait accompli and a number of canonical 

texts which their theological interpretations had to address or at the very least 

64 Hayden White goes so far as to argue that an event can only be considered “historical” if it is open 

to at least two competing interpretations White, The Content of the Form.

acknowledge. Similarly, once an interpretation of the Muslim Other had been 

69 

articulated in which “he” was cast as a particular Biblical archetype, for example, it 

became part of the Christian repertoire of images of Muslims available to Christians 

in other places and later periods. 

ON THE METHODOLOGY 

Studying a Meaningful World 

This study is concerned with the social world of people and peoples, not the 

physical world of particles, waves, and/or forces. Granted, the former “world” is 

hardly independent of the latter: indeed, people are made of particles and could not 

escape the forces that govern the physical universe if they tried. Nevertheless, the 

analyst may distinguish the social world from the physical based on the observation 

that the former is constituted by intersubjective meanings. Social worlds exist 

because human beings create collective actors, shared traditions, mores, belief 

systems, norms, laws, institutions and so on, all by generating inter-subjective, or 

social, meanings. On the most general level, this is therefore ultimately a study of the 

social production of meanings: their forms, conditions, and consequences. 

We learn from semiotics – the study of symbols or meanings – to keep the 

sign (or signifier) on the one hand apart from the meaning it signifies (the signified) 

on the other, 65 much like Dilthey distinguished between an expression (ausdruck) 

65 See e.g. Barthes, "Introduction to the Structural," p. 245.

70 

and its meaning (bedeutung). 66 These conceptual distinctions remain useful for our 

purposes since a collective identity construct is constituted by signs that endow it 

with a particular meaning or content. A related distinction more often used by 

philosophers of language in the tradition of analytical philosophy – that between the 

connotation (sometimes called intension) and denotation (extension or referent) of a 

concept – is of less utility here. The connotation of a word is its meaning or its 

content (the signified) whereas its denotation is the object(s) to which it refers or 

“points”. Thus, the connotation of the word “mammal” is what you would find in a 

good dictionary – a description of what a mammal is, such as an individual member 

of an animal species that gives birth to live offspring etc. – whereas its denotation 

includes all actual creatures that fit the description. This notion is closely associated 

with what is called a correspondence theory of truth, according to which the truthvalue 

of a statement such as the assertion that “Turkey is not a European country” 

can in principle be determined by simply verifying whether the claim corresponds to 

the facts. It is true if and only if the denoted object (Turkey) does in fact not possess 

the attributes (being a European country) predicated to it in the statement. The 

problem with this theory of truth as well as the neat distinction between denotation 

and connotation when applied to the social world is that it obfuscates the constitutive 

relationship between a term and the social object it supposedly denotes. 

66 Hans-Georg Gadamer, "Classical and Philosophical Hermeneutics," Theory, Culture & Society 23, 

no. 1 (2006): p. 37.

An utterance that references a social construct like a particular collective 

71 

actor does not simply denote already existing objects; it (the signifier or sign) 

actually constitutes or creates the objects themselves by giving them a bedeutung, a 

meaning. The narrative construction of a particular collective actor could be seen as 

a definition of who is covered by its extension/denotation and who is not. However, 

this is not a matter of description but a creative act of inclusion and exclusion, of 

drawing boundaries between Us and Them. Socially constructed collective actors 

have to be “performed” into existence through speech acts that invoke them but this 

performative aspect of language is typically hidden in the historical narrative, which 

tends to “naturalize” and reify the socially constructed entities that it creates. As 

Barthes so eloquently puts it, “in ‘objective’ history, the ‘real’ is never more than an 

unformulated signified, sheltering behind the apparently all-powerful referent.” 67 

This view of language is similar to that put forth by scholars in the Critical 

Discourse Analysis (CDA) school, who have developed an impressive range of 

rhetorical and linguistic techniques for the analysis of discourse that inform the 

methods of discourse analysis employed in this thesis. Norman Fairclough and Ruth 

Wodak describe the view on language, discourse, and society that underlies their 

approach: 

CDA sees discourse – language use in speech and writing – as a form 

of ‘social practice’… Describing discourse as a social practice implies 

a dialectical relationship between a particular discursive event and the 

situation(s), institution(s) and social structure(s) that frame it: the 

discursive event is shaped by them, but it also shapes them. That is, 

67 From Barthes’ “The Discourse of History” (1967), quoted in White, The Content of the Form, p. 37.

discourse is socially constitutive as well as socially conditioned – it 

constitutes situations, objects of knowledge, and the social identities 

of and relationships between people and groups of people. It is 

constitutive both in the sense that it helps to sustain and reproduce the 

social status quo, and in the sense that it contributes to transforming 

it. 68 

72 

This not only echoes our earlier discussion of language but also stresses the 

methodological importance of considering both text and context. When interpreting 

historical and political topics and texts, what Wodak calls the discourse-historical 

approach to CDA 

attempts to integrate a large quantity of available knowledge about the 

historical sources and the background of the social and political fields 

in which discursive ‘events’ are embedded. Further, it analyses the 

historical dimension of discursive actions by exploring the ways in 

which particular genres of discourse are subject to diachronic 

change… Lastly, and most importantly, this is not only viewed as 

‘information’: at this point we integrate social theories to be able to 

explain the so-called context. 69 

This overview of the discourse-historical approach within CDA studies 

describes rather well the basic approach in this thesis to the analysis of historical 

documents. However, many of the texts considered here are significantly older than 

the kinds of sources Wodak has in mind and this raises some especially difficult 

methodological challenges. 

The Challenges of Doing Interpretive Macro-History: Intertextuality and Sampling 

For one thing, the nature of the particular textual analyses executed in the 

following chapters made considerable demands on the analyst’s “pre-understanding”. 

68 Norman Fairclough and Ruth Wodak, "Critical Discourse Analysis," in Discourse as Social 

Interaction, ed. Teun A. van Dijk (London: Sage, 1997), p. 258. 

69 Ruth Wodak, "The Discourse-Historical Approach," in Methods of Critical Discourse Analysis, ed. 

Ruth Wodak and Michael Meyer (Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications, 2001), p. 65.

In other words, no clever method of analysis – quantitative or qualitative – could 

73 

have freed the researcher from the requirement to become thoroughly acquainted 

with – to take one example – Luther’s theology, with the context of the period during 

which Luther wrote, and with the preexisting “canon” of portrayals of Muslims by 

Christians upon which he could draw. Analysis of inter-textual relations requires 

knowledge of all relevant texts. Consequently, we would only be able to identify 

certain medieval influences on Luther’s views of Turks through extensive research 

on medieval images of Muslims in addition to Luther’s own work. Interpreting 

Luther’s contributions required some knowledge of his struggles against the papacy 

as well as against the “enthusiasts” who (in his mind) brought dishonor to the 

Reformation, of the political situation in contemporary Saxony and the Empire, and 

of relations between European powers and the Ottoman Empire. This need 

constitutes a practical impediment to interpretive historical work, but it is 

unavoidable. 

Another unavoidable difficulty facing any historical investigation of such a 

wide swath of time as this dissertation is concerned with is the question of what 

sources to choose. As we have already noted, it is obviously out of the question to 

attempt to analyze the entire “population” of relevant documents and random 

samples of that population are equally futile. Instead, the first stage of our research 

process was to consult a number of significant secondary sources and learn as much 

as possible about each particular period and place. The second stage involved 

gathering what appeared to be the most relevant primary documents based on

citations in secondary sources, relevant library indexes, and online/database 

74 

searches. The different parts of the dissertation required somewhat different source 

selection criteria. Given the importance of the medieval heritage on later portrayals 

of Turks, the first two empirical chapters constitute the broadest survey of primary 

documents, which vary with respect to the type and geographical origin of sources. 

Chapters 2 and 3 analyze texts authored in places that range from eastern 

Christendom and al Andalus to Latin Christendom, and that are of both religious – 

ecclesiastical histories, apocalyptical/eschatological texts, sermons, and apologetic 

and polemic tracts – and secular – historical chronicles, chronicles of the Crusades, 

poetry – character. Two case studies form the backbone of the next two chapters: of 

Martin Luther and Voltaire respectively. These two figures were chosen because 

they were in some ways “hard cases” for the argument, neither of them being an avid 

supporter of the medieval Catholic party line, so to speak. Luther rejected the 

reliance on medieval authoritative interpretations of the Bible, which would lead us 

to suspect that he would do the same with the medieval Biblical interpretations of 

Muslims examined in chapters 2 and 3. Needless to say, he also instigated a 

profound rift within European Christendom and was preoccupied with his struggles 

against Rome, from which we might assume that he was less concerned with a 

Muslim enemy common to all, both Reformers and hated “papists”. Chapter 4 

examines those of Martin Luther’s writings that address Islam or Ottoman Turks to 

any significant extent but also considers other texts that give clues to the

circumstances of his life or to his general theology, including his letters and 

75 

several versions of the so-called Table-Talk. 

If the Reformation did not effect a complete rupture with the medieval, 

confessional past, the Enlightenment surely came closer to doing so, and if there ever 

was a poster-child of the Enlightenment it would be Voltaire. It would be natural to 

assume that this fierce critic of the Christian clergy and advocate of rationality would 

base his portrayal of Muslims on enlightened observation, not medieval Christian 

stereotypes. Chapter 5 focuses on Voltaire’s play Mahomet ou le fanatisme as well as 

on the likely influences on Voltaire’s portrayal of the Prophet of Islam. A second 

reason behind the choice of Voltaire and Luther is that they were both significant 

actors on the European stage. Not only are they “hard cases” and representatives of 

two major societal upheavals that can be assumed to have had an impact on 

European images of Turks and Muslims, they were also themselves famous 

throughout Europe and their writings highly influential. Apart from what they 

represent, Luther’s and Voltaire’s representations of Muslims and Turks are thus also 

important and interesting in their own right. The last empirical chapter of this study, 

Chapter 6, is a case study of contemporary European images of Turks in the form of 

a textual analysis of a number of debates in the European Parliament (EP) on the 

political situation in Turkey. These EP debates are significant in several ways. First, 

because of the make-up and selection of the Parliament, its members provide a 

convenient albeit imperfect sample of the population of the EU member states in a 

way that no other EU body does, ensuring variety on both geographic and

76 

ideological dimensions. The EP debates in question also included the voices of the 

other major EU institutions through question-answer sessions. Second, debates are 

characterized by a degree of spontaneity and therefore tend to be more revealing of 

hidden assumptions such as stereotypes than carefully prepared and vetted official 

documents. Finally, public debates fill important rhetorical or linguistic/pragmatic 

functions in the context of a public discourse that make them important documents in 

their own right. In particular, we will argue that the debates in question, by focusing 

on the question of whether Turkey fulfilled the most fundamental criteria for 

membership in the European Union, were important additions to the process of 

constituting a shared European identity. 

Reconsidering Barthes’ Narrative Analysis 

Having resolved the question of the selection of primary sources, there 

remains of course the question of how to analyze them. On this matter, we heed 

Wodak’s assessment that discourse analytical research “must be multitheoretical and 

multimethodical, critical and self-reflective.” 70 The following discussion proceeds in 

this “multitheoretical” spirit in order to determine how the three semantic dimensions 

of collective identity constructs can be identified within the kinds of historical 

narratives examined in later chapters. It fuses theoretical and methodological insights 

from three main sources: the discourse-historical approach of CDA, Roland Barthes’ 

outline of a structural semiotic analysis of narrative, and Hayden White’s analysis of 

modes of emplotment in historical narratives. 

70 Wodak, "The Discourse-Historical Approach," p. 64.

Roland Barthes’ seminal “Introduction to the Structural Analysis of 

77 

Narrative” elaborates a didactic categorization of three levels of narrative analysis 

that “slices” the three-dimensional schema developed here from a different angle, so 

to speak. An overview of these categories will help us clarify the approach that is 

appropriate for our purposes. Barthes distinguishes between the levels of (1) 

function, (2) action, and (3) narration, here arranged in the order of increasing 

generality with the analysis of function being concerned with the basic components 

of the story, while analysis on the level of narration is closer to the discourse 

analytical consideration of extra-linguistic contextual factors in its broad features of 

the entire narrative. 71 The relation between these levels is such that they are 

semantically 

bonded together according to a mode of progressive integration: a 

function has a meaning only insofar as it takes its place in the general 

line of action of an actant; and this action in turn receives its ultimate 

meaning from the fact that it is being told, that is, entrusted to a 

discourse which possesses its own code. 72 

With respect to the functional level (1), Barthes refers to Tzvetan Todorov’s 

definition, according to which the meaning (or function) “of an element in the work 

is its ability to enter into correlations with other elements in this work, and with the 

work as a whole”. 73 Functions refer to the most basic constituent units of narratives, 

and Barthes identifies two broad classes of such units: the first are distributive 

71 Perhaps the fault is with this reader, but it is not always entirely clear whether Barthes really 

purports to describe three levels of analysis or whether he is describing the three levels of narrative 

per se. On our part, we are here concerned with levels of analysis, whereas our earlier discussion of 

the components of narrative focused on the structure of narratives themselves. 


73 Quoted in Barthes, "Introduction to the Structural," p. 244.

functions proper concerned with action or causation, which imply “metonymic 

78 

relata” that reduce one part of the unit to being, for example, a cause or effect of 

another part. 74 This notion derives from Propp’s analysis of Russian folk tales and 

the 31 basic types of functions that he identified in them. Propp described the 

smallest narrative unit – the function – as “an act of a character, defined from the 

point of view of its significance for the course of the action”. 75 Barthes distinguishes 

these distributive functions from integrative functions, which he terms indices. Such 

units are concerned with “metaphorical relata” or with matters of being, that is, with 

identity. 76 Instead of correlating “horizontally” or diachronically with other 

functional elements later on within the narrative (as distributive functions do) indices 

refer “vertically” or synchronically to elements higher up. Indices can be symbolic 

actions or events but they can also be depictions of abstract qualities that signify, for 

example, the meaning or identity of a character located on the level of action (2). As 

such, indices appear to be more closely related to Propp’s typology of characters 

than his functions. 

74 Barthes, "Introduction to the Structural," p. 247. In metonyms, a characteristic that normally denotes 

one thing (A) is used to describe another thing (B) with which A is associated. The distinction 

between metaphors (see below) and metonyms is not obvious, but whereas metaphors assume 

similarity, metonyms generate meaning based on the contiguity or association between the different 

concepts. It suffices for us to note that Barthes, following Lévi-Strauss, here uses the notion of 

metonymy in reference to functions that portray causal and temporal contiguity as in descriptions of 

actions and their effects, and that of metaphor to describe indices, the meaning of which is a result of 

relationships of symbolic representation. 

75 From Propp’s (1928) Morphology of the Folktale, quoted in Barthes, "Introduction to the 

Structural," p. 244. 

76 Barthes, "Introduction to the Structural," p. 247. See note above for a discussion of the distinction 

between metaphors and metonyms.

Barthes examines whether there are rules for how functions and units may 

79 

be combined: whether there is a functional syntax that regulates level (1). He 

elaborates on a particular form of functional syntax that he calls the sequence, and 

we have already discussed the affinities of the sequence to the notion of the script. 

As for the rules of syntax guiding the combination of indices, Barthes suggests that 

they can be strung together rather freely: “such is the case in the portrait, which 

presents, side by side, without restrictions, personal biographical records and 

personality traits.” 77 The fact that each of the indicators in a portrait serves to imbue 

the same character with a certain meaning is enough to link them all together. 

The name given to level (2) – Action – is somewhat confusing since it really 

pertains to the actors, agents, or characters that populate any narrative and not to the 

things that they do. This designation is in part a consequence of the fear on the part 

of many linguistic structuralists that any analysis centered on meanings associated 

with specific kinds of dramatis personae will degenerate into a Jungian typology of 

characters, which they accuse of elevating contingent psychological and/or cultural 

generalizations to the status of universal types as well as violating Saussure’s dictum 

of the arbitrariness of the linguistic sign. This dictum of structuralism postulates that 

the particular sign used to signify a certain meaning is entirely arbitrary, and that 

from a logical point of view we could therefore replace it with any other sign without 

changing the meaning. (Thus, the Swedish “bil”, the English “car”, and the Turkish 

“araba” are different signifiers even though what is signified is the same thing in all 


cases). A Jungian typology of archetypical characters on the other hand, commits 

80 

what many structuralists view as the fallacy of trying to explicate narrative 

regularities by reducing them to functions of the (contingent) characteristics 

associated with supposedly universal characters that are actually arbitrary signs, 

rather than with reference to the structural logic and syntagmatic rules guiding all 

narratives. 78 The way that many structuralists deal with this challenge – for 

characters are too important for a student of narrative to ignore entirely – is to 

conceptualize the actors in terms of what they do instead of what they are. 

According to Barthes, writers like Claude Bremond, A. J. Greimas, and Todorov all 

define a character by his participation in a sphere of actions, such 

spheres being limited in number, typical, and subject to classification. 

That is the reason why the second level of description, though 

concerned with the characters, was called the level of Actions: the 

word action then is not to be understood here in the same sense as 

those minor acts which formed the texture of the first level, but rather 

as designating the larger articulations of praxis (to desire, to 

communicate, to struggle). 79 

This passage contains one point at which the theoretical framework 

developed in this thesis departs from Barthes’ schema. As stated, he assimilates 

Todorov’s treatment of characters to this action-centered approach. However, Bartes’ 

own description of Todorov’s analysis of the psychological novel Les liaisons 

dangereuses reveals another possible interpretation: Todorov “starts not from 

characters but from the three broad relationships in which they are apt to become 

78 See e.g. Claude Levi-Strauss, "The Structural Study of Myth," The Journal of American Folklore 

68, no. 270 (1955): pp. 249-250. 


81 

involved and which he calls basic predicates (love, communication, assistance).” 80 

From our point of view, we would prefer to focus our analysis on the interpersonal 

relational element identified in Todorov’s model, which is closer to our description 

of the characters in terms of their most significant role-relationships, rather than 

merely classifying actors based on their actions. With this caveat, however, the 

above quoted passage usefully expresses other key methodological implications of 

our conceptualization of the actors in a narrative: the need to identify the limited 

number of general types of actors (roles) and to analyze them on a higher level of 

abstraction and meaning than on the level of function (1). 

The latter point can be reformulated in the interest of clarity. Following 

Barthes’ terminology, we actually observe characters textually on the level of 

functions (1), in the indices that make up the portrait (or image) of a given character. 

However, we cannot gain a complete understanding of any given character by merely 

adding up the relevant indices because characters are more than the sum of these 

parts. The depiction of character-types as role/identities earlier in this chapter 

suggests a two-fold explanation for the inadequacy of that approach. First, we can 

only properly understand a character so conceived by viewing him in the context of 

his or her relationship to the symbolic Other that constitutes the counterpart in this 

role-relationship. The Antagonist in any narrative derives much of his/her 

significance from his relationship to the Protagonist, for example. While this 

illustrates the need to interpret characters synchronically, in terms of their 


82 

relationship with the other entities (characters) on level (2), the second explanation 

brings us all the way up to level (3). Each character has a role to play in a second 

sense: in driving the plot of the entire narrative forward, and only by also considering 

a character in this diachronic dimension will we grasp his or her full meaning. Before 

moving on to Barthes’ discussion of the final level of analysis, we should formulate 

our methodological conclusions from the preceding account of the first two levels. 

What Barthes calls the level of functions (1) is our immediate level of 

“observation” when searching for images of roles. A type of discourse analysis 

called predicate analysis is especially suited to the analysis of the indices that 

combine to construct an image of a role. 81 This is a method of inducing (or 

abducing) 82 images from texts by abstracting attributes that are predicated to 

grammatical objects and then categorizing them according to observed patterns in the 

text. Predicate analysis examines sentences such as “John is happy.” in terms of 

subject and predicated attributes. In this case, the noun “John” is the subject and the 

verb “is” predicates an attribute in the form of the adjective “happy” onto John. By 

systematically looking at a certain class of subjects (e.g. “Saracens” or “Turkey”) 

and analyzing what attributes (in the form of adverbs, adjectives, nouns, or verbs or 

verb-phrases etc.) are predicated to them, this method allows us to study typification 

81 This method is inspired by the discussion in Jennifer Milliken, "The Study of Discourse in 

International Relations: A Critique of Research and Methods," European Journal of International 

Relations 5, no. 2 (1999). Also by the applications in H. R. Jr Alker and D. J Sylvan, "Foreign Policy 

as Ethnocentric Tragedy: The 1965 Commitment of U.S. Troops to the Vietnam War" (paper 

presented at the Annual Meeting of the International Society of Political Psychology, Meadowlands 

Hilton Hotel, New Jersey, 1988); Jennifer Milliken and David. J Sylvan, "Hard Bodies, Soft Targets, 

and Chic Theories," Millennium (1996). Predicate analysis as a form of discourse analysis is not to be 

confused with analyses of predication in either predicate logic or computer programming. 

82 See below.

and more precisely, images of Self and Other. The textual instantiations of such 

83 

typifications correspond closely to some of the “discursive strategies” identified by 

scholars in the CDA school; what they call “referential/nomination strategies” and 

especially so-called “strategies of predication”. 83 Table 1.2 – taken in part from a 

similar table in Ruth Wodak’s overview of the discourse-historical approach to CDA 

– describes the linguistic/rhetorical devices employed to achieve the objectives 

associated with these two strategies, both of which can be investigated using 

predicate analysis. This terminology is consistent with similar operationalizations of 

discourse features that we find in other CDA studies, but Wodak developed this 

particular version with the question of how to analyze discriminatory discourse in 

late 20 th -century Austria in mind. The pragmatic, problem-oriented, and contextsensitive 

approach to methodology in CDA suggests that we should not expect to be 

able to employ the same exact concepts in our analysis of 8 th -century Syrian 

Apocalyptic tracts, for example. 84 Nevertheless, her list of linguistic devices usefully 

introduces the kinds of textual features that we will look for on the first two levels of 

analysis. 

83 See e.g. Wodak, "The Discourse-Historical Approach," p. 73. and Ruth Wodak et al., The 

Discursive Construction of National Identity (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999). 

84 Wodak writes that “the first question we have to address as researchers is not, ‘Do we need a grand 

theory?’ but rather, ‘What conceptual tools are relevant for this or that problem and for this and that 

context?’ Wodak, "The Discourse-Historical Approach," p. 64.

Table 1.2. Two Discursive Strategies per the Discourse-Historical Approach 85 

84 

Strategy Objectives Devices 

Referential/nomination 

Predication 

Construction of in-groups 

and out-groups 

Labelling social actors more 

or less positively or 

negatively, deprecatorily or 

appreciatively 

membership categorization 

biological, naturalizing and depersonalizing 

metaphors and metonymies 

synecdoches (pars pro tota, totum pro pars) 

stereotypical, evaluative attributions of 

negative or positive traits 

implicit and explicit predicates 

It should be noted that the objectives of referential/nomination strategies, 

which concern the ways in which actors are referenced and named in a text, 

transcend our two “spatial” dimensions – the physical and the social – since the 

separation of in-group from out-group is performed in both dimensions. The 

linguistic device of membership categorization, for example, can be used to draw 

both geographical and cultural/social boundaries (“us” vs. “them” and “here” vs. 

“there”). Likewise, metonymy – using one entity to represent another with which it is 

commonly associated – can be used to link a collective actor with a particular place 

that it occupies (“The Sublime Porte” as a stand-in for the Ottoman government or 

the whole Empire, for example) but this is not the only possibility. Conversely, while 

metaphorical nomination or naming is often a component in images that cast Self or 

Other in given roles in the social dimension, geographical metaphors (e.g. “the East” 

as an actor) locate actors in the dimension of physical space. 

85 From Wodak, "The Discourse-Historical Approach," pp. 72-73.

If our assumptions hold, the analysis of predication and 

85 

referential/nomination strategies will generate clusters of names and attributes 

associated with each of the main actors in a given narrative. In accordance with our 

theoretical framework, we interpret each such cluster as constituting an image or part 

of an image of the actor in question. However, we have already observed that images 

represent roles – which are partly defined by how they stand in relation to other roles 

– and are thus more than simply the aggregation of attributes. In order to identify 

social types in the form of roles, we must therefore move to the next level of analysis 

(2) and consider how these clusters of attributes and names portray the relationship 

between actors. The fact that roles are social types also suggests – contra Barthes – 

that the combination of attributes (or indices) into an image (or portrait) is regulated 

by certain conventions, though the latter are probably less formal and structural than 

semantic or content based. In other words, there are cultural conventions that 

regulate, not how attributes are combined to generate a certain generic literary (or 

historical) character but what attributes are used to do so. Moreover, as we have 

already intimated, we must go further still and analyze these roles in the context of 

the story that gives them their full meaning, on level (3). 

Our analysis of scripts will proceed in a somewhat different fashion. It makes 

little sense to begin on the lowest level of analysis by identifying what Barthes called 

the nuclei that make up his sequences since we are not interested in mapping every 

sequence in an entire narrative. Instead, our focus is on scripts that contribute to 

collective identity formation and they are, as we argued above, typically associated

with those images of Self and Other that constitute significant role-relationships. 

86 

We can therefore begin with roles that we have identified in a particular text and 

search for any scripts associated with those roles. The search is made easier by the 

typified nature of scripts, by the fact that they are “nameable”, and by our practical 

competence as consumers of narratives, which enables us to quickly recognize e.g. 

the “head-words” used to invoke particular scripts. One potential problem is that a 

21 st -century analyst may not possess the same frames of reference or the same 

“background competence” as the intended audience of a document produced many 

centuries earlier. This is a challenge facing any interpretation of historical texts but 

there are at least two ways of overcoming it or at least mitigating its negative 

consequences. 

First, the repetition of the same sequence of events involving the same roles 

in one or several texts is a formal, structural characteristic the recognition of which is 

not wholly dependent on the historical context or even the content of the text(s) in 

question. It is theoretically possible, for example, to identify the frequent repetition 

of a certain sequence of symbols even if one does not understand the language in 

which they are written. For an illustration, compare (iii) and (iv) below: 

(iii) w!@*^ (

creates a recognizable visual pattern. Clearly, the identification of a recurring 

87 

sequence of characters is independent of content or knowledge of the context. 

(iv) w!@*^ (

markers on level (1) is contingent upon the identification and analysis of roles. 

88 

The predicate analysis of a collective Self or Other will capture any spatial tokens or 

markers that are associated with these actors. It is similarly dependent upon the 

analysis of scripts, since it will capture the spatial markers that provide scripts with 

their setting. The interpretation of physical spatial markers proceeds on level (2) with 

the determination of what we might call, for lack of a better expression, the type of 

spatial existence imagined for the collective actor in question. Not counting the 

complete de-emphasis of this dimension (which is possible), there appear to be two 

broad possible types here: One type that sees the actors in terms of their rightful 

territorial possessions, emphasizing contiguity and clear boundaries; and a second 

type that emphasizes the topophilic attachment to certain highly valued and symbolic 

places. (It should be pointed out that his typology is provisional and open to 

amendment if the textual analysis reveals other important types.) 

Barthes’ treatment of the final level of analysis (3) – narration – is less 

detailed and not all of it is useful for our purposes. His introductory remarks on the 

“system of narrative” will therefore here mainly serve to set up our discussion of the 

macro-level features of narrative that are particularly pertinent to the analysis of 

historical narratives. According to Barthes, 

Language proper can be defined by the concurrence of two 

fundamental processes: the process of articulation, or segmentation, 

which produces units (this corresponds to form…), and the process of 

integration, which collects these units into units of a higher rank (this 

constitutes the meaning). This double process has its counterpart in

the language of narrative, which also recognizes an articulation and an 

integration, a form and a meaning. 87 

89 

Barthes is here taking up a basic structuralist theme, which also underlies the 

above noted reluctance to locate meaning in character types. Lévi-Strauss states it 

succinctly in his exposition of “The Structural Study of Myths” published a decade 

before Barthes’ introduction to narrative analysis: “If there is a meaning to be found 

in mythology, this cannot reside in the isolated elements which enter into the 

composition of a myth, but only in the way those elements are combined.” 88 

According to Strauss, (and Barthes agrees,) the view that the meaning of a narrative 

resides in its individual components – its functions and actions – is flawed in the 

same way that the ancient philosophers’ belief that they could discover the meaning 

associated with particular sequences of sounds was flawed. This belief failed to 

account for the fact that identical sounds could mean different things in different 

languages. 89 Instead, Barthes and Strauss argue, it is the process of combination – or 

integration – of the differentiated elements that generates meaning. A structuralist 

analysis should therefore focus on identifying the basic constituent units of the 

narrative, establishing the syntax according to which they are combined to create 

sequences, bundles of sequences, or actants, and determining the rules by which 

these bundles and actants in turn are integrated into a meaningful narrative. 


88 Levi-Strauss, "Structural Study," p. 431. 

89 Clearly, this structuralist claim (that meaning cannot be located on the level of isolated bits of 

language but only in the manner in which they are combined) is a corollary of the principle of the 

arbitrariness of the sign. The determination of which isolated narrative units have what meaning is 

entirely arbitrary, which is why we cannot look for the source of their meaning in the units 

themselves.

90 

However, in spite of Barthes’ emphasis on the “progressive integration” of 

meaning from lower to higher levels, structural linguistics remains a top-down 

hierarchical approach that essentially refuses to acknowledge any meaning beyond 

the process of integration, that is, beyond structure, We can avoid this radical 

position by taking into account insights from other traditions when thinking about 

the creation of meaning. Herbert Blumer, for example, defines three basic 

assumptions of Symbolic Interactionism that underline that a) meaning emerges out 

of social interaction in concrete situations and b) rather than meanings “floating” in 

an abstract space, we attach them to things that mean something to us in particular 

situations: 

[1.] human beings act toward things on the basis of the meanings that 

the things have for them… [2.] the meaning of such things is derived 

from, or arises out of, the social interaction that one has with one’s 

fellows … [3.] these meanings are handled in, and modified through 

an interpretative process used by the person in dealing with the things 

he encounters. 90 

This suggests that an account that limits itself to linguistic, syntactic, and 

narrative structures will not exhaust the analysis of meaning. A child’s affection 

toward its parents exists before the child is even capable of imposing any kind of 

linguistic or narrative structure on the emotion, and yet the parent’s face can still 

come to symbolize security, thus acquiring a certain meaning. Meaning can emerge 

“from below” as well as from above. This example and the phrase “from below” 

must not be taken to suggest that things somehow have meanings in themselves and 

90 Blumer, Symbolic Interactionism, p. 2.

that our words merely describe the inherent meaning that emerges from das ting 

91 

an sich. Rather, it should be read in the spirit of Ethnomethodology and its analyses 

of the “local production of order”. The meaning of the indexical “it” in an expression 

like “Give it to me!” is a function of the structure of the sentence as well as of how 

extra-linguistic – and not always structural – features of the particular situation 

contribute to our understanding of what is being referenced. 91 

Lakoff’s work on the cognitive and physiological foundation of metaphors 

further impels us not to limit our search for meaning to structural features. To be 

sure, both metaphors and conceptual blends generate new meaning in the process of 

mapping between domains or mental spaces, which can be described as a form of 

integration into a larger structure. However, neither the form or segmentation of the 

individual concepts nor their integration into a structure can produce meaning by 

themselves. The power of a metaphorical expression like “the Dark Ages” to 

generate meaning stems from our familiarity with the meaning of the isolated 

concepts in the source domain (“dark” and “age”), which build on our most 

fundamental experiences of living. The initial association of the precise letters and 

sounds that constitute the word “dark”, for example, with the phenomenon of 

darkness is surely arbitrary. However, once it is made, any account of the generation 

of meaning in the creation of this metaphor will be incomplete unless it considers the 

91 Wodak’s four levels of context are instructive on this point but will be discussed below. The kind of 

situation-dependent meaning that we describe as emerging “from below” would fit on Wodak’s level 

3.

meaning of the two words taken separately, as well as their integration into the 

92 

joint structure of a conceptual metaphor. 

Hayden White, Northrop Frye and the Analysis of Modes of Emplotment 

Having at length emphatically downplayed the importance of structure, let us 

now instead consider how a consideration of narrative structure can be useful in our 

analysis. As the title of Hayden White’s The Content of the Form suggests, the form 

that a narrative takes carries its own content or meaning. In what White calls the 

performance model of discourse (which he contrasts with that of discourse as 

representation), 

a discourse is regarded as an apparatus for the production of meaning 

rather than as only a vehicle for the transmission of information about 

an extrinsic referent. Thus envisaged, the content of the discourse 

consists as much of its form as it does of whatever information might 

be extracted from a reading of it. It follows that to change the form of 

the discourse might not be to change the information about its explicit 

referent, but it would certainly change the meaning produced by it. 92 

This performance model clearly fits the constructivist view of language 

espoused in this chapter. Moreover, White’s discussion of the different forms of 

historical narrative is of particular relevance to us and warrants the longer extracts 

that follow. We have already noted that according to White, a historical chronicle 

becomes a narrative when a list of events is turned into a complete story: 

In order to effect this transformation, the events, agents, and agencies 

represented in the chronicle must be encoded as story elements; that 

is, they must be characterized as the kinds of events, agents, agencies, 

and so on, that can be apprehended as elements of specific story types. 

On this level of encodation, the historical discourse directs the 


93 

reader’s attention to a secondary referent, namely, the plot structures of the 

various story types cultivated in a given culture. When the reader 

recognizes the story being told in a historical narrative as a specific 

kind of story – for example, as an epic, romance, tragedy, comedy, or 

farce, – he can be said to have comprehended the meaning produced 

by the discourse. This comprehension is nothing other than the 

recognition of the form of the narrative. 93 

In other words, the form of the narrative – the particular kind of plot structure 

that frames it – has a message or content of its own. In Metahistory – his analysis of 

19 th -century historiography – White argues that the historians he analyzed used this 

notion of emplotment as a form of (mostly implicit) explanation, for which reason he 

calls it explanation by emplotment. 94 It is this structural feature of historical 

narratives and meta-narratives that we shall examine with a view to determining their 

constitutive powers: What type of story was being told in the dominant historical 

meta-narrative of any particular period and what was the meaning or significance of 

this form? Adapting for the analysis of historical narratives a classification schema 

developed by Northrop Frye, 95 White distinguishes between four primary “modes of 

emplotment: Romance, Tragedy, Comedy, and Satire”. 96 Though these four labels 

correspond to the names of the major traditional genres of literature and drama, the 

notion of “modes of emplotment” is not synonymous with that of “genre”. The 

complexity of Frye’s conceptual apparatus and the flexibility with which he uses 

terms like “mode” or “genre” makes it difficult to pin down their precise meanings, 


94 White, Metahistory, pp. 7-11. 

95 His fullest development of these ideas are in Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays 

(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1957). See also Albert Charles Hamilton, Northrop Frye: 

Anatomy of his Criticism (Buffalo, NJ: University of Toronto Press, 1990). In this work, Hamilton 

performs a painstaking but helpful “anatomy” of Frye’s influential book. 


ut he is consistent in using the term “mythoi” to describe the four modes. These 

94 

mythoi are “pre-generic”, by which he means “narrative categories of literature 

broader than, or logically prior to, the ordinary literary genres”. 97 Were we to 

understand these labels in the latter, ordinary sense, we would of course seldom if 

ever describe e.g. academic histories as Comedies, since academic history and 

fictional comedy are two incompatible genres. What White is getting at by 

describing certain (“academic”) historical narratives in terms of modes of 

emplotment is thus something other than the genre of writing to which it belongs. 

These labels describe the type of plot or story that the author uses to create a 

coherent narrative out of the historical events he describes; they do not pertain to the 

type of discourse that is being emplotted. White depicts the typical plot structure of 

the Romance as follows: 

The Romance is fundamentally a drama of self-identification 

symbolized by the hero’s transcendence of the world of experience, 

his victory of it, and his final liberation of it – the sort of drama 

associated with the Grail legend or the story of the resurrection of 

Christ in Christian mythology. It is a drama of the triumph of good 

over evil, of virtue over vice, of light over darkness, and of the 

ultimate transcendence of man over the world in which he was 

imprisoned by the Fall. 98 

The theme of Satire is the direct opposite of the Romance – it is a drama 

“dominated by the apprehension that man is ultimately a captive of the world rather 

than its master” and by the recognition of the inability of human reason to overcome 

97 Frye, Anatomy of Criticism, p. 162. Hamilton lists a number of terms used by Frye to describe the 

idea of the four mythoi, including “archetypal narratives”, “archetypes of genres”, “generic plots”, or 

“plot-formulas” Hamilton, Northrop Frye, pp. 133,134. 

98 White, Metahistory, pp. 8-9.

the dark forces in life and the inevitability of death. Satire presumes the inability 

95 

of the other three modes of emplotment to adequately represent the human world and 

resorts to the use of irony as a means of dealing with even its own inescapable 

limitations. 99 In contrast, both Comedy and Tragedy “suggest the possibility of at 

least partial liberation from the condition of the Fall and provisional release from the 

divided state in which men find themselves in this world.” 100 

In Comedy, hope is held out for the temporary triumph of man over 

his world by the prospect of occasional reconciliations of the forces at 

play in the social and natural worlds. Such reconciliations are 

symbolized in the festive occasions which the Comic writer 

traditionally uses to terminate his dramatic accounts of change and 

transformation. In Tragedy, there are no festive occasions, except 

false or illusory ones; rather, there are intimations of states of division 

among men more terrible than that which incited the tragic agon at the 

beginning of the drama. Still, the fall of the protagonist and the 

shaking of the world he inhabits which occur at the end of the Tragic 

play are not regarded as totally threatening to those who survive the 

agonic test. There have been gains in consciousness for the spectators 

of the contest. … 

The reconciliations which occur at the end of Comedy are 

reconciliations of men with men, of men with their world and their 

society … The reconciliations that occur at the end of Tragedy are 

much more somber; they are more in the nature of resignations of 

men to the conditions under which they must labor in the world. 

These conditions, in turn, are asserted to be inalterable and eternal 

… 101 

The importance of these four story types for the analysis in later chapters 

explains our use of such lengthy quotes. We will let the descriptions speak for 

themselves except to point out that the four modes can also be understood in terms of 




directionality. Each story type involves a distinctive pattern of movements up or 

96 

down a hierarchy of levels of existence, which Frye describes using Biblical 

metaphors: hell, the “two levels of the order of nature”, and heaven. 102 We will 

examine this representation further in the next chapter, but it can here be used to 

define comedies as narratives of ascent in which the hero does not reach all the way 

up to the highest level. In contrast, tragedies are narratives of descent where he/she 

does not plunge all the way to hell. Romance involves the descent from heaven 

through hell and up again all the way, thus completing a circle. Fry sometimes 

describes Irony as a parody of Romance, involving a complete cycle but in reverse, 

so that it begins with an ascent and ends with a fall. 

A few observations are in order concerning the process of identifying the 

mode of emplotment for any given narrative. First, the analysis of this structural 

feature engages, in a manner of speaking, the analyst’s “poetic” sensibilities more 

than his or her deductive reasoning skills. It requires consideration of such features 

as the general “tone” of the narrative, whether it adopts a generally optimistic or 

pessimistic outlook on the world, the underlying story that unites its disparate 

elements, the use of stylistic or other devices to signal the mode of emplotment, etc. 

Second, this analysis will primarily be conducted on Barthes’ level (3) – the level of 

narration – and will tend to be holistic in its focus. Third, the determination of the 

mode of emplotment will involve the consideration of the other components of the 

102 Northrop Frye, The Stubborn Stucture: Essays on Criticism and Society (Ithaca, NY: Cornell 

University Press, 1970), pp. 178, 202.

historical meta-narrative in terms of their significance for the broader story being 

97 

told. Fourth, this analysis will have to be open to the possibility that writers may 

combine elements from several of the four types of story. 

Levels of Narrative Analysis: A Synthesis 

Table 1.3 presents the provisional conclusions of this discussion of levels of 

narrative analysis, which will inform the discourse analysis in subsequent chapters. 

We have replaced Barthes’ labels with ones that better describe the kind of features 

that we seek to identify on each level. On level 1, the analysis aims to identify the 

most basic signifiers for each content dimension in question. In the social spatial 

dimension for example, this includes the identification of predicated attributes 

whereas the basic signifiers in the narrative diachronic dimension are the basic 

constituent units of the narrative; that is, its settings and the roles and scripts that it 

contains. Level 2 refers to the classification of clusters of basic signifiers into 

specific nameable types, such as the determination of the overall mode of 

emplotment or story type for the first diachronic (narrative) dimension, the stringing 

together of nuclei into one of a limited number of familiar scripts, or the specific 

kind of attachment to place (topophilic or territorial) suggested by various spatial 

markers. Level 3 pertains to the analysis of the performative function of these 

different types with respect to the other components of the narrative as well as to the 

overall structure of the latter, such as the function and location of a certain script in 

the broader narrative for the second diachronic dimension (what does the script 

contribute to the story and where in the story does it place the current action?). This

also includes consideration of how the relationship with the other components 

98 

imposes constraints on the meaning of each type. For example, the kidnapped fairytale 

Princess not only enables the Hero to show his chivalrous qualities and thereby 

serves as a catalyst for the central action of the plot – the Quest – her role as a 

kidnapped victim also constrains her freedom of action in rather obvious ways. On 

level 4, the analysis focuses on the question of the extra-textual performative 

function of each dimension, such as how a particular type of attachment to physical 

space is used to further an author’s social, moral, and/or political objectives, or how 

a certain historical narrative creates “conditions of possibility” for some courses of 

action while obscuring others. Here, too, the investigation should take into account 

any situational and/or structural contextual factors that impose constraints on both 

performance and interpretation of the respective elements of the narrative. 

It could be said that this fourth level of analysis by itself comprises many 

levels, and it would be possible to extend the table in a number of ways. We could 

conceivably use any of the many formulations of the traditional levels of analysis in 

IR. Barry Buzan and Richard Little’s version – which includes Individual, Subunit, 

Unit International Subsystem, and International System – would then be especially 

appropriate since it was devised with macro-historical analysis in mind. 103 However, 

our primary interest is not the interaction between taken-for-granted collective actors 

on different levels but rather the social construction and perpetuation of such entities. 

Clearly, we must do our best to avoid reifying them by building them into our very 

103 Buzan and Little, International Systems.

theory or approach. Alternatively, we might use some other common analytical 

99 

heuristic from historically oriented studies in IR – like Buzan and Little’s five 

Sectors of Analysis or their three Sources of Explanation – or from historical 

sociology, such as Michael Mann’s four Sources of Social Power, for example. 104 

However, considering the fact that the phenomena in many of the boxes in Table 1.3 

already must be analyzed in terms of how they stand in relation to phenomena in 

several other boxes, it is easy to see that any such further specification of our 

framework risks rapidly increasing its complexity beyond what is manageable. We 

will indeed consider many of the dimensions contained in these heuristics – political, 

military, and geographic factors, for example – when analyzing the context but with 

an open mind as to which of them may be significant. Our approach has been similar 

to that advocated by the discourse-historical approach in CDA (quoted above), in 

terms of gathering as much information about the relevant context as possible in 

order to determine the role of “extra-linguistic” factors. Wodak’s specification of 

context into several levels would therefore be more useful if we wished to expand on 

the fourth level of analysis in Table 1.3. She distinguishes between the following 

four levels of context: 

1. the immediate, language or text internal co-text; 2. the intertextual 

and interdiscursive relationship between utterances, texts, genres and 

discourses; 3. the extralinguistic social/sociological variables and 

institutional frames of a specific ‘context of situation’ (middle range 

theories); 4. the broader sociopolitical and historical contexts, which 

104 The five Sectors are Military, Political, Economic, Socio-Cultural, and Environmental. Their three 

Sources are Process, Interaction Capacity, and Structure.

the discursive practices are embedded in and related to (‘grand’ 

theories). 105 

100 

Wodak’s first level is contained within levels 1 and 2 in the table below, and 

her second level corresponds to our level 3. If we wanted to specify our level 4 

further, we might therefore simply divide it into two levels that match to her third 

and fourth levels, respectively. In fact, we will consider both situational and broader 

historical contexts so it would not be entirely out of place to do so. However, the 

theoretical “value added” in such a move is insufficient to warrant the trade-off in 

terms of increased complexity. The four levels of analysis outlined in the table below 

suffice if we simply remember to consider contextual factors of many kinds when on 

level 4. 

105 Wodak, "The Discourse-Historical Approach," p. 67.

Table 1.3. Levels in Textual Analysis of Identity Narratives 

101 

Performative 

functions/constraints 

Level of analysis: 

(1) Basic 

Signifiers 

(2) Signified 

Type 

(3) Cotextual 

(4) Contextual 

Object of analysis: 

Diachronic 

Rolerelationships 

Synchronic 

I. 

Narrative 

II. 

Script 

Social 

space 

Physical 

space 

Constituent 

units (roles, 

scripts, setting) 

Functions/ 

nuclei 

Indices/ 

predicated 

attributes/ 

images 

Place/space 

markers 

Story 

(romance, 

satire, comedy, 

tragedy) 

Scripts/ 

sequences/ 

episodes 

Topophilic/ 

territorial 

attachments 

Dominant/ 

Alternative 

Function/ 

location in 

plot 

Role in plot 

Significance 

of setting 

Cosmology, 

interpretive 

framework 

Guide to action 

and understanding 

types 

of events 

Expectancy 

rules re Self v 

Others, 

evaluative 

Draw 

boundaries, 

root/locate, 

justify 

expansion 

Two further clarifications are in place. First, observe that the unit of analysis 

on any given level of analysis is relative to the object of analysis, so that the units of 

analysis on level (1) can be single words (predicates) when analyzing the social 

spatial dimension but paragraphs, pages, or even chapters of texts (for longer scripts) 

on the narrative diachronic dimension. The most dramatic illustration of this has to 

do with the possibility of applying this analytical framework to the examination of 

historical meta-narratives as well as to historical narratives in the form of single 

documents. It is entirely conceivable, for example, that certain individual historical 

narratives function as the constituent units in a given historical meta-narrative. 

Second, note that because the identification task in some of the boxes depends on

102 

prior analysis in some other boxes, the actual workload is smaller than suggested 

by the 12 content boxes (some of them interrelated) in the table. For example, the 

identification of the basic signifiers of the narrative on level (1) is automatically 

completed with the identification on level (2) of all complex signifiers except those 

of the narrative. Another consequence of this analytical interdependence is that the 

analysis must proceed simultaneously on several levels and in several dimensions, or 

at least constantly move dialectically between them. 

Falsification and the Process of Interpretive Research 

It would be deceptive to suggest that the research on this thesis followed a 

clear-cut process in which the theory and methodology were first developed and the 

former then put to the test against the textual/empirical data, as we are taught to do as 

good social scientists. In spite of Karl Popper’s admonition, the context of discovery 

is not here clearly separated from the context of justification. On the other hand, ours 

is not such a wholly inductive approach as that advocated by Ted Hopf, even though 

the alert reader will have find much in the above discussion that overlaps with his 

work. 106 Neither would the concept of Grounded Theory adequately describe the 

manner in which the empirical material is approached, since it similarly assumes that 

the researcher develops his or her theoretical categories inductively, merely as the 

result of a recursive and cumulative process of categorizing the data, essentially 

unhindered by any theoretical presuppositions or assumptions on the part of the 

analyst. 

106 See Chapter 1 in Ted Hopf, Social Construction of International Politics: Identities & Foreign 

Policies, Moscow, 1955 and 1999 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002).

The approach adopted here is instead perhaps best described with a 

103 

concept borrowed from John Rawls: as seeking a state of “reflective equilibrium” in 

a dialectical process of simultaneous concept formation/theory development and 

empirical (primarily textual) analysis. 107 In other words, the textual data is not 

approached with a tabula rasa but with certain initial ideas for how to conceptualize 

and analyze collective identities that are based on relevant readings in social 

psychology, sociology, and IR. However, some of the initial theoretical constructs 

have been revised or abandoned and new categories developed in light of new 

knowledge gained during the process of working with the texts and learning more 

about the relevant historical context. This has affected matters both large and small. 

An example of a major revision is the narrative dimension, a central part of the 

framework that was not part of the initial conceptual apparatus but emerged in 

response to the apparent centrality of a pervasive meta-narrative in many of the texts 

analyzed. 

Many people involved in qualitative social science research would probably 

recognize the research process just described. It may even seem obvious to the point 

of being uninteresting. However, if this is indeed how many of us do research, 

should we not then acknowledge this and defend it as a legitimate approach to social 

scientific inquiry? There would be reason not to do so if this approach was somehow 

inherently flawed, which Popper’s scientific “demarcation criteria” of falsifiability 

107 It also corresponds partly to the CDA school’s use of the term “abduction”, even though it quite 

possibly contradicts Peirce’s original understanding of the concept that he made famous. Guy 

Deutscher, "On the Misuse of the Notion of 'Abduction' in Linguistics," Journal of Linguistics 38 

(2002).

104 

might suggest is the case. It could be argued that unless this approach is relegated 

to the context of discovery and kept out of the process of justification, there would 

be no way to falsify a theory. Instead of falsifying the theory, the researcher simply 

adapts it to fit the contradictory data. Are we in fact guilty of this ourselves since we 

added the concept of narrative in response to the discrepancy between what the 

initial theoretical framework could account for and what was actually found in the 

texts? One problem with this objection is that it rests on a view of falsification 

rightly described by Imre Lakatos as naïve. Lakatos’ more sophisticated version 

admits that even the best scientific theories are protected by a “belt of auxiliary 

hypotheses” and are therefore seldom falsified by any single piece of contradictory 

evidence. Stretching Lakatos’ vocabulary, we might say that the addition of narrative 

constituted something analogous to a progressive problem-shift (albeit in miniature) 

because it accounted for new and significant phenomena. 

If the application of this vocabulary in this case seems contrived, this is partly 

because it was developed with the typical research process in the natural sciences in 

mind, where theories generate hypotheses that can then be tested in experiments. 

How the theories and hypotheses were arrived at matters little as long as the 

experiment designed to test them is valid. The process in qualitative social science 

research on the other hand is often markedly different, particularly in the case of 

interpretive work. It is not that interpretations cannot be “tested”; as anyone who has 

been misinterpreted knows, they surely can, even though the resulting interpretation 

will always be open to further challenge. Rather, this “testing” is typically an integral

105 

part of the interpretive process itself. In fact, if my account of qualitative research 

is correct, it is a recursive process whereby the analyst moves dialectically from 

theory to data and back, continuously “testing” (and either confirming or revising) 

his interpretive categories, and this process only ends when further tests cease to 

produce significant revisions, at which point we can say that a reflective equilibrium 

has been reached. What follows is such a state of provisional equilibrium.

106 

CHAPTER 2. EXCLUSIVE IDENTITIES AND MILITARY 

DEFEAT: FROM FIRST ENCOUNTERS TO THE HIGH MIDDLE 

AGES (C. 632-1050) 

INTRODUCTION 

This chapter examines a set of images and scripts first used by 7 th -century 

eastern Christians to make sense of their new Muslim foes by emphasizing their 

fundamental Otherness. It also considers how early medieval Christians incorporated 

Muslims into their historical meta-narrative and how these images and scripts fit into 

this narrative. A second set of images, tied to more inclusive Christian role/identities, 

will be discussed in the next chapter. 

New Masters – Christians and the Rise of Islam 

Christian images of Islam and Muslims were shaped by the context in which 

they first emerged: the experience of threatened and divided Christian communities 

living in rapidly growing Muslim dominions. As the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius in 

634 cut his losses and surrendered control of the Levant to Muslim forces under the 

general Khalid ibn-al-Walid, Christian sects across the former Byzantine lands of 

Syria, the Holy Land, and Egypt were suddenly faced with Muslim masters. Arabs 

twice (668-75 and 717-718) laid siege to Constantinople, the center of the Eastern 

Roman Empire (its importance illustrated by some of its many names: it was called 

both “New Jerusalem” and “New Rome”). They rather easily conquered the coast of

then mainly Christian North Africa around the turn of the seventh-eight 

107 

centuries, and with a small North African Muslim army under Tariq bin Zayid in the 

year 711 crossed the Gibraltar and conquered most of the Iberian Peninsula 108 . Prior 

to the emergence of Islam, Christendom’s main adversaries had been Jews, pagans 

(primarily the early Romans), and heretics among Christians themselves. Thus, when 

Muslims under the Caliph ‘Umar I (634-644) began conquering vast Christian lands 

in the Middle East, many Christians living there struggled to understand this new and 

powerful Other as well as their own radically changed situation: How could God 

allow infidels such military and material successes? We will examine below how 

interpretations varied somewhat between Christian communities – the ruling 

Chalcedonian (orthodox) elite of the Byzantine Empire may have reacted to their 

loss of power in ways that differed from their Jacobite or Monophysite opponents in 

Syria and Egypt – but were all framed by the Biblical historical meta-narrative to 

which each of these communities subscribed. “For comfort and aid,” writes Robert 

Hoyland, “the Byzantines turned heavenwards”. 109 In other words, most Christians 

relied upon Holy Scripture and earlier Christian authorities on matters of theology in 

making sense of the rise of Islam, framing their new situation in terms of familiar 

narratives. What, then, were the basic features of this historical meta-narrative? 

108 Vernon O. Egger, A History of the Muslim World to 1405: The Making of a Civilization (NJ: 

Pearson Prentice Hall, 2004). 

109 Andrew Palmer, The Seventh Century in the West-Syrian Chronicles (Liverpool: Liverpool 

University Press, 1993), p. xix.

THE EARLY MEDIEVAL CHRISTIAN HISTORICAL META-NARRATIVE 

108 

Mode of Emplotment 

Christian historiography told a story that allowed medieval Christians to 

contextualize and interpret the rise of Islam and the arrival of Muslims into their 

universe. The medieval Christian historical meta-narrative was linear in the broad 

sense that it was framed by a beginning (Creation) and an end (the Day of Judgment) 

toward which each historical development brought mankind a step closer. 

“Teleological” is perhaps a better word than “linear”, since the latter conjures up an 

unduly constricting geometric imagery. While the end was predetermined, the path 

toward that end did not have the shape of a straight line; there would be ups and 

downs, trials and tribulations, temporary defeats and victories. In the biblical story 

that unfolded between the two points, God and Satan were locked in constant battle 

and would both intervene through their respective sons – Christ and the Antichrist – 

angels, demons, miracles and magic in the daily life of the people on Earth. The 

typical historical work in this tradition “depicts an epic struggle between good and 

evil in which God and man were the principal actors”, in Vryonis’ words, and 

“records the significant events from creation through the birth of Christ … to the 

final judgment”, where, of course, the faithful would be delivered from their earthly 

prison. 110 In the struggle between good and evil Saracens could be placed in the latter 

camp, making the fight against them one of divine significance. 

110 Speros Jr. Vryonis, ed., Readings in Medieval Historiography (NY: Houghton-Mifflin, 1968), p. 2.

The reference to this battle as “epic” should not automatically induce us 

109 

to apply the same label to the entire Biblical historical narrative. Recall the 

distinction made in the previous chapter between single pieces of work in narrative 

form and meta-narratives. Northrop Frye occasionally does use the word “epic” 

when writing about the Bible 111 but this is hardly an accurate characterization of his 

very complex view of the Bible and its relation to literature, which he elaborates in 

several books and in a way throughout his entire career. 112 In his more systematic 

treatments of the Old and New Testaments, Frye argues that their encyclopedic 

nature contained models for what he called the “encyclopaedic” forms of the epic. 113 

The Bible is thus not so much a work of narrative literature to be classified – it has 

“no formal unifying literary element like the dactylic hexameter in the Homeric 

epics” and was not “written or edited by a single person” 114 – as the manual with 

which subsequent literature can be analyzed. While there were certainly works of 

literature written before the Bible, Frye can therefore say that the very “conception 

of ‘literature’ itself is really post-Biblical”: 115 

‘The Old & New Testaments are the Great Code of Art’, Blake says, 

and he thinks of the framework of the Bible, stretching form Creation 

to Last Judgement and surveying the whole of human history in 

between, as indicating the framework of the whole literary 

experience, and establishing the ultimate context for all works of 

literature whatever. If the Bible did not exist, at least as a form, it 

111 “The Bible is the epic of the creator, with God as its hero.” Frye, Stubborn Scripture, p. 15. 

112 Northrop Frye, The Great Code: The Bible and Literature (NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 

Publishers, 1982); Northrop Frye, Words with Power: Being a Second Study of 'The Bible and 

Literature' (NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Publishers, 1990). 

113 Hamilton, Northrop Frye, pp. 179-181. 

114 Frye, Words with Power, p. 101. 

115 Frye, Words with Power, p. 101.

110 

would be necessary for literary critics to invent the same kind of total and 

definitive verbal structure out of the fragmentary myths and legends 

and folk tales we have outside it. 116 

Frye may well be faulted here for advancing a Eurocentric and insufficiently 

reflexive point of view that equates western literature with “all works of literature 

whatever.” Literatures in parts of the world with strong mythological traditions of 

their own are undoubtedly best decoded with the additional help of the relevant 

native codes. However, since we are interested precisely in Christian and 

subsequently European narratives this bias does not automatically affect our 

investigation. 117 And whether or not the Bible is in fact the “Great Code” that 

enables us to decipher western literature, Frye’s analysis of its form and structure 

sheds light on the plot-structure of the Christian historical meta-narrative. To 

summarize an extensive and immensely complex discussion, Frye argues that while 

“the Bible is not a work of literature,” it has a form of “canonical unity” and is “held 

together by an inner core of mythical and metaphorical structure” that can be 

characterized even though this is a difficult task. 118 

Given its encyclopedic form and 

116 Frye, The Stubborn Stucture: Essays on Criticism and Society, pp. 170-171. 

117 There are two possible fallacies to avoid here. The first is an unwarranted generalization of an 

observed relationship (A->B, thus A->C): Assuming that the study of the Christian mythological 

universe is a key that opens all doors, not just the door to western literature. However, since we are 

only interested in this particular door, we need not worry about the other doors and thus not about this 

fallacy. The second fallacy is the failure to consider the possibility of multiple influences (assuming 

that only A->B when C->B is also true): The Christian mythological key may open the door, but there 

may be other keys that work just as well. In other words, there may be (and probably are) several 

influences on secular European narratives, not just the Christian one. This fallacy concerns us more 

and we will keep this possibility in mind. However, we are ultimately not aiming for a full account of 

all influences on secular European narratives and images of Turkey and Turks, only for their adequate 

characterization, hoping to determine the extent to which older Christian themes remain and 

understand their place in the relevant social/political context. Part of the question is thus whether one 

particular key fits, not how many other keys do too. 

118 Frye, Words with Power, p. 102.

scope, the Christian mythological universe incorporates all four story types. In 

111 

this and several other ways, it is similar to Romance, which encapsulates the mythoi 

of Comedy and Tragedy: Like Romance, “the myth of Christianity is also a divine 

comedy which contains a tragedy, and thinks of that tragedy as an episode within a 

larger comic structure.” Frye affirms that the two should not be confused; the 

“imaginative universe of romance” is not identical to its Christian counterpart. 119 

Nevertheless, the similarities are so plentiful and significant (their circular movement 

that includes both Comedy and Tragedy, their reliance on metaphor and myth, their 

emphasis on transcendent reunion in the end etc.) that Frye eventually resorts to 

describing Romance as the Bible’s counterpart: “the secular scripture”. 120 “In 

traditional romance, including Dante, the upward journey is the journey of a creature 

returning to its creator. In most modern writers, from Blake on, it is the creative 

power in man that is returning to its original awareness.” Despite the many 

differences between the mythological universes of the secular and sacred scriptures 

(of the Bible and Romance), “the same shape is upon both.” 121 Moreover, we noted 

in the preceding chapter that the resolution of the plot in both Comedy and Tragedy, 

in contrast to the plot in Romance and Irony, occurs on the two intermediate levels of 

human existence. The two modes (Tragedy and Romance) are in some ways actually 

better described as “two main tendencies” than as discrete categories. 122 Tragedy 

tends towards demonic and Apocalyptic imagery and descent, whereas Comedy 

119 Frye, Stubborn Scripture, p. 92. 

120 This is the title of Frye, Stubborn Scripture. 

121 Frye, Stubborn Scripture, p. 157. 

122 Hamilton, Northrop Frye, p. 66.

112 

implies ascent and employs angelic imagery associated with the Resurrection and 

Christ’s Second Coming. 123 We can thus understand the medieval Christian historical 

meta-narrative as the emplotment of the Biblical mythological universe in the form 

of a Comedy, Tragedy, or Romance or in a combination of these modes. 

For his part, Hayden White appears to oscillate between the interpretation of 

this narrative as a Romance and as a Comedy. Like Frye, he occasionally describes 

“the Christian (Comic) vision of the ultimate liberation of man from his world and 

his ultimate reconciliation with God”, and cites Dante’s Divine Comedy as an 

example. 124 However, this depiction appears to contradict his description of the four 

modes of emplotment that we quoted in Chapter 1. It may be helpful to recall 

elements of these descriptions, such as White’s statement that the “reconciliations 

which occur at the end of Comedy are reconciliations of men with men, of men with 

their world and their society…” 125 The reconciliation typical of a Comedy is thus not 

supposed to be that of men with God, as the depiction of the Comic Christian vision 

suggests. Comedy promises nothing more than “the possibility of at least partial 

liberation from the condition of the Fall and provisional release from the divided 

state in which men find themselves in this world.” It holds out hope “for the 

temporary triumph of man over his world by the prospect of occasional 

reconciliations of the forces at play in the social and natural worlds.” This does not 

123 Frye actually uses the term “Apocalyptic” in the exact opposite sense: to denote the counterpart of 

“Demonic imagery.” He does this on the grounds that the Biblical Apocalypse is actually a “happy 

ending” where the faithful are finally redeemed. While perhaps technically correct, this runs contrary 

to common usage and we shall avoid confusion by sticking to the latter. 



appear to be a good description of the Biblical historical meta-narrative if we 

113 

consider its final resolution, in which the Second Coming of Christ promises eternal 

life and redemption in paradise for the faithful. By contrast, recall further that White 

describes Romance in terms of “the hero’s transcendence of the world of experience, 

his victory of it, and his final liberation of it…” 126 and that he explicitly associates it 

with Christian myths like the Holy Grail or the resurrection of Christ. Unlike 

Comedy, Romance is “a drama of the triumph of good over evil, of virtue over vice, 

of light over darkness, and of the ultimate transcendence of man over the world in 

which he was imprisoned by the Fall.” 127 This is almost better as a description of the 

Christian view of history than as a statement of the typical characteristics of the 

Romance genre. Here the Christian historical narrative appears to be a Romance, 

there a Comedy. Which Hayden White should we believe? 

Fortunately, we can avoid this question by simply postulating White’s 

original descriptions of the four modes of emplotment (on pages 8-11 in 

Metahistory) as their definitive statement. On that view, the Biblical historical metanarrative 

is clearly in the Romantic mode and this seems to be the better 

interpretation for a number of reasons. For one thing, White describes the medieval 

Christian view of history as essentially metaphorical, and the trope of metaphor is 

strongly associated with the Romantic mode in White’s theory. His mention of the 

“Christian (Comic) vision” can then be interpreted in two ways but only one of them 



114 

avoids the uncharitable position that White simply contradicts himself. The more 

charitable interpretation (which, ceteris paribus, we should prefer) understands the 

parenthetical insertion of “(Comic)” as a modifier or qualifier. That is, while the 

general Christian historical narrative is cast in the mode of Romance, individual 

authors (or parts of the narrative) can modify this ultimately Romantic drama by 

casting it in a more Comedic or Tragic mode. White would then be referring to a 

specific Comic version of the Christian historical narrative, like that of Dante’s 

Divine Comedy. While our discussion regarding White’s intension in this particular 

statement will have to remain speculative, there is no doubt that he acknowledged 

this as a possibility. He notes that even though every historian must choose one toplevel 

“archetypal story form” in which to cast his or her narrative, any “given 

historical account is likely to contain stories cast in one mode as aspects or phases of 

the whole set of stories emplotted in another mode.” 128 Even more to the point, 

White asserts that: 

Comedy and Tragedy represent qualifications of the Romantic 

apprehension of the world, considered as a process, in the interest of 

taking seriously the forces which oppose the effort at human 

redemption naively held up as a possibility for mankind in Romance. 

Comedy and Tragedy take conflict seriously, even if the former 

eventuates in a vision of the ultimate reconciliation of opposed forces 

and the latter in a revelation of the nature of the forces opposing man 

on the other. And it is possible for the Romantic writer to assimilate 

the truths of human existence revealed in Comedy and Tragedy 

respectively within the structure of the drama of redemption which he 

figures in his vision of the ultimate victory of man over the world of 

experience. 129 



While this may seem like a minor issue, we have explored it at such 

115 

length because it directly concerns our understanding of the Biblical historical metanarrative. 

For all the reasons given in the preceding paragraphs, our interpretation 

views this meta-narrative as an ultimately Romantic type of story that was sometimes 

qualified by the tendency toward either the Comic or the Tragic mode. As Frye 

points out, The New and Old Testaments are rich collections of rather heterogeneous 

texts. This would have made them perfectly suited for Christian authors with a view 

of the world that was either particularly “Tragic” or decidedly “Comic”, and who 

wanted to emphasize those minor Biblical stories or episodes that conformed to this 

inclination. Many of the writers examined in this chapter tended to qualify the 

ultimately Romantic Christian drama of redemption with a Tragic apprehension of 

the state of men and their times. In perfect harmony with the Tragic mode, the author 

of the medieval hagiography or Apocalyptic prophecy would dwell on “the fall of the 

protagonist and the shaking of the world he inhabits which occur at the end of the 

Tragic play”. But he would not regard these tribulations “as totally threatening to 

those who survive the agonic test. There has been a gain in consciousness for the 

spectators of the contest” 130 or, we might add, for those who remain faithful. 

The Normative Function of Medieval Histories 

This narrative was all encompassing, allowing Christians to explain the 

totality of human reality. 131 Events that were not explicitly prophesied could still be 


131 This is had in common with the mythologies that Lévi-Strauss described as the product of the 

“totalitarian ambition of the savage mind.” Lévi-Strauss, Myth and Meaning, p. 17.

made sense of through the allegorical reasoning advocated by St. Augustine in 

116 

his The Spirit of the Letter, and the use of similar enough biblical stories as scripts in 

which could be placed real-world characters and happenings. Following the rejection 

of Pelagius’ theology of free will, the medieval historical narrative tended to 

emphasize the omnipotence of God at the expense of the free will of man, and thus 

not only were natural events such as earthquakes or lunar eclipses interpreted as 

religious signs but human events such as military successes or failures were also 

often seen as signs of God’s approval or disapproval of the behavior of his people. 

One important type of Christian historical writing in which Saracens often 

played a central role was the apocalyptic literature, in our case beginning with the 

seventh-century West Syrian apocalyptic writers who had recently come under 

Muslim rule. They “strove to inject order and meaning into the past,” writes Robert 

Hoyland, “to elaborate a conception of history that would explain the traumatic 

situation in which they now found themselves and so to provide a model of hope for 

the future, extending the promise of deliverance to those who stood firm.” 132 These 

documents are symptomatic of the generally Tragic emphasis of the Biblical 

historical meta-narrative in the Middle East. 

In the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, a prophecy attributed to the saint 

Methodius of Olympus (martyred AD 312) likely composed in the last decade of the 

seventh century by a West Syrian Christian, detailed “prophecies” and descriptions 

132 Palmer, The Seventh Century, p. xxvi.

were made of the conquests by the “Ishmaelites”, or Muslims, 133 who were 

117 

traced back to the dawn of time as the successors of Ishmael, the son of Abraham, 

and who play an important role up until the Day of Judgment. These “barbarian 

tyrants”, predicted Methodius, “will … boast over their victory, how they have 

devastated and destroyed the Persians, Armenians, Cilicians, Isaurians, 

Cappadocians, Africans, Sicilians, the people of Hellas”. 134 According to the 

Apocalypse, then, the coming of the Ishmaelites presaged the imminent Apocalypse. 

Seventh-century Eastern Christians could easily identify with the suffering 

described, but could also find hope in the Apocalypse, knowing as they did that what 

I will below call the biblical Eschatological Script ended in a day of reckoning, at 

which time all those who had remained faithful would be rewarded. The Apocalypse 

promised the impending defeat of the Saracens, for “all of a sudden … the king of 

the Greeks shall go out against them in great wrath” and destroy them. 135 This king 

133 “Ishmaelites” and “Hagarenes” or “Agarenes” were other common names for “Saracens” among 

earlier writers and stem etymologically from Ishmael and Hagar, their alleged ancestors. The origins 

of the name “Saracens”, which was used by Christians to refer to a wide variety of Muslims, perhaps 

originally Syrian Muslims but eventually also Arabs and even Turks, are unclear. Some argue that it 

stems from Abraham’s wife Sarah, who kicked out Abraham’s son Ishmael, whom he had with the 

handmaid Hagar. Isidore of Seville (Spain 7th century) gives the following account: “Abraham, at age 

100, bore Isaac from the ‘liberated’ Sarah. But previously he had born, from his handmaiden Hagar, 

Ishmael, from whom came the people of the Ishmaelites, who later were called ‘Agarenes’ and finally, 

‘Saracens.’” Saint Isidore of Seville, Chronicon, trans. Kenneth B. Wolf (615, reworked 624). Thus, 

according to Isidore, Muslims were the descendents of Ishmael and Hagar and are only falsely 

claimed to be from Sarah. John V. Tolan argues that Isidore instead traces the etymology of the word 

Saracens back to the region they came from: Syria. Another (anonymous) medieval Christian writer 

invented a city called Sarras, in which pagan “Ishmaelites” before Mohammed allegedly first 

worshipped, and claims that the Saracens were named after the city of Sarras. See Tolan, Saracens, 

pp. 10-11, 127-128; Wheatcroft, Infidels, p. 50. 

134 “Extracts from the Apocalypse of Ps.-Methodius”, p. 237 (in Palmer, The Seventh Century, pp. 

222-242.) 

135 The precise timeline is somewhat more complex than space allows for: With the arrival of this 

king, there will be a period of peace, which will be interrupted when the gates of the north are opened 

and the people from there (Gog and Magog?) will invade and devastate the land for seven years. They

of the Greeks would be understood by Eastern Christians at the time to be the 

118 

Byzantine Emperor. In later, updated European editions and translations of the 

Apocalypse – such as the Northumbrian translation “Methodius: þe Bygynnyng of þe 

World and þe Ende of Worldes” – the Byzantine king is replaced by a more 

ambiguous “kyng … of Cristen men [who] schal arise & schal fizte wiþ hem [them]” 

136 , allowing contemporary Latin 137 Christians to retain hope even after it became 

clear that the Greeks (i.e. the Byzantines) would not produce such a king. 

The apocalyptic writings were avowedly normative and closely followed a 

biblical format. Two other types of medieval historiography, annals and chronicles, 

were often less explicitly religious and moralistic. They aimed to report events and 

facts deemed important, whether in the form of lists of a succession of kings with 

corresponding years and dates of rule (annals) or in the form of accounts of some 

particular event (chronicles). We noted in Chapter 1 that Hayden White and 

shall be defeated by an angel and then the king of Greeks will come down and reside in Jerusalem for 

10 ½ years, after which the “son of Perdition,” the False Messiah, or Antichrist will appear, be 

revealed, and seat himself in the Temple in Jerusalem as predicted by Jacob, but ultimately will be 

delivered over to the “Gehenna of fire,” i.e. hell (Matthew 5:22, 18:9), at the time of the Second 

Coming of Christ. 

136 Pseudo-Methodius, "The Bygynnyng of the World and the Ende of Worlds," in Trebisa's Dialogus 

inter Militem et Clericum, Sermon by FitzRalph and the Bygynnyng of the World, with an introduction 

by Aaron Jenkins Perry, ed. John Trevisa (Millwood, NY: Klaus Reprint, 1987). A quick guide to 

reading Northumbrian: “þ” reads “th”, “y” here reads “i”, “u” as “v” and vice versa, and “z” here 

reads “gh” as in “fight” . 

137 “Latin Christians” here refers to Catholics in the Latin Church, i.e. Catholics who were under the 

Latin patriarch, the Pope. This is to distinguish them from Catholics who obeyed one of the four other 

patriarchs in Constantinople, Alexandria, Antioch, or Jerusalem, and whom we will refer to as 

“Eastern Christians”. Generally, “Latins” lived in SouthWestern and Western Europe whereas Eastern 

Christians lived in the former Byzantine holdings such as Asia Minor, Syria, and North Africa. While 

not all “Eastern Christians” thus lived in the east, strictly speaking, this terminology serves to 

emphasize that Christians in the latter mentioned regions and in Spain experienced Muslim 

occupation early on while most European Christians north of the Pyrenees did not. Since their 

different experiences mattered for when and what types of images would emerge in the respective 

regions, it is helpful to be able to keep them analytically apart.

Margaret Somers distinguish chronicles and annals from historical narratives 

119 

proper because the former lack a fully developed story, “causal emplotment”, 

“evaluative criteria”, and narrative closure. As we shall see, however, the pervasive 

medieval Christian master-narrative ensured that even the seemingly disjointed 

cataloging of annals displayed many of the features defined by White and Somers as 

essential to narratives. 

According to White, “every historical narrative has as its latent or manifest 

purpose the desire to moralize the events of which it treats.” 138 However, we clearly 

saw evidence of this desire in the apocalyptic texts. Their detached appearance 

notwithstanding, even most early medieval annals, too, were guided by normative 

and religious objectives and shaped their accounts so as to emphasize the lessons to 

be learned. Writing about Syrian annalists such as Dionysius of Tel-Mahre, Andrew 

Palmer argues that while they presented themselves as “objective annalists”, they in 

fact “compiled or composed their texts in retrospect to serve moral, religious and 

political purposes”. 139 This is certainly no less true for later chroniclers. The 

anonymous late-12 th -century author/compiler of the Chronicle of the Third Crusade 

expressed the importance of historiography by pointing out that “if truth-conscious 

Antiquity had not left us histories to read no one would be inspired to imitate the 

deeds of the Holy Fathers”. 140 History, in his view, served to “ensure that virtue 

would live forever” in order that later generations would be moved to imitate the 


139 Palmer, The Seventh Century, p. xxviii. 

140 Chronicle of the Third Crusade: A Translation of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis 

Ricardi, trans. Helen J. Nicholson (Brookfield: Vermont: Ashgate Publishing Company, 1997).

virtues of previous generations. Not only did this normative element function to 

120 

encourage social norms, it also served an epistemological purpose, for knowing what 

mattered gave even the annalists a means by which to discriminate between the 

important and the unimportant when faced with the countless number of historical 

events. 141 

As an illustration of the importance of emplotment and evaluation in 

medieval chronicles, consider the 7 th -9 th -century Syrian chroniclers’ treatment of 

natural disasters. 142 On the first reading, the latter appear to be scattered throughout 

the chronicles with no other ordering principle than when they in fact occurred. 

However, upon closer examination it becomes clear that the writers often used 

natural disasters quite conscientiously to emphasize other afflictions affecting 

Christians, or portrayed them as divine chastisement for the sins of man. Through 

subtle applications of the narrative format seemingly disparate events are made into 

“related parts in a subjectively meaningful universe”, to borrow Berger and 

Luckmann’s formulation. For example, one Syrian Maronite annalist (AD 664+) 

reported how the Monophysite patriarch of the Jacobites – with whom the Maronites 

were engaged in a fierce struggle over Christian orthodoxy that will be further 

clarified below – had ensured dhimmi (or protected) status for his people by making 

a deal with the Muslim Caliph that involved both Jacobites and Maronites paying 

141 Somers makes this point in general about the evaluative criteria of narratives. Somers, "The 

Narrative Constitution," p. 617. 

142 Marilyn Robinson Waldman presents a similar argument in her reply Marilyn Robinson Waldman, 

""The Otherwise Unnoteworthy Year 711": A Reply to Hayden White," Critical Inquiry 7, no. 4 

(1981). to Hayden White’s “The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality” White, The 

Content of the Form., originally published in Critical Inquiry 7(1).

him an annual sum of gold. Immediately following the observation of this 

121 

treasonous act, he added casually that on “the ninth of the same month in which the 

disputation with the Jacobites took place, on a Sunday at the eight hour, there was an 

earthquake”. 143 A factual statement, no doubt, but contemporary Maronite readers 

would nonetheless know how to interpret this concordance of events: as God’s 

punishment for the sins of his children. This example illustrates not only the use of 

“concealed” normative judgments but also shows how causal emplotment can be 

implicit. Roland Barthes suggests that 

the mainspring of the narrative activity is to be traced to that very 

confusion between consecutiveness and consequence, what-comesafter 

being read in a narrative as what-is-caused-by. Narrative would 

then be a systematic application of the logical fallacy denounced by 

scholasticism under the formula post hoc, ergo propter hoc… 144 

Given that is seems entirely possible to achieve causal emplotment even in 

the sparse annalistic form of historical writing, we should perhaps not be so hasty to 

define all annals and chronicles out of the narrative family of historical accounts. 

At other times, combined causal linkages / normative statements were made 

more explicit. The anonymous 8 th -century writer from the monastery Zuqnin (near 

Diyarbakır in modern day Turkey) chronicled important events by year, one of which 

was the first Muslim census (AD 691/2). The introduction of the census resulted in 

the first poll-tax on Christians to be levied on individuals as opposed to land. “From 

this point onwards”, lamented the writer, the Muslims or as he called them, “the Sons 

143 “Text No. 4: The Maronite Chronicle (AD 664+)”, in Palmer, The Seventh Century, p. 31. Palmer 

corroborates in a note the claim that this date was a Sunday. 


122 

of Hagar began to subject the Sons of Aram to Egyptian slavery.” How ought this 

event – in many ways as much of a disaster for the Christians as most earthquakes – 

to be understood? Precisely in the same fashion as a natural disaster – as a sign of 

God’s disapproval: “it is our own fault: because we sinned, slaves have become our 

masters.” 145 This theme of Muslim conquest represented as God’s punishment will 

be discussed in greater detail below, but it is highly pervasive in most chronicles 

from this and later periods and illustrates the prevalence of both causal and 

normative emplotment even in the supposedly non-narrative historical accounts from 

this time. The moral message of the apocalyptic writings was clear: in the end, God 

will reward those who remain faithful in the face of adversity. The Syrian annalists 

and later Latin chroniclers such as the writer of the Chronicle of the Third Crusade 

tended to emphasize that in order to avoid hardship the readers should refrain from 

sinful living. As moral texts, these histories served an instructional purpose. 

Casting further doubt on the sharp distinction between annals, chronicles, and 

narratives, some medieval historical tracts bridge the distance between the most 

“stenographic” annals and the more involved apocalyptic narratives. A prominent 

example is Chronicum 146 written in 615 (and reworked 624) by “the Schoolmaster of 

the Middle Ages”, Saint Isidore of Seville (c.560-636). Because he is not as familiar 

to us as Augustine, Aquinas, or Jerome it is easy to underestimate Isidore’s influence 

on medieval Latin Christians. This, however, would be a mistake. From the 

145 “Text No. 10: The Chronicle of Zuqnin, AD 775”, in Palmer, The Seventh Century, p. 60. 

146 Isidore of Seville, Chronicon.

“Carolingian authors of the ninth century to Parisian authors of the twelfth and 

123 

thirteenth centuries, Isidore’s works (especially the Etymologies) are cited as proof 

texts,” writes John Tolan. 147 According to a recent history of the medieval church: it 

was on the basis of the tremendously influential works of “Isidore and others that the 

intellectual heritage of the Ancient World survived into the Middle Ages”. 148 “To 

understand Isidore’s mental world”, adds Ernest Brehaut, “is nearly to reach the 

limits of the knowledge of his time” 149 and a brief overview of Isidore’s writings on 

history will set the stage for the analysis in this and the next chapter. 

Isidore laid out his historical worldview in his Etymologies and his History of 

the Goths, Vandals, and Suevi in addition to the Chronicon. 150 Building upon a 

framework that had been suggested by Augustine and employed by Eusebius but 

never before placed into a formal chronology, Isidore divided world history into six 

ages and a final seventh age in which the world would end. The model for this 

particular periodization is the account in Genesis of how God created the world in 

six days, resting on the seventh. These “days” were interpreted allegorically and the 

Etymologies identifies the different ages of the world thus: 

the … first age is from Adam to Noe; the second, from Noe to 

Abraham; the third, from Abraham to David; the fourth, from David 

to the migration of Judah to Babylon; the fifth, from then to the 

147 Tolan, Saracens, p. 19. 

148 Joseph H. Lynch, The Medieval Church: A Brief History (NY: Longman, 1992), p. 85. 

149 Ernest Brehaut, An Encyclopedist of the Dark Ages: Isidore of Seville (Digital Edition) (Columbia 

University, November 2003 1912 [cited February 18 2004]); available from 

http://bestiary.ca/etexts/brehaut1912/brehaut1912.htm, p. 16. 

150 Brehaut, An Encyclopedist of the Dark Ages; Isidore of Seville, Chronicon; Saint Isidore of 

Seville, History of the Goths, Vandals, and Suevi, trans. Guido Dononi and Gordon B. Ford (Leiden, 

Netherlands: E.J. Brill, 1970).

coming of the Saviour in the flesh; the sixth, which is now in progress 

and which will continue until the world is ended. 151 

124 

In the style of the medieval chronicle, Isidore then listed the dates and names 

of the major secular rulers for each age. Nevertheless, Chronicon and the History of 

the Goths are far from mere dispassionate lists of rulers. The worldly rulers and 

events they describe are emplotted in the Biblical historical meta-narrative, giving 

the profane a sacred significance. For example, Isidore wanted his Chronicon to 

glorify the Holy Roman Empire and therefore used the death of Julius Ceasar to 

mark the end of the fifth age while the birth of Christ is said to inaugurate the sixth. 

Isidore was apparently willing to accept the inconsistencies that this created in his 

dating of the two periods in order to emphasize the significance of Ceasar’s life and 

death. In History of the Goths, his aim was to rehabilitate the newly converted 

Visigoths, formerly members of the heretical Aryan Church who had been vilified by 

Catholic writers ever since sacking Rome in 410. Here, he used a similar integration 

of profane and sacred matters, such as casting the invasion of the Huns as 

punishment of the Christians for their heresy, to achieve the intended purposes. Far 

from being disjointed lists of dates and names, these historical chronicles thus filled 

a number of different political, moral, and religious functions and further perpetuated 

the Biblical historical meta-narrative on which they depended. 

Isidore populated his historical narratives with a number of enemies of the 

Christian faith, each of which also became an enemy of Isidore’s preferred rulers as 

151 Brehaut, An Encyclopedist of the Dark Ages, p. 179.

125 

well as instruments of God and morality. Many of the Biblical roles employed by 

Isidore for these purposes would become part of a hugely influential “canon” of 

archetypical enemies of the true Christian faith. 152 Muslims in Christian discourse 

were to be cast in a number of such roles over the course of the Middle Ages, most 

prominently as the Scourge of God’s Fury, the Antichrist, pagans and heretics, and 

even as Jews, more infrequently as noble Saracen knights or virtuous Turkish 

warriors. While construing Muslims along the lines of the latter five role-types 

acknowledged some degree of similarity between Christians and Muslims, it is the 

first two that this chapter is concerned with, and they both framed Muslims as 

fundamentally different from Christians. By taking a closer look at how these two 

roles were used we can more precisely understand how they functioned to give 

Christians guidance in their interactions with Muslims and simultaneously constitute 

their identities as Christians. 

MUSLIMS AS THE SCOURGE OF GOD’S FURY 

Medieval Christians found their perhaps most useful template in Isidore of 

Seville’s portrayals of the Huns as a scourge sent by God to chastise sinners, 153 and 

many subsequent writers would similarly explain Muslim military gains as 

punishment for their own sins, or those of their brethren. 154 There was also plenty of 

scriptural basis for this notion: God punished man for his wickedness with the great 

Flood (Genesis 6:1-8:19), rained brimstone and fire upon Sodom and Gomorrah 

152 Tolan, Saracens. 

153 Isidore of Seville, History of the Goths. 

154 Tolan, Saracens.

(Genesis 19:24), and caused his fury to rest upon the children of Israel (e.g. 

126 

Ezekiel 5:13). This way of interpreting Muslims was pervasive among early Eastern 

Christians 155 as well as among Christians in Spain half a century later, who could 

only understand their situation as the result of God having abandoned His chosen 

people, allowing them to be defeated and subjugated by Muslims. At least initially, 

this interpretation of the emergence and growth of the Muslim empire gave meaning 

to the daily struggles of Christians under Muslim rulers by placing the latter in the 

known role of the Scourge of God’s Fury. As the ninth-century Syrian chronicler 

Dionysius Tel-Mahre put it: “God, whose purpose was to chastise us for our sins, 

nodded in assent while this empire waxed in power”. 156 

Casting the Muslims in this role also meant that there was a guide for how to 

respond to them, or rather to God: what we might call the Scourge of God Script. 

Consequently, when the Christians living in Jerusalem on Christmas day 634 were 

unable to go to Bethlehem for Christmas Mass as customary since it had recently 

been conquered by Umar I’s forces, Sophronius, the Orthodox (Chalcedonian) 

patriarch of Jerusalem, did not, as one might expect, exhort his parishioners to fight, 

but to repent: 

Therefore I call on and I command and I beg you for the love of 

Christ the Lord, in so far as it is in our power, let us correct ourselves, 

155 Walter Emil Jr. Kaegi, "Initial Byzantine Reactions to the Arab Conquest," Church History 38, no. 

2 (1969); Palmer, The Seventh Century, p. xii. 

156 Dionysius Tel-Mahre. (1993 [c. 805-806, 1234]). “Extract from the Anonymous Chronicle of AD 

1234, with Supplementary material in the Notes from the Chronicle of the Jacobite Patriarch Michael 

(Died AD 1199)”, in Palmer, The Seventh Century, pp. 130-131.

127 

let us shine forth with repentance, let us be purified by conversion and let 

us curb our performance of acts which are hateful to God. 157 

While the Muslims were evil they were also the instrument of God’s plan and 

the real fault lay with the Christians themselves, who had sinned. 158 The Muslims 

were merely “used [by God] to discipline the faithful”, as Isidore had written about 

the Huns. 159 The Muslims claimed that their military success proved the superiority 

of their religion and for this reason gained many converts. Constructing them instead 

as merely the “rod of God’s fury” had the opposite effect – the Christians had not 

been defeated due to the inferiority of their religion but rather because they had not 

been good enough Christians. This, Pseudo-Methodius explained, was the case “with 

these Children of Ishmael: it was not because God loves them that he allowed them 

to enter the kingdom of the Christians, but because of the wickedness and sin which 

is performed at the hands of the Christians”. 160 In this way, the interpretation of the 

Saracen as divine punishment functioned to shift the attention away from the 

Muslims and instead put the focus on the Christians themselves. It chastised sinful 

Christians but thereby also strengthened the faith of the Christian community and 

ensured their pious living. Ostensibly concerned only with the Muslim Other, the 

image of him thus served to solidify the identity of the Christian Self. 

With regard to Muslims, this image denied them agency as players in the 

Christian historical narrative. In this story, they were merely a means to an end, a 

157 Sophronios, Christmas Sermon, trans. in Kaegi, "Initial Byzantine Reactions to the Arab 

Conquest," p. 141. 

158 Kaegi, "Initial Byzantine Reactions to the Arab Conquest," p. 139. 

159 Isidore of Seville, History of the Goths, p. 15. 

160 Palmer, The Seventh Century, p. 231.

128 

“stick” or “rod” used by God to communicate with his people and thus more like 

its props than like actors. Muslims were depicted as a tribulation, sometimes 

described as a pest, like locust, 161 and not as a people with a legitimate faith of their 

own. To think of them in the latter terms or even to think that they could be 

converted was simply not a ready option as long as this image dominated Christian 

perceptions of Muslims. Not only was this thus a mode of differentiation far toward 

the exclusion pole on the exclusion/inclusion dimension, it was one that made the 

very question of the nature of difference nearly unintelligible. Later Christians would 

debate whether the categories of Christian and Muslim were fundamentally exclusive 

or whether Muslims should be viewed as heretics and thus possible candidates for 

conversion, which would indicate a more inclusive Christian identity. But by 

representing Muslims as an inanimate object – a rod by which God punishes 

Christians – this debate was avoided altogether, for it would be absurd to ask 

whether a rod or stick could become Christian. To be sure, the extent of this 

objectification varied and this image also coexisted with other images that did not 

have the same effect, but when used this image obscured the humanity of the 

Muslims and focused the attention away from them and onto Christians, God, and 

their communication. At best, Muslims were the carriers of meaning – the words 

through which the Lord spoke to his people – in this great exchange, but a meaning 

that was assigned by God and interpreted by Christians. 

161 See e.g. Pseudo-Methodius in Palmer, The Seventh Century, pp. 232, XI:13.

129 

Later Christians in both east and west would continue to use this model to 

make sense of the Muslims’ gains. Faced with the many military losses after the First 

Crusade, the chronicler William of Tyre 162 (c. 1130-1185), is one example. The 

Christians lost because “by their many sins they had provoked the Lord to wrath”, he 

wrote (Edbury and Rowe, 1988, p. 155). In doing so, Edbury and Rowe point out, he 

was not doing anything new: 

The attribution of reverses to the sin of Christian people already had a 

long history, and its application to set-backs on the First Crusade, as 

well as to major defeats such as those during the Crusade of 1101, 

were commonplace in earlier narratives. (1988, p. 158) 

Another late Medieval example of a narrative in which this script occurs was 

the above mentioned Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, a 12/13 th - 

century chronicle of the Third Crusade by an anonymous author who may have been 

an English participant in this crusade. When describing Saladin’s sack of Jerusalem 

and military victories in Syria, which were the immediate trigger of the crusade, the 

author adopted Isidore’s schema and attributed the losses to the (primarily sexual, we 

gather) sins of the Christians who occupied the area: 

Then the Lord’s hand was aroused against His people – if we can 

properly call them ‘His’, as their immoral behavior, disgraceful 

lifestyle, and foul vices had made them strangers to Him. … The Lord 

saw that the land of His Nativity, the place of His Passion, had fallen 

into the filthy abyss. Therefore He spurned His Inheritance, 

permitting the rod of His fury, Saladin, to rage and exterminate the 

obstinate people. … He preferred the Holy Land to serve the profane 

162 Tyre was a Levantine Crusader- and port-city, and William who was born and died there was thus 

an Eastern Christian. (He was, however, was educated in Paris.)

ites of Gentiles for a time than for His people to flourish any longer. 163 

130 

The introduction to this chapter advertised a discussion of how during the 

initial Muslim conquests, eastern Christian sects on opposite sides on the fiery 

Christological doctrinal struggles of the day frequently blamed each other for God’s 

fury. 164 Thus, to many Monophysites, 165 it was the sinfulness of the Chalcedonians 

and their prosecution of the former that prompted the Muslim invasions, 166 whereas 

some Chalcedonians blamed the Monophysite or the Nestorian heresies. It is 

possible to identify a similar scapegoating discursive maneuver in the above quoted 

fragment from the Chronicle, where the English Crusader lambastes the eastern 

Christians of Jerusalem for their “foul vices”. It should be taken into account that this 

passage was written at a time when European Christians increasingly worried about 

their prospects of actually retaking the Holy Lands from the Muslims, and were 

coming to view eastern Christians as no longer part of the Christian community. 

163 Chronicle of the Third Crusade, pp. 23, 1:1. 

164 Christology is concerned with the nature of Christ, and early eastern Christians were embroiled in 

a running controversy over how to understand the Bible’s claim that Christ was both man and God. 

The exact positions of the numerous schools on this issue are likely to escape all but the most astute 

theologians, as Voltaire has dryly observed. Essentially, they argued over how complete the 

hypostasis or union between these two elements was, whether Christ was a single person, one person 

with two natures, two distinct persons etc. and how to describe this in words. Obscure as they may 

seem to us, these controversies had significant political implications as they pitted communities 

against each other. The basic opposition was between the supporters of the official position accepted 

at the 451 Council of Chalcedon (called Chalcedonian or orthodox Christians), which postulates two 

natures – one divine and one human – and those who rejected this position in favor of the 

Monophysite view that Christ had one – more or less divine – nature. 

165 The 6 th -century Bishop of Edessa, Jacob Baradai united the many Monophysites in Syria with their 

brethren in Asia Minor and present-day Iraq, all of whom are therefore sometimes referred to as 

Jacobites, The Copts in Egypt and the Armenians were also Monophysites. John Chapman, 

Eutychianism (Catholic Encyclopedia Online) (Robert Appleton Company, 1909 [cited February 24 

2007]); available from http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/05633a.htm. 

166 For example, the Coptic Bishop John of Nikiu “specifically attributed the calamity [i.e. the Arab 

conquest] to the errors of the ‘heretical’ Chalcedonian Christians.” Kaegi, "Initial Byzantine 

Reactions to the Arab Conquest," p. 148.

These “internal” Christian political dynamics are important because they remind 

131 

us of a central point discussed in Chapter 1, namely that the notions of 

“Christendom” and “Christians” (just as “Saracens” or “Islam”) are social constructs 

as opposed to “natural” or “real” entities. The areas and peoples denoted by the terms 

were neither contiguous nor unified. Such cooperation with Muslim authorities as the 

deal struck by the Jacobite patriarch in Syria (as reported in the 7 th -century Maronite 

annalist quoted earlier in this chapter) was common practice since the new rulers 

allowed protected dhimmi status to Christian subjects willing to pay the jizya (special 

poll-tax). 167 Reports of Monophysite minority communities actually siding with the 

invading Muslim armies against their detested Chalcedonian masters may well have 

been exaggerated 168 but the shrill and repeated assertions of essential differences 

between Christians and Muslims noted in this chapter suggest at the very least a 

perceived need to suppress and counteract association with the latter. The 

performative view of language elaborated in the previous chapter urges us not to 

view Christian images of Muslims or Christians as more or less accurate descriptions 

of objective realities but as contributions to the constitution of intersubjective 

structures of meaning. The fact that all or nearly all of the surviving early eastern 

Christian sources depict Muslims as fundamentally Other should thus not be 

interpreted as showing that all Christians avoided contact with the former. To the 

167 The Maronites embraced the Chalcedonian Christological position and were therefore doctrinal 

opponents of the Monophysite Jacobites. Coincidentally, however, they were temporarily alienated 

from the Byzantine Roman Church when the Arab invasion occurred although the invasion prompted 

the broken ties to be mended rather quickly. 

168 “We may … conclude that the Arab conquests of Syria, Palestine and Egypt were not aided by the 

discontent of the local peoples.” John Moorhead, "The Monophysite Response to the Arab Invasions," 

Byzantion: Revue Internationale des Études Byzantines 51 (1981).

contrary, the very perception of a need to defend against integration and 

132 

conversion in the Christian communities of 7 th , 8 th , and 9 th -century Levant, the 

Mozarabic communities of 8 th and 9 th -century Andalusia, or the Latin Crusader 

Kingdoms in the 12 th and 13 th -century Levant shows that such phenomena 

occurred. 169 

Returning to the above quoted passage from the Chronicle, we see that just as 

in Isidore’s portrayal of the Huns, the implicit metaphorical relationship between 

God and his people seems to be that of the father to his disobedient children. In fact, 

the author of the Chronicle explicitly used this metaphor a little later in the text, 

putting it in the imagined words of “a certain fool” in Saladin’s court “known to the 

sultan for his biting wit”, replying to the latter’s boastful claim that his conquests 

proved his religion superior to Christianity: 

’God the Father of the faithful judged that the delinquent Christians 

should be rebuked and corrected and took you, O prince, to serve his 

purpose – just as a worldly father sometimes when he is enraged 

grabs a filthy stick from the mud with which to beat his erring sons, 

and then throws it back into the dungpit from which he took it.’ 170 

This passage, rich on metaphors, implied that even though the Christians may 

get beaten occasionally, they were still God’s loved children whereas Saladin was 

merely God’s instrument – no better than a filthy stick. Centuries after the Chronicle 

169 See e.g. Jessica A. Coope, The Martyrs of Cordoba: Community and Family Conflict in an Age of 

Mass Conversion (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1995); Egger, A History of the Muslim 

World; Benjamin Z. Kedar, "The Subjected Muslims of the Frankish Levant," in The Crusades: The 

Essential Readings, ed. Thomas F. Madden (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers Ltd., 2002); M. 

Shaban, "Conversion to Early Islam," in Conversion to Islam, ed. Nehemia Levtzion (NY: Holmes & 

Meier Publishers, Inc., 1979). 

170 Chronicle of the Third Crusade, pp. 46-47, 1:16.

was written, Thomas Fuller, in his History of the Holy War (1639), would 

133 

employ the same metaphor and add, “we may justly hope, that when the correction is 

done, the rod shall be burnt.” 171 This metaphor, which is closely associated with the 

image of Muslims as divine punishment, has an interesting and perhaps 

counterintuitive normative consequence. With the role of the disobedient child being 

punished, comes an expectancy rule according to which the child ought not to fight 

back or avoid the punishment. 

In the end, the God’s Scourge Script promised a brighter future for 

Christians: “For the rod of the wicked shall not rest upon the lot of the righteous” 

(Psalm 125:3). As late as 1463, the titular Patriarch of Constantinople Cardinal 

Bessarion reassured his crusade preachers: “God sometimes allows His Church and 

people to be tossed about by a variety of tribulations because of their sins. However, 

He will not desert us, but in the end will stand by His people”. 172 And thus the 

Patriarch Sophronius promised his parishioners in Jerusalem in the year 634 that if 

they only heeded his advice and atoned for their sins God would return to them: “If 

we constrain ourselves, as friendly and beloved of God, we should laugh at the fall of 

our Saracen adversaries and we would view their not distant death, and we would see 

their final destruction”. 173 

171 Thomas Fuller, The History of the Holy War (London: William Pickering, 1840)., p. 11. 

172 Bessarion, John. (1996 [1463]). “Cardinal Bessarion’s instructions to his crusade preachers, 24 

August 1463”, in Norman Housley, Documents on the Later Crusades, 1274-1580 (NY: St. Martin's 

Press, 1996), p. 150. 

173 Kaegi, "Initial Byzantine Reactions to the Arab Conquest," p. 141.

There is a difference between the context of comprehensive military 

134 

defeat and occupation in which eastern and Spanish Christians made their 

interpretations, on one hand, and the relatively safe distance from which some 

European commentators on the losses of the Holy Land were writing on the other. 

However, many (though not all) of these commentators had themselves traveled to 

the Levant and even those who had not were shaken by the losses of such an 

important place as Jerusalem, which was the object of strong topophilic 

identification in the medieval Christian cosmology. Thus the image of the Saracen as 

God’s scourge that had been created at the initial point of impact between the two 

religions – in seventh and eight-century Levant and in eight-century Spain – was to 

be adopted by Latin Christian north of the Pyrenees who were reading Byzantine or 

Spanish texts when lamenting their later losses of the Holy Land, and by many 

writers even long after the end of the thirteenth century, along with the 

objectification of Muslims that this image entailed. 

Whether in the east or west, this image was not grounded in careful 

examinations of Muslims but rather saw them as a cursory plague akin to the 

“terrible Huns.” As I argued above, Muslims were not seen as autonomous agents 

but were cast in a role where they were employed by God as a means to an end. 

Moreover, they were the means by which Christian writers and the clergy in 

particular focused the attention of their readers / parishioners on their own sinful and 

unchristian behavior or that of rival Christian sects in the hope of shoring up a fragile 

Christian identity.

MUSLIMS AS THE ANTICHRIST 

135 

The Chalcedonian patriarch Sophronius watched, horrified, as Caliph Umar I 

walked through the gates of Jerusalem in the year 638, four years after he had asked 

his parishioners during Christmas mass to repent in order to regain God’s favor. He 

is said to have quietly remarked: “Surely this is the abomination of desolation spoken 

of by Daniel the Prophet standing in the Holy Place.” 174 The “abomination of 

desolation” that he was referring to was the coming of the Antichrist and the 

Apocalypse (Daniel 7, Matthew 24:15). This interpretation – of Umar and his Arab 

forces as the Antichrist – made such a terrible event as the loss of Jerusalem to the 

Muslims comprehensible in terms of the mental world of medieval Christians, 

whether in 7 th -century Syria or 12 th -century Europe. While the role of the Scourge of 

God’s Fury would continue to be invoked over the centuries, it also soon became 

clear – as it did to the patriarch – that seeing the Muslims as mere temporary 

chastisement would not suffice. The Apocalyptic Script better fit the dire 

circumstances in which they now appeared to be stuck in for a long time. The 

Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius discussed above used this interpretation (as well as 

that of the Scourge of God’s Fury) and referred to scripture for explanation and 

reassurance. 

Eschatology – the study of the final days – provided a well-known script with 

places for both the threatening Muslim Other and for Christians: the ascendancy of 

Mohammed meant the arrival of the Antichrist and the Muslim invasion was a sign 

174 Wheatcroft, Infidels, p. 44.

that the end of days was near. The Monophysite Armenian bishop Sebeos, in his 

136 

History of Heraclius, provided one of the few contemporary Christian descriptions of 

the 634 Muslim invasions in the Levant. According to him, the invasion of the 

“Ishmaelites” could only be the coming of the fourth beast of the Apocalypse. 

Quoting the Archangel Daniel’s Apocalyptic prophecy (Daniel 7), he wrote: 

“the fourth beast was awesome and dreadful with teeth of iron, and 

claws of copper. It would eat and devour then stomped the residue 

with its feet." This fourth emerged from the South and represents the 

Ishmaelite kingdom. As the chief of the angels said: "The fourth beast 

will come to possess a kingdom greater than any kingdom, and will 

devour the entire world." "And … ten kings will arise but after them 

yet another shall arise who in wickedness will surpass all the previous 

ones”. 175 

In addition to illustrating the understanding of Muslims as Antichrists, 

Sebeos’ portrayal of them as a dreadful beast which will “arise from the south” and 

“eat the whole world”, adds another element to the image that would be repeated 

long after Sebeos: the dehumanization of Muslims. His depiction should perhaps 

primarily be seen as invoking a Biblical allegory but the border between the 

metaphorical and literal was often fluid in a time when Biblical allegories were used 

much as we use scientific explanations today and when miracles were frequently 

reported as facts in secular historical chronicles. Consequently, literal descriptions of 

Muslims as beasts were not uncommon. “For these barbarian tyrants are not men,” as 

Pseudo-Methodius let us know, 176 and their doctrine were that of “the beast, that is, 

175 Sebeos, History of Heraclius, translated by Robert Bedrosian (Armenian Historical Sources of the 

5-15th Centuries: Selected Works, 1985 [cited 11/06 2004]); available from 

http://rbedrosian.com/seb1.htm, pp. 136-137. 

176 Palmer, The Seventh Century, p. 234.

137 

Mohammed”, as John of Nikiu (7 th century) added. 177 C Meredith Jones similarly 

points out that many Medieval poems and Chronicles of the Crusades presented them 

“as physical monstrosities; many of them are giants, whole tribes have horns on their 

heads, others are black as devils. They rush into battle making weird noises 

comparable to the barking of dogs”. 178 

Portraying Muslims in this way – as the Antichrist and a sometimes 

metaphorical, sometimes literal beast – obviously did not allow much room for an 

emphatic understanding of them or their beliefs as in many ways similar to 

Christians and their faith. It served instead to underscore the fundamental Otherness 

of Muslims. The Anti-Christ was, as the name implies, defined by negation; he was 

the opposite of Christ and the Saracen Antichrist was likewise the opposite of the 

good Christian. In fact, if Mohammed and his followers were the Antichrist it was all 

the more important to avoid any attempt to better understand them and their 

teachings, for the Apocalyptic/Eschatological Script and the expectancy rules 

associated with the role of the Antichrist predicted that he would attempt to lead 

Christians astray before the Day of Judgment. 

And to Medieval Christians, accustomed to searching the authoritative texts 

for evidence to adjudicate between competing interpretations or explanations of 

contemporary phenomena, there was plenty to support casting Mohammed in the 

177 Kaegi, "Initial Byzantine Reactions to the Arab Conquest," p. 148. 

178 Meredith C. Jones, "The Conventional Saracen of the Songs of Geste," Speculum 17, no. 2 (1942): 

p. 205.

138 

role of the Antichrist. When describing the coming of the latter, Isidore of Seville 

had provided such evidence: 

Antichrist is so named because he is going to oppose Christ. … 

[W]hen he comes he will say falsely that he is Christ, and he will fight 

against him, and will oppose the sacraments of Christ, in order to 

destroy the Gospel of truth. For he will try to repair the temple at 

Jerusalem and to restore all the ceremonies of the old law; moreover 

he is Antichrist who denies that Christ is God, for he is opposed to 

Christ; all who go out of the church and are cut off from the unity of 

faith are themselves Antichrist. 179 

This passage seemed to presage the preaching of Mohammed, his claim that 

the Qur’n and not the New Testament was the word of God, his denial of Christ’s 

divinity, his attempts to “restore” the Old Law-“ceremony” of circumcision, and his 

followers’ raising of the mosque at the Dome of the Rock at the Temple Mount. It is 

not difficult to see how readers of Isidore who had on their minds the question of 

how to understand this Mohammed – the man who claimed to be a new prophet and 

whose followers were conquering vast Christian lands – could come to the 

conclusion that he was in fact the Antichrist, despite the fact that Isidore, who had 

not lived to see the growth of Muslim civilization, could not have been addressing 

Islam or Mohammed when writing this paragraph. Armed with this warning of the 

man who “will say falsely that he is Christ”, Christians would know better than to 

listen to his preaching or try to better understand his followers. 

The story in which the Antichrist played a part allowed conquered Christians 

some psychological control over a situation in which they had little real control by 

179 Etymologies, Book VIII, 11:20-23 in Brehaut, An Encyclopedist of the Dark Ages, p. 205.

making the new and hopeless seem familiar and bearable, even predictable. 

139 

While the apocalyptic meta-narrative emphasized the tragic elements in the Biblical 

historical narrative, it ultimately assured them that this Antichrist would be defeated 

and that those who did not “depart from the church” would be rewarded in Christ’s 

kingdom on earth, and the Eschatological Script prophesied specific timetables. In 

one example, the number of the beast, or Antichrist – 666 – was “declared to be the 

number of years of Moslem sway in the world”, 180 and as prophecies came and went 

with no Apocalypse, this script was continually updated and reinterpreted. Kenneth 

M. Setton has an impressive collection of European prophecies of “Turkish doom” 

from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century. As Andrew Wheatcroft writes, these 

interpretations of the rise of Islam traveled west and were perpetuated over centuries: 

Muslims were characterized in the same negative terms in the 

Western Catholic polemics as they had been in the East. There too 

they were the quintessence of evil, even the Antichrist himself, but 

also a necessary instrument of divine wrath and judgment upon God’s 

sinful people. 181 

The images of the Saracen as the Antichrists or as the Scourge of God’s Fury 

were reactions to Muslim conquests and were thus both generally born out fear and 

frustration. Each of these images, and not infrequently the two together, functioned 

to underline the fundamental Otherness of this new and powerful enemy and thereby 

maintain the psychological separation between the two communities, who in the case 

of Spain and the conquered areas of the former Byzantine Empire now often lived 

180 Kenneth M. Setton, Western Hostility to Islam and Prophecies of Turkish Doom (Philadelphia: 

American Philosophical Society, 1992), p. 11. 

181 Wheatcroft, Infidels, p. 51.

side by side and thus were no longer geographically separated. It steered the 

140 

Christian gaze away from both the humanity of Muslims and from the similarities 

between the two faiths and directed it instead toward God, toward his 

communication with the faithful, and toward a scrutiny of any sinful behavior of the 

Christians themselves, strengthening their faith and their community. The use of 

these images thus “made it possible to protect the minds of Christians against 

apostasy and … gave Christendom self-respect in dealing with a civilization in many 

ways its superior.” 182 In other words, the representation of Muslims was a means to 

help strengthen and secure separate Christian identities in times when many 

perceived them to be threatened. 

CONCLUSION 

The two images discussed in this chapter share a few central ingredients. We 

just observed that they were constitutive of an exclusive Christian collective identity 

that emphasized the fundamental Otherness of Muslims. They were defensive and 

relatively introspective in nature, directing the gaze of the Christians toward their 

own sins or those of their Christian opponents in the Christological or doctrinal 

struggles that preoccupied them. We will see many further illustrations of this 

practice of blaming internal opponents for defeats by the hands of the external 

Muslim enemy, especially in chapter 4. The troubled context in which these images 

were most often invoked was also conducive to a tendency among the devout to 

182 Daniel, Islam and the West, p. 270.

emphasize the Tragic themes in the Biblical historical narrative. A reasonable 

141 

hypothesis in light of this association would therefore be that the two specific roles 

dissected in this chapter are more likely to be invoked as part of the Christian 

historical meta-narrative when the latter is emplotted in the mode of Tragedy. More 

generally, we might ask whether there is a closer association between exclusive and 

defensive identities on the one hand and the dominance of Tragic historical metanarratives. 

One final point: Both the image of “the Saracen” as the terrible rod of 

God’s fury and that of him as the fourth beast of the Apocalypse, the devastator and 

destroyer, relied on an understanding Muslims as violent and frightening. This 

dimension was important and we will see that it would eventually combine with 

another element discussed in the next chapter to form a distinct image that was 

frequently invoked in accounts of a later Muslim Other: “the Turk”. But before we 

run ahead of ourselves, we need to complete our survey of medieval Christian 

images of Muslims.

142 

CHAPTER 3. INCLUSIVE IDENTITIES AND MILITARY 

EXPANSION: LATIN CHRISTENDOM IN THE HIGH MIDDLE 

AGES (C. 1050-1350) 

INTRODUCTION 

While the previous chapter focused on early medieval eastern images and 

their westward migration, this chapter looks mainly at a small number of high 

medieval images prevalent in Latin Christendom, the area formerly known as the 

Western Roman Empire or, roughly, today’s Western Europe. 183 These chronological 

and geographical differences are important because, as the above analysis has 

already indicated, a comprehensive understanding of the types of representations we 

are interested in here requires that we see them in light of the historical context in 

which they emerged. For their part, the beleaguered or conquered Christians in the 

Levant and those inside the retreating boundaries of a Byzantine Empire in decline 

framed Saracens as the followers of the Antichrist or as God’s Scourge and as 

contributing to the unfolding plot of a Biblical historical meta-narrative cast in the 

Tragic mode. In contrast, the images discussed in this chapter were popularized by 

Latin Christians who, while constantly grappling with a multitude of real or 

183 Any such geographic demarcations are problematic because they rely on contested concepts like 

“Europe” or “Christendom”, the construction of which is the very focus of this thesis. Because the 

geographic extension of the phenomenon or construct known as “Latin Christendom” was in slow but 

near constant flux, this chapter’s claim to focus on images used in this area is at best only a temporary 

guide-post that must be replaced by observations appropriate to discussions of specific images, times, 

and places.

143 

perceived threats, were nevertheless part of a dynamic and expanding community 

rising from the ashes of the Western Empire. Contrary to the popular view of the 

European Dark Ages as a period of darkness and stagnation, high medieval Latin 

Christendom was preoccupied with expansion, not retrenchment, its struggles more 

akin to the pains of birth or rapid growth than those of old age or death. This context 

mattered, albeit not by directly determining the content and use of the images 

produced during this period, as one would expect to see in a simple unidirectional 

causal relationship between two entities or events. This chapter will show how the 

representation of the Muslim Other not only was influenced by this context, 

reflecting the concerns and needs prevalent in Latin Christendom, but also how it 

reformulated and redirected these concerns, frequently spurring developments that 

helped transform the very context in which the image had initially been formed. 

War in the Name of God 

One of the factors that were to influence how Latin Christians interpreted 

Muslims was the Church’s changed attitude toward violence. Jean Flori had 

described this development from the pacifism of the early Christians, removed as 

they were from the corrupting influence of political power, to the active 

promulgation of war in the name of Christ by the powerful Popes of medieval 

Europe. 184 There were surely many causes of this trend: The incessant warfare within 

feudal Europe; the related emergence of a knightly culture of chivalry that glorified 

184 Jean Flori, "La Formation de L'idée de Croisade en Occident Chrétien," in Histoire de l'Islam et 

des Musulmans en France du Moyen Âge à nos Jours, ed. Mohammed Arkoun and Jacques le Goff 

(Paris: Éditions Albin Michel, 2006).

144 

violence and its eventual fusion with the culture of saints; the dangers inherent in 

missionary activities to pagan lands to the west, north, and east; the need to defend 

the increasingly wealthy monasteries and churches that spread across Europe from 

looters – whether in the form of local robber-bands, Viking raiders, or Magyar 

horsemen – and to defend Rome and the pope himself against hostile Christian 

monarchs or, worse, Muslim maritime raiders based on islands in the Mediterranean; 

and the Church’s increasing involvement in matters of government and state. The 

relative importance or precise configuration of these factors need not bother us here. 

What matters is that by the time Latin Christians started paying more 

systematic attention to their distant or near Muslim neighbors, the Church was far 

removed from its pacifist revolutionary beginnings. Jesus’ admonition that “unto him 

that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other” (Luke 6:33) had not survived 

Emperor Constantine’s inclusion of Christianity as an accepted religion within the 

state (in 313) or its promotion in 391 to status as state religion under Emperor 

Théodosius I. A century later, Saint Augustine of Hippo exempted imperial subjects 

from Jesus’ pacifist edict when participating in “just wars” sanctioned by the 

imperial authorities. 185 By the 11 th century, the church had gone further still, not 

merely accepting some wars in the name of the state as “just” but eventually 

condoning and encouraging violence in its own name. Monks who died defending 

their monastery against looters – in spite of the pacific vows required by the Rules of 

their order – or partisans who died fighting the armies of the Pope’s enemies – even 

185 Flori, "Formation," pp. 82-83.

if said enemies were Christians – were already frequently hailed as defenders of 

145 

the faith, promised a place in heaven, or even canonized as saints. 186 It was but a 

small if important step from there to institutionalize the notion of holy war in the 

form of the crusade, whose participants were rewarded with indulgences (promise of 

remission of sins). 

MUSLIMS AS PAGANS IN CRUSADE PROPAGANDA 

In Europe, the images of Muslims as the Antichrists and the Scourge of God’s 

Fury were often infused with vague notions of Saracen pagan idolatry. Muslims 

were described in terms that evoked pre-Islamic Arabic idolatrous cults. This image, 

like the previous two, was first fully developed in the east and then traveled west, but 

this is a truth to which there are exceptions. The anonymous seventh-century Syrian 

author of Pseudo-Methodius, for example, had portrayed Islam as a pagan religion, 

but almost at the same time, writing in the monastery of Jarrow 187 far from any 

contact with actual Muslims, the Northumbrian monk Bede (c. 673-735), similarly 

depicted the Saracens as one of the many pagan scourges that plagued Europe at the 

time. 188 The pagan image was prevalent throughout the Middle Ages, but was taken 

up with renewed vigor from the end of the eleventh century, as the papacy was 

186 Flori, "Formation." 

187 In the north-east of today’s England. 

188 Tolan, Saracens, pp. 73-75. In his Ecclesiastical History of the English People (731, p. 557 

Chapter XXIII) the “terrible plague of Saracens [that] ravaged Gaul with cruel bloodshed” receive 

only a brief mention. In later works the Saracens occupy a more prominent role as dangerous 

idolatrous pagans Tolan, Saracens, pp. 72-74.

146 

rallying support for the first Crusades. “Christian warriors,” exhorted Pope Urban 

II in 1095 at the council at Clermont – the starting point of the First Crusade – using 

two other popular terms for pagans, “go fight against the barbarians … If you must 

have blood, bathe your hands in the blood of the infidels”. 189 And he promised that 

anyone who dies “in battle against the pagans, shall have immediate remission of 

sins” (Urban II, 1095, Fulcher of Chartres’ version). “For the purpose of 

propaganda”, writes Dana Carleton Munro, “much was made of the supposed 

idolatry of the Muslims.” In particular, the alleged Muslim “belief in Mohammed as 

a god is frequently repeated throughout the period of the Crusades.” 190 

The image of Saracens as pagans became so entrenched that the two words – 

“pagan” and “Saracen” – eventually became near synonyms. There is some debate as 

to how interchangeable the terms pagan and Saracen really were, but even a skeptic 

like Dianne Speed admits that while the Saracens of the Chanson de Geste – and in 

French literature of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries more generally – were 

“usually oriental or Mediterranean peoples who were, or were regarded as, Islamic” 

they were also “occasionally Saxons; and very occasionally Scandinavians.” 191 In the 

manuscript Of Arthur and of Merlin, the “Saracens” are Saxons and Danes and in the 

Gloucester Chronicle they are variously Saxons, Danes, Scots, Irishmen, and 

189 Ovey N. Mohammed, Muslim-Christian Relations: Past, Present, Future (NY: Orbis Books, 

1999), p. 35. 

190 Dana C. Munro, "The Western Attitude toward Islam during the Period of the Crusades," Speculum 

6, no. 3 (1931): pp. 331, 332. 

191 Diane Speed, "The Saracens of King Horn," Speculum 65, no. 3 (1990): p. 572.

inhabitants of the Holy Land. 192 Tolan cites a number of other examples of this 

147 

use of the term “Saracen” during the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth centuries to refer 

to characters as varied as pagan Lithuanians, the Frankish king Clovis (before his 

conversion), and Danish marauders (in one of the Geste, Gormont et Isembart). 193 In 

the thirteenth-century Old-English poem King Horn the “pagan Sarazin hounds” 

appear to be Vikings. Joseph Hall, in the introduction to his edition of King Horn 

concludes that “through the influence of the Crusades, Saracen became a general 

name for heathen of any sort”. 194 And in their introduction to the same piece, 

Herzman et. al. write that “Horn's Christian world is threatened by the Saracens - 

usually thought of as Muslims, yet also clearly representative of the Vikings”. 195 

Indeed, some documents leave little room for doubt as to the broadening of 

denotation of the term “Saracen” beyond Muslims or Arabs. One account of a Reise, 

as the crusades in Lithuania were known, describes how the protagonist – a lord 

Marshal Boucicaut – after having organized an “expedition against the Saracens in 

Barbary” (the 1390 Al-Mahdiya crusade against the Hafsid Caliphate of Tunis) 

participated in a great Reise in which “a good 200 000 horsemen invaded the 

kingdom of Lithuania. There they inflicted great destruction on the Saracens”. At the 

risk of pointing out the obvious, the Saracens of Barbary were Muslims whereas the 

“Saracens” in Lithuania were not. Almost as if to underline that his use of the term is 

192 Speed, "The Saracens of King Horn," pp. 566-567. 


194 Speed, "The Saracens of King Horn," p. 566. 

195 Ronald B. Herzman, Graham Drake, and Eve Salisbury, King Horn: Introduction (Medieval 

Institute Publications, 1999 [cited November 10 2004]); available from 

http://www.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/teams/hornint.htm.

deliberate, the author describes the location of a castle built by the crusaders as 

148 

“an island, inside this land of the Saracens, the kingdom of Lithuania.” 196 The 

characterization of Lithuanians as Saracens was significant enough for the Polish 

ambassador at the council of Constance in 1415 to feel the need to clarify the issue 

and distance his fellow Polish-Lithuanian countrymen from the Saracens who 

occupied the Holy Land. In 52 sometimes remarkable theses, Paul Vladimiri attacked 

the legitimacy of the Teutonic Order’s treatment of the “unbelievers” in Lithuania: 

“1. Although the unbelievers are not in the Church’s flock, they are without doubt all 

Christ’s sheep”. Consequently, he argued: “5. It is not lawful to seize the lordships, 

possessions or jurisdictions of unbelievers, even if they fail to acknowledge the 

[Holy] Roman Empire. For they hold them without sin and by God’s will.” In stark 

contrast to this critique of attacks against Lithuanian unbelievers, the next thesis 

defended crusades against “the Saracens” in the Holy Land: 

6. The Holy Land, which the Saracens hold, was conquered in a just 

war from the Roman emperor. So it is lawful for the pope, or 

somebody else whose interests are involved, to bring it back within 

their jurisdiction by reason of the Roman Empire. Also because where 

Christ was once worshipped, they now worship Mohammed. 197 

He was here repeating the traditional justifications for Christian lordship in 

Palestine: As a former piece of the Roman Empire lost in war, it could rightly be 

taken back the same way and as the birthplace of Christ, it ought to be ruled by 

Christians. The important point, however, is that Vladimiri went to great lengths to 

196 “Marshal Boucicaut’s exploits in Prussia, 1390-1” in Housley, Documents, p. 104. 

197 “Extracts from the tract Opinio Hostiensis, a polemical onslaught against the Teutonic Order 

presented to the council of Constance on 6 July 1415 by Paul Vladimiri, a Polish ambassador at the 

council” in Housley, Documents, p. 109.

establish the difference between Lithuanian “unbelievers” and Muslim 

149 

“Saracens”. Later in the same document, he reiterated this difference with the use of 

another comparison: 

33. It is an error intolerable to reason that Christians should flock to 

the cross-bearers of Prussia to help them to attack the peaceful 

unbelievers simply because they are unbelievers, whether their stated 

goal is ‘the practice of chivalry’ or ‘the expansion of the Christian 

faith’. For impiety should not be carried out under the pretext of piety. 

It is a different matter in the war which the Spanish wage against the 

Saracens, because that is aimed at the recovery of lands which once 

were held [by the Christians], and where Christians formerly lived. 198 

We glimpse in these arguments the practical-political significance of this 

terminological confusion, for by distinguishing his unbelieving fellow Lithuanians 

from Muslim Saracens, the Polish/Lithuanian ambassador was trying to de-legitimize 

crusades aimed at the former. We will explore this issue further when considering 

the rhetoric surrounding violence against Christian heretics later in this chapter, but 

we can already infer from the ambassador’s rather desperate attempts to distance his 

people from Muslims and the typifications associated with them that the discursive 

typifications analyzed in this dissertation were not merely “cheap talk.” Established 

types and images came with a baggage of expectancy rules and prescriptive social 

scripts that evoked particular interpretations, attitudes, and behavior and could thus 

have real consequences, sometimes influencing matters of life or death. 

The Pagan Duel and Martyrdom Scripts 

Those responsible for the preaching of the Cross were fortunate, however, 

because the Christian historical meta-narrative strongly suggested that they would 

198 Extracts from Opinio in Housley, Documents, p. 111.

defeat the pagans and even provided ready templates for how to do so. In the 

150 

more than 80 French Medieval epic poems collectively dubbed the Chanson de 

Geste, writes Meredith C. Jones, the script of the duel between the faithful knight 

and the pagan – the Pagan Duel Script – is “conventionalized and never varies”. 199 

Distilled down to their essence, all the duel stories carry the same message: “the false 

god is confronted by the crucifix, and the crucifix wins. Once more, a powerful 

pagan is brought low as he acknowledges the awesome power of God.” 200 The duel 

usually begins with insults from both sides; the Saracen insulting Christian beliefs 

and inviting the latter to abandon his faith, which inevitably leads to fighting. 

Despite his cheating and use of magic, things go bad for the Saracen, and when they 

do he curses his false idols and “reproaches his gods with their ineffectiveness and 

contrasts them unfavorably with the Christian god.” 201 “In the songs,” writes Jones, 

“the outcome of such a duel is, of course, victory for the Christian, and the choice 

between death or conversion for the Saracen.” 202 Not infrequently does the Saracen 

smash and destroy his false and useless idols. 

This way of making sense of the Muslim, like that of viewing them as divine 

punishment or the Antichrists, initially gave Christians some reassurance. After all, 

the struggle against pagans was as old as the church, and according to the Christian 

historical narrative, some of it inscribed in the Hagiographic (or Martyrdom) 

199 Jones, "The Conventional Saracen of the Songs of Geste," p. 222. 



202 Jones, "The Conventional Saracen of the Songs of Geste," p. 223.

Scripts 203 of the early Christians martyred by pagan Romans, was a struggle that 

151 

the faithful would win just like they had won over the pagan Romans and just like 

the pagans of northern Europe were gradually converting. It also was an effective 

propaganda tool used to rally support for and participation in crusades to claim that 

the Holy Land had been taken over by blasphemous pagan idolaters. 204 

Rise up and remember the manly deeds of your ancestors, the prowess 

and greatness of Charlemagne, of his son Louis, and of your other 

kings, who destroyed pagan kingdoms and planted the holy church in 

their territories. You should be especially aroused by the fact that the 

Holy Sepulcher of the Lord our Savior is in the hands of these unclean 

people, who shamefully mistreat and sacreligiously defile the Holy 

Places with their filth. Oh, most valiant knights! Descendants of 

unconquered ancestors! Remember the courage of your forefathers 

and do not dishonor them! 205 

Since Christianity in the Middle Ages, as Deny Hays points out in his classic 

book Europe: The Emergence of an Idea, 206 had a strong universalistic streak, 

elucidations of the sufferings of Christians under Muslim rule and the horror of the 

Holy Land being in Muslim hands were effective recruiting tools for crusades. “Your 

203 Hagiography is the study and writing of the lives (and martyrdom) of saints. But for groups of 

devout Christians – the Cordoban martyrs of ninth-century Spain and the Franciscan martyrs of the 

thirteenth century, for example – hagiographies became less biographical records of saints than 

instruction-books (or scripts, in our terminology) for how to gain martyrdom, as they deliberately 

sought out ways to offend Muslim rulers with their preaching with the intention of being martyred. 

The Cordoban martyrs were generally disliked by the Christian communities of Cordoba, who were 

enjoying relative comfort and autonomy as dhimmis under Muslim rule. Some, like St. Francis 

himself, unsuccessfully tried to receive martyrdom several times only to be rebuffed either by irritated 

Muslim Sultans and Pashas or by practical challenges such as shipwrecks. On the Cordoban martyrs 

see Coope, Martyrs of Cordoba; Kenneth B. Wolf, Christian Martyrs in Muslim Spain (NY: 

Cambridge University Press, 1988). On St. Bonaventure, one of the Franciscan martyrs, see e.g. E. R. 

Daniel, "The Desire for Martyrdom: A Leitmotiv of St. Bonaventure," Franciscan Studies 32 (1972). 

204 These idolaters “circumcise Christians and smear the blood from the circumcision over the altars 

or throw it into the baptismal fonts”, as Pope Urban alleged according to one report of his sermon in 

Claremont James A. Brundage, The Crusades: A Documentary Survey (Milwaukee, WIS: The 

Marquette University Press, 1962), p. 18. 

205 Quoted in Brundage, A Documentary, pp. 18-19. 

206 Denys Hay, Europe: The Emergence of an Idea (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1957).

own blood brothers, your companions, your associates (for you are sons of the 

152 

same Christ and the same Church)”, exclaimed Pope Urban II at Clermont, “are 

scourged, oppressed, and injured in Jerusalem” (Urban II, 1095, Balderic of Dol’s 

version). 

An early and rather different invocation of the Pagan image had occurred in 

ninth-century Andalusia, where a Christian martyrs’ movement spontaneously 

erupted in Cordoba. 207 Here, it was a reaction to the breakdown of boundaries 

between Muslim and Christian communities living in close proximity to each other. 

By publicly denouncing and insulting Mohammed, over 50 Christians – most of 

whom came from outside the city – consciously provoked the Muslim authorities to 

execute and thus make martyrs of them. In doing so, they invoked a familiar Biblical 

script in which early Christians had suffered the same fate at the hands of pagan 

Romans. Unlike Pope Urban II’s later use of the Pagan image in his call for 

European Christians to take up the Cross, it was here primarily used as a defense 

mechanism. The application of the Biblical script of the martyred early Christians 

“guaranteed” the martyrs their eventual victory over their pagan oppressors. Through 

their sacrifice, they aimed to restore the crumbling boundaries that separated the two 

communities and protected the distinct identity of the subjugated Christian 

population. Ultimately, they failed in this endeavor and Cordoban Mozarab 

Christians would become increasingly “Arabized” in the following centuries. We 

207 See Coope, Martyrs of Cordoba; Wolf, Christians Martyrs; Kenneth B. Wolf, "Christian Views of 

Islam in Early Medieval Spain," in Medieval Christian Perceptions of Islam: A Book of Essays, ed. 

John V. Tolan, Garland Medieval Casebooks (NY: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1996).

shall return to the lessons of the Andalusian experience in the conclusion of this 

153 

chapter but the two anti-pagan scripts mentioned in this section are different in ways 

that deserve attention here. 

The image of the Christians martyred at the hands of pagans is undoubtedly 

part of a “genuine” Christian script that dates back to depictions of early Christians 

mauled by lions in Roman arenas. A key element of the script is the acceptance, nay 

the willing embrace of physical suffering and public humiliation, which has a clear 

Biblical model in the “passion” of Christ. It would seem to fit the Tragic version of 

the Christian historical meta-narrative best: the obsession with the Fall and its 

consequences of human suffering, punishment, and eventual destruction by the 

Devastator and the Fourth Beast of the Apocalypse. The Tragic mode does not entail 

utter hopelessness, however. Recall that Tragedy is defined by the hero’s descent to 

the earthly levels of existence, not all the way to hell, and that his/her sufferings have 

purifying or enlightening results. The Andalusian unbelievers will eventually be 

defeated just like the Romans, but this task will require spectacular sacrifices on the 

part of the oppressed Christians, whose only weapons are the strength of their faith 

and a willingness to endure the cruelty of their oppressors with such grace that it will 

cause even their abusers to embrace the True faith. 

The Pagan Duel Script, on the other hand, can be seen as a symptom of the 

influence of native “Germanic” mythology and the European feudal context on the 

Latin Christian mythological universe, which led to the emergence of such 

distinctively feudal-European-Christian themes as the medieval cult of chivalry. The

154 

virtues of chivalry were extolled in folklore and popular culture vehicles like the 

Chanson de Geste, where we also find the Pagan Duel Script. However, the 

protagonist here was no longer the Christian pacifist who mainly excelled at stoic 

suffering but an idealized pious knight who defeated the enemies of Christ with his 

sword, or a warrior-saint who made “infidel” lands “safe for Christ”. These scripts 

reflected a shift in mood that paralleled the changed circumstances that we 

mentioned briefly in the introduction to this chapter. Many of the authors examined 

in the preceding chapter (as well as the supporters of the Cordoban Martyrs 

discussed above) constructed defensive identities within a Biblical meta-narrative 

that displayed clear Tragic tendencies, which addressed their concerns as spiritual 

leaders (whether appointed or self-appointed) of Christian dhimmi communities 

under Muslim rule. Prominent Latin Christians in high medieval Europe on the other 

hand, wrote under different and generally more favorable circumstances. Not 

surprisingly, they employed different images and scripts and we should therefore 

perhaps treat the images of the collective Christian self that corresponded to these 

different kinds of pagan scripts as equally different in kind. The Christian knight 

who defeats the Muslim pagan and forces him to either convert or die, is a confident 

protagonist who succeeds in his quest, not the self-sacrificing hero of the Tragedy. It 

therefore seems reasonable to ask whether there occurred a shift away from the 

Tragic tendency of the early medieval Biblical meta-narrative and toward a Comic 

variant of this historical meta-narrative that better reflected the needs of an assertive

and expansive Latin Christendom, which was less concerned with survival and 

155 

self-defense than how to encourage participation in faraway military adventures. 

Saladin and the Chivalrous Saracen 

The image of the pagan Saracen initially served well as a propaganda tool for 

such purposes, but it was a two-edged sword in the long run. In order for this image 

to be sustained, it required a rather safe distance from, or at least the turning of a 

blind eye to, real Muslims who seldom if ever worshipped idols, and who certainly 

did not view Mohammed as a God. 208 The conventional Saracen of Medieval poetry, 

writes Meredith Jones, “was modelled on the biblical, heathen idolator rather than 

from observations made at first-hand”. 209 But as we shall see, one effect of the 

Crusades was that more European Christians were to come in close contact with 

Muslims, and many would end up living among them for years. The image of Islam 

as a pagan religion that encourages or even accepts idolatry would not provide 

adequate guidance for Christians who came into extensive contact with Islamic 

practice during the Crusades, and it had for the same reason never been as common 

among eastern or Spanish Christians as it was in Europe north of the Pyrenees. 

Among other things, this led to another variation of the image of the pagan 

Muslim, who had previously essentially been portrayed as a crude reversal of the 

208 Idolatry – the worship of idols – is expressly forbidden in the Ahadith, the Traditions, and Jones 

suggests that “These prohibitions were, as a rule, in the Middle Ages, obeyed, although various sects 

weakened their effect by the modifications they introduced” Jones, "The Conventional Saracen of the 

Songs of Geste," pp. 210-211. 


good Medieval Christian, 210 but who was now also cast in a more positive light. 

156 

This image, which we may call the chivalrous Saracen, was most popular among 

chroniclers of the Crusades, who either had themselves met Muslims or at least 

received information from those who had. The only chronicler of the First Crusade to 

not portray Muslims as pagans was Guibert of Nogent (1053-1124). While he 

ridiculed Mohammed and wrote a generally “ingenious and inaccurate” chronicle of 

the Crusade, 211 he found praise for the “empire of the Parthians, whom we call Turks 

by corruption of language”. This empire, he continued, “is superior to that of the 

Babylonians not in extent of territory … but in the military talent, the chivalrous 

character, and the magnanimity which characterizes its inhabitants”. 212 

Another possible source of this rather atypically sympathetic image could be 

the many standardized characters in the chivalric literature so popular at the time. 

The protagonist in the poem El Cid, for example, slaughtered Muslims and 

established Christian towns in Andalusia against the backdrop of the Reconquest, but 

the author seems to have been more interested in the chivalrous and heroic nature of 

his main character than in the latter’s role as defender of the Christian faith. 213 The 

Cid treated his Muslim captives and subjects well if they obeyed him and he even 

entered into tactical alliances with honorable neighboring Muslim lords when it was 

prudent and militarily advantageous to do so. The chivalrous knight is here the 



212 Munro, "Western Attitude," p. 335. 

213 The Poem of the Cid, trans. Lesley Byrd Simpson (Los Angeles: CA: University of California 

Press, 2006).

prototype for the lead character but also for some of the supporting characters, 

157 

among whom we find a few noble Muslims loyal to the Cid. Toward the end of the 

period examined in this chapter, there emerged a popular legend of the noble 

counterpart to King Richard Lionhart: Saladin. In the late thirteenth-century 

Florentine book-length poem Novellino, for example, Saladin, the “most noble lord, 

brave and generous” (Novellino, 25), is even knighted. 214 Similarly, Riccoldo da 

Montecroce wondered who could not be amazed by the Muslims’ “zeal, devotion in 

prayer, mercy to the poor, reverence for the name of God, the prophets and holy 

places, their courtesy in manners, their affability to strangers, their concord and love 

for one another?” 215 

Such occasional admissions of bravery or chivalry, Meredith Jones points 

out, were almost inevitably followed up by some variation of the “conventional 

phrase: ‘If only he were a Christian…’”. 216 This phrase was not merely expressive (I 

wish!), but prescriptive (You ought!). Reversing this phrase – “If only Christians 

were like him!” – shows better what it did as a speech-act, for such admissions 

usually invoked the virtues of Muslims only to condemn Christians. 217 In Novellino, 

Saladin travels to Europe and functions as the voice of moral of the story as he let the 

Europeans know that he “disapproved greatly” of, for example, how badly the poor 

214 Gloria Allaire, "Noble Saracen or Muslim Enemy? The Changing Image of the Saracen in Late 

Medieval Italian Literature," in Western Views of Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: 

Perception of Other, ed. David R. Blanks and Michael Frassetto (NY: St. Martin's Press, 1999), p. 

184; Novellino [World Wide Web] (Universita degli Studi di Pavia, c. 1281-1300 [cited 10/28 2004]); 

available from http://lettere.unipv.it/scrineum/wight/novellino.htm#51. 



217 Daniel, Islam and the West; Galen Johnson, "Muhammad and Ideology in Medieval Christian 

Literature," Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 11, no. 3 (2000): p. 341.

were treated. 218 Rather than being the usual opposite of the good Christian, then, 

158 

the chivalrous Saracen instead epitomized Medieval Christian values that real-life 

Christians were not living up to. In many respects, the Saladin / chivalrous Saracen 

found in some medieval European writing performed the same ethical function as the 

early medieval portrayals of Muslims as the Scourge of God’s Fury discussed in the 

previous chapter. While in the latter case the militarily superior and conquering 

Saracen was the instrument by which God chastised lapsed Christians, the morally 

virtuous and chivalrous Saracen was the literary device with which the Christian 

chronicler or poet chastised the religious and moral lapses of his fellow Christians. In 

both cases, the primary role of the Muslim was that of an instrument in the process of 

strengthening the Christians’ identity as Christians. However, it is interesting to note 

that the chivalrous Saladin of the light-hearted poem Novellino is a much gentler 

instrument of chastisement than the “filthy rod” version of Saladin that we find in the 

somber accounts of Christian losses in the earlier Chronicle of the Third Crusade. 

This role appears particularly well suited for the Comic mood of the high medieval 

Christian historical meta-narrative. 

As seen in the above examples of the confused usage of the terms Saracen 

and pagan as late as during the fourteenth century, the notion of Islamic idolatry 

would not go away. It would remain in the popular imagination as one ingredient in a 

complex image of the “Moor”, the “Arab”, or the “Turk”. The idols of “Mahomet” 

even live on today, 

218 Novellino.

in the festivals of small towns in Spain, many of which involve annual 

ritual reenactments of the reconquest of the town from the Muslims. 

In a number of these fiestas of ‘Moors and Christians,’ a squadron of 

local inhabitants dressed up as Moros take over a mock citadel and set 

up a ‘Mahoma’ – a dressed-up effigy meant to represent Muhammad 

– on the walls. In the mock siege that follows, the Christian troops 

take over the citadel and destroy the Mahoma. 219 

159 

This brings up an epistemological point. Many of the images described so far 

persisted despite knowledge that they did not accurately represent what they were 

supposed to denote, or signify. 220 What was lacking was not necessarily education or 

knowledge. Increased contact with and knowledge of the Other did have an impact 

on the image of him/her, but it we can not simply say that increased knowledge 

shattered erroneous images and replaced them with ones that correspond to the truth. 

New images emerged but the old ones remained in public discourse for centuries, 

side by side with the new ones. Neither can we say that different images existed only 

in different and separate discourses. In many of the Chansons de Geste, for example, 

the prevalent image of Saracens as idolatrous pagans paradoxically coexist, in the 

very same poem, with descriptions of imagined religious arguments between Saracen 

and Christian, the content of which “would make of the Saracens rather heretics than 

unbelievers”. 221 This complex relationship between image of the Other and the 

“actual” Other which the image is supposed to describe is present in much of 

medieval and later Christian writings on Islam. Suffice it to recall for now that the 


220 Jo Ann Hoeppner Moran Cruz, "Popular Attitudes Towards Islam in Medieval Europe," in Western 

Views of Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: Perception of Other, ed. David R. Blanks and 

Michael Frassetto (NY: St. Martin's Press, 1999). 


images discussed above have filled various purposes, and while we may wish to 

160 

say that some were more empirically accurate than others were, empirical accuracy 

was just one among many potentially desirable characteristics of such images. 

MUSLIMS AS HERETICS AND ISLAM AS A SPIRITUAL THREAT 

The Threat from Within: The Proliferation of Heresies in Europe 

For the church in the High Middle Ages (c. 1050-1350), the battle against 

heretics was to become more acute than that against pagans. In Europe, the papacy 

was involved in a number of struggles with different Christian “rebels” and heretics 

such as the Cathars, followers of German king Henry IV, and the rebellious Normans 

under ‘the tyrant Roger’ of Sicily 222 (the latter being denounced by Pope Leo IX as 

“worse than pagans”). 223 The church reforms initiated by Pope Gregory VII (1020- 

1085) and the proliferation of heresies in the eleventh century were both reactions to 

a looming crisis within the institutions of the church. 224 Popular resentment of the 

less than pious lifestyles of the secular clergy (bishops, priests, and deacons) and 

secular control over the papacy and the church by European monarchs like Henry IV 

(Holy Roman Emperor 1084-1105) represented threats to European Christendom 

from within and gave rise to the papal reform movement and a struggle for 

consolidation of papal power. It was only a decade after Henry IV had laid siege to 

Rome and Pope Gregory, forcing the latter to flee to Salerno where he died in 1085, 

222 Norman Housley, "Crusades Against Christians: Their Origins and Early Development, c. 1000- 

1216," in The Crusades: The Essential Readings, ed. Thomas F. Madden (Malden, MA: Blackwell 

Publishers Ltd., 2002). 

223 “[L]es Normands, affirme le pape, sont “pires que les païens” Flori, "Formation," p. 88. 

224 Marcia Colish, Medieval Foundations of the Westerns Intellectual Tradition, 400-1400 (New 

Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), p. 245; Lynch, The Medieval Church.

that Pope Urban II gave his stirring call to take up the Cross against the Turks 

161 

and the Saracens. By then the reforms had led to a popular “desire to personalize 

religion” 225 and had “stimulated a religious ferment that could not be bottled up 

when the kings and popes had compromised”. 226 As a result, Urban’s sermon led to 

widespread outbursts of religious zeal, partly in the form of the (desired) “deep 

emotional responses” of the knights that were the recipients of the call to take up the 

Cross, emotions “perfectly capable of motivating a long absence from home on a 

dangerous and arduous 227 undertaking”. 228 But it also led to (less desired) impromptu 

crusades among the lower classes against Jews in Europe and even the 1251 crusade 

of children shepherds, which ended up mainly targeting the Christian clergy in many 

French towns (see Barber, 1995). Urban’s highly successful call to turn Christian 

weapons against Saracens instead of against their Christian brothers, should be seen 

in this light. 

The Common External Enemy 

While these internal struggles strained relations between different Christian 

communities throughout the Middle Ages, one thing that united them was their 

attitude toward Islam. To all Latin Christians, “Islam was reckoned the greatest 

enemy of the Christian Church”. 229 Christian theologians at this time also 

225 Colish, Medieval Foundations, p. 245. 

226 Lynch, The Medieval Church, p. 148. 

227 And we may add, expensive – see Jonathan Riley-Smith, "Early Crusaders to the East and the 

Costs of Crusading, 1095-1130," in The Crusades: The Essential Readings, ed. Thomas F. Madden 

(Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers Ltd., 2002). 

228 Marcus Bull, "The Roots of Lay Enthusiasm for the First Crusade," in The Crusades: The Essential 

Readings, ed. Thomas F. Madden (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers Ltd., 2002), pp. 176, 193. 


increasingly began seeing it as a spiritual as well as military threat. 230 In Europe 

162 

north of the Pyrenees, Islam had from the birth of Mohammed and up until the 12 th 

and 13 th centuries been seen as a primarily political and military threat. Thus, many 

of the early Western Christians who wrote about Islam did not engage in careful 

scrutiny of Islamic theology but were content to vilify Muslims as pagans, the 

Scourge of God’s Fury, or Antichrists. Only in Islamic Spain, when Christians who 

had grown up under Muslim rule began converting in considerable numbers in the 

culturally vibrant climate of ‘Abd al-Rahmân II’s rule (822-852), and in the East, 

where Christians had lived under Muslim masters since the seventh century, did 

European Christian apologists and polemicists 231 before the 12 th century engage in 

any more serious theological disputations on Islam in order to refute and ridicule it. 

It was partly as a reaction to these conversions and to the complacency of the 

increasingly “Arabized” Christian dhimmi (or “protected”) communities who were 

enjoying relative comfort and autonomy under Muslim rule that the ninth-century 

Cordoban martyrs engaged in their ultimately unsuccessful attempts to defend the 

identity of their Christian communities by living out the Hagiographic Script and 

becoming martyrs for the faith. 232 “Identity”, writes William Connolly, “requires 

difference in order to be, and it converts difference into otherness in order to secure 

230 Wolf, "Christian Views." 

231 Christian apologetics is a text or branch of the religion that attempts to defend the Christian faith. 

Polemics are, in this case, attacks on the Islamic faith. 

232 See footnote earlier in this chapter.

its own self-certainty”. 233 Because it was the “self-certainty” of their identity 

163 

among the Christians’ themselves that was threatened, when the Cordoban priests 

Eulogius and Alvarus wrote their defenses of the Martyrs, it was against the skeptics 

and critics among their fellow Christians that they defended them, and against their 

claims that the dead were not martyrs since they “suffered at the hands of men who 

venerated both God and a law.” Eulogius responded that “if such a cult or law is said 

to be valid, indeed the strength of the Christian religion must necessarily be 

impaired”, clearly seeing a serious threat to his faith and to his and his parishioners’ 

Christian identity. 234 The difference between the Christian and Islamic faiths and 

between their respective believers had to be maintained if the Mozarabic 

(“Arabized”) Christian communities were to retain their separate identity. 

Western Christians would experience similar threats to their religious identity 

several hundred years later. The success of the First Crusade at the end of the 

eleventh century meant that numerous European Christians settled in Acre, Antioch, 

Jerusalem, Tyre and other conquered towns in the Levant. These Christian knights, 

soldiers, and missionaries lived their lives among Muslims (albeit as their masters) 

and, despite what appears to have been limited interaction between the two 

groups, 235 these Christians did get a closer look at this vile Other that they had heard 

so much about in Europe. The most outrageous claims about him, often made by 

Latin Christians who had never seen a Muslim, clearly did not stand up to the test of 

233 William E. Connolly, Identity|Difference: Democratic Negotiations of Political Paradox, 

Expanded Edition ed. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), p. 64. 

234 Wolf, "Christian Views," pp. 96, 97. 

235 Kedar, "The Subjected Muslims of the Frankish Levant," pp. 250-253.

164 

their everyday experience. Many Christians in fact preferred Muslim doctors due 

to their greater skill and “less frequent use of the knife or axe”, and often shared 

places of worship with Muslims. 236 Intermarriages were frequent, as were children 

born from Muslim mothers but fathered by Frankish lords, often but not always the 

result of unwanted sexual relations. 237 The social, symbolic, and mental barriers put 

up between Muslims and Christians to protect the latter when they were under 

Muslim rule were gradually being loosened up. 

Benjamin Z. Kedar points out that Muslim conversion to Catholicism appears 

to have gained momentum in the last fifty years of the Frankish rule in the Levant. 

And “[s]ince several sources report also of Frankish conversion to Islam, it is evident 

that the dividing line between the religions was crossed on numerous occasions”. 238 

Reports of such conversions of Christians may have come to the West (Munro quotes 

Humbert of Romans, who lived in the Holy Land, stating as much in a pamphlet 

advice to the Pope), 239 spurring feelings that Islam was more than a military threat to 

Christendom and supporting claims that it needed to be studied and refuted. “But the 

more active influence” on these sentiments, writes Munro, “seems to have been a 

visit to Spain by Peter the Venerable of Cluny, made about 1141. There he witnessed 

‘the progress and power of the Saracens.’” 240 As a result, he and many with him 

236 Munro, "Western Attitude," p. 336. See also Kedar, "The Subjected Muslims of the Frankish 

Levant," p. 253. 

237 Kedar, "The Subjected Muslims of the Frankish Levant," p. 249; Munro, "Western Attitude," p. 

335. 

238 Kedar, "The Subjected Muslims of the Frankish Levant," p. 256. 


240 Munro, "Western Attitude," p. 336.

came to see Islam as a theological threat that needed to be understood so that 

165 

arguments could be developed to refute it. 

Furthermore, many of the crusaders rather quickly came to see that, far from 

being a pagan religion, Islam in fact had many things in common with their own 

religion: Islam, like Christianity, was a monotheistic religion that did not approve of 

idolatry; Muslims recognized Jesus as a prophet and revered the Virgin Mary; and 

the Qur’n praised both Jesus and the Gospels. But there were of course crucial 

differences: Muslims did not believe that Christ was both man and God, rejected the 

Holy Trinity as polytheism, and believed that the Qur’n and not the New Testament 

was the word of God. If Muslims embraced part of the Christian faith but went astray 

on others, it seemed more natural to typify them as heretics than as pagans. 

With the images of Saracens as the Antichrists and pagans still prevalent in 

the West, however, it was a rather big step to call them heretics instead, and some 

debated the proper labeling of them. Peter the Venerable, for example, admitted the 

difficulty: “I cannot clearly decide”, he wrote, “whether the Muhammadan error 

should be said to be a heresy, and whether its sectaries should be called heretics or 

heathens”. 241 Most previous heretics in Christian history had been Christians who 

left the Church and acted against it. Muslims, of course, had never been Catholics so 

from this point of view they were better described as heathens or unbelievers. On the 

other hand, “ancient usage called any attack on some part of faith, even outside the 

Church, heresy, and Muslims, in the usual way of heretics, took what they liked from 


the sum of Christian doctrine, and rejected as much as they disliked”. 242 With 

166 

that in mind, they ought to be called heretics. Regardless of how they should be 

classified, Peter the Venerable concluded that their teachings needed to be studied, 

refuted, and ridiculed. And regardless of the adequacy of the typification of Saracens 

as heretics, by far a majority of twelfth-century Christian writers in the west did 

place them in this role. 

Consequently, in 1142-43 Peter traveled with a team of translators to Spain 

and produced the first Latin translation of the Qur’n along with other Muslim texts 

and the Risâlat al-Kindî, a ninth-century anti-Islamic polemic document in Arabic, 

produced by an anonymous but most certainly Christian Mozarabic author, that 

purported to show a theological debate in an exchange of letters between a Muslim 

and a Nestorian Christian. 243 Using these documents, Peter himself composed two 

anti-Islamic texts, which, together with his Qur’n and the other translated 

documents, were to be widely read and highly influential in the coming centuries: 244 

Summa totius haeresis Saracenorum, and Contra sectam siue haeresim 

242 Daniel, Islam and the West, p. 187. 


244 Meredith C. Jones reports that Peter’s edition of the Qur’n, translated (partly inaccurately) by 

Robert Ketton, was the only one known to the West until near the end of the 17 th century. Jones, "The 

Conventional Saracen of the Songs of Geste," p. 207. In 1649, Sieru dy Ryer published his French 

translation, which in turn was translated into English the same year. Andrew du Ryer, The Alcoran of 

Mahomet, Translated out of Arabick into French by the Sieur du Ryer, Lord of Malezair, and Resident 

for the French King, at ALEXANDRIA and Newly Englished, for the satisfaction of all that desire to 

look into the Turkish Vanities. To which is prefixed, the Life of Mahomet the Prophet of the Turks, and 

Author of the Alcoran. With a Needful Caveat, or Admonition, for them who desire to know what Use 

may be made of, or if there be danger in Reading the Alcoran., trans. Alexander Ross (London: 

Randal Taylor, 1688). In 1698 Ludovico Marracci published a more faithful Latin translation, though 

“accompanied by a long prologue refuting its errors”. Mohammed, Muslim-Christian Relations, p. 46. 

The following chapter will discuss the different translations further.

Saracenorum, the former vilifying Islam for a Christian audience and the latter 

167 

attempting to refute Islam and bid Muslim readers to convert. As seen from the titles 

of the two tracts, Peter did not hesitate to use the term heresy to describe Islam 

despite his uncertainty as to whether it was entirely accurate. 

The benefits of calling Muslims heretics were multiple. The depiction of 

Muslims as heretics came closer to the perceptions of the increasing number of Latin 

Christians who had actually interacted with Muslims than either the Antichrist or the 

pagan roles. We may also suspect that many of the Muslim subjects in the Latin 

crusader kingdoms found it easier to accept this label than most of the other 

designations discussed so far (with the likely exception of the Chivalrous Saracen, 

naturally). After all, any learned Muslim would have agreed with those Christians 

who argued that Mohammed had incorporated much or most of the Christian faith 

but also that Islam departed from it in important ways. The preceding chapter argued 

that the image of Muslims as the Scourge of God’s Fury provided insufficient 

guidance for long-term Christian-Muslim interaction. “Repent and pray” was 

inadequate as advice to the Christians in Granada who lived under Muslim rule for 

nearly seven centuries. The heretic role, on the other hand had been specifically 

created to deal with doctrinally deviant Christians who lived among the orthodox. 

Like the other typified enemies of the faith, the notion of the heretic provided 

Christians with a ready-made role in which to place Muslims. As such, the notion 

helped order their universe and make the actions of the Muslims understandable 

within the larger framework of the Christian historical meta-narrative. According to

this history, furthermore, the heretics would be defeated just as the Simoniac 

168 

Script predicted. There were thus also practical advantages to the use of the heresy 

label. 

First of all, there was already in existence a large repertoire of Christian 

apologetic defenses against each of the charges Muslims raised against Christianity, 

as well as polemic dissections of the general flaws of heresy. We could call the 

former Anti-Heretic Apologetic Scripts. Understanding Muslims as heretics provided 

Christian theologians with a vast repertoire of arguments against the many diverse 

unitarian heresies, for example, which they could then easily tap into when 

responding to Muslim criticism of the Holy Trinity as polytheism. As with all the 

images described above, the image of Islam as heresy had also originated in the East 

and in Spain. One of the most influential of the early Eastern writers on Islam, John 

of Damascus (who lived from the mid 7 th to the mid 8 th century and was likely of 

Arabic origin), portrayed Islam in this way in his “On the Heresy of the 

Ishmaelites”. 245 

Living in Syria in the eighth century, working closely with Muslims in his 

capacity as the highest administrator of Damascus, and likely having received “an 

education prescribed for the children of the Saracens”, 246 John was knowledgeable 

enough about Islam to realize that it was not a pagan religion. Yet he is a key source 

of many myths that would be oft repeated in later centuries, such as his assertion that 

245 Daniel J Sahas, John of Damascus on Islam: The "Heresy of the Ishmaelites" (Leided: E.J. Brill, 

1972). 

246 Sahas, Heresy of the Ishmaelites, p. 40.

Mohammed “having casually been exposed to Old and the New Testament and 

169 

supposedly encountered an Arian monk, formed a heresy of his own”. 247 As a result 

of these Arian (as well as Christian, Nestorian, and Jewish) influences, however, he 

argued that “Christian truth lies implicit in the Qur’n, waiting only to be drawn out 

of it”, as Norman Daniel puts it, 248 and he attempted to do so by employing 

Trinitarian arguments usually employed against Christian heretics. 249 Those 

Christian theologians who understood Islam in this fashion and desired to refute its 

critique of Christian doctrine could thus lean upon a long anti-heretical and anti- 

Islamic apologetic tradition. 

There were also Anti-Heretic Polemic Scripts in the form of “ready-made” 

model sermons against heretics, such as the sermon “For the preaching of the cross 

against heretics”, composed in the late 13 th century by the master general of the 

Dominican order, Humbert of Romans. 250 This model sermon was written for 

didactic purposes; it was to be used by other priests when exhorting parishioners to 

embark upon crusades against heretics. In it, Humbert points out the general 

seriousness of heresy and lays out the various remedies that the Church has at its 

disposal: “doctrine through preaching, disputing and discussing”; 

“excommunication”; punishments such as “deposition with regard to honours”, 

“confiscation” of “temporal belongings, “incarceration”, and “sometimes by death”; 

247 Sahas, Heresy of the Ishmaelites, p. 133. 



250 Humbert of Romans, (c. 1266-1277) “Sermon III: For the preaching of the cross against heretics” 

in Christoph T. Maier, ed., Crusade Propaganda and Ideology: Model Sermons for the Preaching of 

the Cross (NY: Cambridge University Press, 2000).

and finally, if they “defend themselves”: “armed persecution, just as a wise 

170 

physician uses a blade to cut off a putrid limb which infects other parts”. 251 For the 

convenience of the user, the model sermon leaves a blank space where each priest 

can enter the name of the enemy against whom he is preaching the Cross. 252 As 

literal scripts, these model sermons are unusually self-conscious and explicit about 

their function, qualities that make them rather remarkable documents from a 

sociological standpoint. 

This fill-in-the-blank type of sermon suggests a second potential benefit of 

calling Saracens heretics. Norman Housley suggests that one reason for the above 

reported confusion between the terms “Saracen” and “pagan” was that by calling 

European enemies of the Church “Saracens”, the established legitimacy of the use of 

military violence against the latter could be transferred onto the former. Late 

eleventh-century Church “reformers tried to relate their struggle [against Christian 

rebels and heretics in Europe] to warfare against pagans, as in the common depiction 

of the marauding Normans as Agareni”. 253 “Agareni” or “Hagarenes” are alternative 

names for “Saracens” that are of Biblical origin, deriving from the name of Ishmael’s 

mother, Hagar. There is probably an even stronger parallel case to be made about the 

extension of the heresy tag from heretics in Europe to Saracens, which may have 

served to legitimize Church violence against European heretics. The fact that Peter 

the Venerable – whose significant contribution to the understanding of Muslims as 

251 Maier, ed., Model Sermons, p. 225. 


253 Housley, "Crusades Against Christians," p. 76.

heretics we have already discussed – was the author of “the most detailed 

171 

justification yet for directing Christian arms against other Christians” lends at least 

indirect support for this hypothesis. 254 Holy Crusades against Saracens (whether 

pagans or heretics) to retake the Holy Land were widely seen as entirely justified and 

praiseworthy endeavors in the West, as we may infer by the matter-of-factly tone in 

the following passage from the Song of Roland (mid eleventh century). Upon seeing 

the “Sarrazin” Abisme – black as “molten pitch” – Archbishop Turpin casually 

declares, “This Sarrazin great heretick meseems, Rather I’ld die, than not slay him 

clean”. 255 

Wars against Christians, however, even if they were heretics, were not 

viewed in the same positive light at least until 1199. When Pope Leo IX in 1053 

(thus before the First Crusade) himself led an army against rebellious Normans in 

southern Italy, this was widely disapproved of. 256 The first “proper” crusade against 

Christian heretics in Europe came with Pope Innocent III’s 1208 declaration of a 

full-scale crusade against the heretical Cathars in south-east France (Languedoc), 

who were subjected to genocidal attacks over the following two decades in what is 

known as the Albigensian Crusade. 257 By that time, the image of Saracens as heretics 

was relatively well spread, and it is easy to believe that the legitimacy of the 

254 Housley, "Crusades Against Christians," p. 181. Similarly, Norman Daniel reports that Alain of 

Lille’s late 12 th -century de fide catholica contra haereticos sui temporis contained four polemical 

books of decreasing length against four heresies, suggesting the French Church’s concerns: 

Albigensians, Waldensians, Jews, and Muslims. Daniel, Islam and the West, p. 189. 

255 Charles Scott (trans.) Moncrief, Song of Roland (The Online Medieval & Classical Library, 1919 

[cited October 27 2004]); available from http://sunsite.berkeley.edu/OMACL/Roland/r88-161.html. 

256 Housley, "Crusades Against Christians." 

257 Housley, "Crusades Against Christians," p. 71. The Albigensian campaigns may have cost 

hundreds of thousands of lives.

Crusades against Saracens in the Holy Land and in Spain had “rubbed off” on 

172 

Innocent’s European endeavors. It is clear that he viewed the two as part of the same 

larger struggle. A letter from him to the people of Milan warns them against 

sheltering any heretics, for “just as He [God] recently subdued the [Christian] heretic 

in Provence, and miraculously and mercifully deigned to crush the innumerable 

[Muslim] Agarenes in Spain through the army of the faithful, so He has the power to 

reduce your city to nothing”. 258 It is important to note that this “employment” of the 

image of the Saracen was only possible because this image had by this time long 

become a recognized (stereo)type in itself. While earlier Christians employed known 

roles such as that of the Antichrist to make sense of new and unknown Muslims, the 

Saracen was now by itself a known type that could be extended to other actors for 

various purposes. 259 

In short, casting the Saracen as a heretic may have been a more accurate 

representation but it also satisfied urgent needs of the church in dealing with its 

internal challenges at the time. It appears yet again that to understand the image of 

the Muslim Other we must first look at factors within the Christian community itself. 

The basic socio-political function of the image stemmed from its usefulness as a tool 

in the struggle to define the identity of this community rather than from its 

correspondence with the “real” nature of the Other it depicted. Even when the 

construction of this particular image was in direct response to a perceived Islamic 

258 Housley, "Crusades Against Christians," p. 93. 

259 For the use of this type, or “conventional portrait” as a staple of Medieval poetry, see Jones, "The 

Conventional Saracen of the Songs of Geste," p. 225.

threat, such as in Cordoba or the Crusader kingdoms, this was primarily a threat 

173 

to the identity of the Christian communities and it ultimately came from within these 

communities themselves in the form of Arabization and increased conversions. 

Finally, the first of Humbert’s suggested remedies was “doctrine through 

preaching, disputing and discussing”, obviously with the aim of converting the 

heretic. The issue of conversion would not even come up if Muslims were viewed 

merely as God’s instrument for punishing Christians or as the Antichrists, which 

dehumanized them and placed them in the position of a fundamentally different 

Other. Pagans, on the other hand, could be converted, and if Muslims were heretics 

rather than pagans they could almost be seen as merely misguided Christians, which 

in turn suggested that they might be inclined to convert if presented with the 

irrefutable logic of the true faith as scholastic theologians suggested. It would just be 

a matter of drawing out the Christian truths that lie waiting within them, as John of 

Damascus had suggested some five hundred years earlier. Consequently, many of the 

writers who placed Muslims in the role of the heretic also devoted some effort to 

attempts at converting them, at least ostensibly. Recall that one of Peter the 

Venerable’s two tracts against Islam was supposedly aimed at the Muslim reader, 

indicating a similar intent to convert. However, we find perhaps the most fascinating 

example of this belief in the power of reason and argumentation to convert Muslims 

– and the often-ambivalent attitude to violence associated with it – in the works of 

Ramon Llull.

Ramon Llull, Reason, Irrationality, and Muslims as Heretics (or Jews?) 

Born on Majorca, Ramon Llull (1232-1316) wrote in a Spain where the 

174 

reconquista had all but been completed. The sole exception was the small kingdom 

of Granada, which would hold out until 1492. No longer were Christians dhimmi, 

second-class citizens. Instead, the vast majority of Muslims on the Iberian Peninsula 

were now subjects of Christian rulers, and the question that preoccupied the latter 

was how to deal with them. The task of missionaries like Llull was to convert them, 

and we should note that they could do so from a position of power and relative 

security since the Muslims of Spain no longer posed a military threat to Latin 

Christendom. In fact, the Christian kings could (and often did) force recalcitrant 

Muslims to listen to sermons by Christian ministers, and Ramon would later in his 

life come to advocate this form of preaching to a literally “captive audience.” This 

would often be done with a combined Jewish and Muslim audience. In fact, as a 

religious minority in 13 th -century Spain, Muslims had many things in common with 

the Jews who also lived there. Both were targets of missionary activities that 

eventually would give way to other, more violent types of interaction with their 

Christian masters. 

Llull developed the project of teaching the faith and converting the infidel 

into a veritable science – or as he called it, an Art – laid out in a number of works 

culminating in his dauntingly technical conversion manual Ars generalis ultima

(1305-8), which was abridged in his Ars brevis (1308). 260 In his remarkable The 

175 

Book of the Gentile and the Three Wise Men, 261 he presented his apologetic and 

polemic arguments in a narrative form more adapted to the “layman”. 262 

Ramon 

viewed Islam as heresy, but what set Gentile apart from most earlier and 

contemporary apologetic and polemic Christian works, except from the relative 

charity of its depiction of the rival faiths, was its emphasis on reason, logic, and 

peaceful, civilized discussion as the primary tools of conversion. In this, Gentile is 

more reminiscent of classical philosophical dialogues like Cicero’s On the Nature of 

the Gods than most contemporary theological treaties. On the issue of Islam, Llull in 

many ways prefigured such humanist renaissance writers as Erasmus, who would 

later argue that defensive crusades should only be the response of the last resort to 

the Ottoman Turks who had then emerged as the most immediate threat to 

Christendom. 263 There are also parallels between Llull’s ambitious project of 

interfaith conversation based on agreed principles of rational argumentation, and the 

ideas entertained by Nicholas of Cusa and John of Segovia more than a century later 

about a great interfaith conference where leaders of the great religions could meet to 

discuss matters of theology. Llull’s legacy can thus be described as an early 

anticipation of a modern era in which the widely accepted epistemological 

260 Ramon Llull, "Ars Brevis," in Doctor Illuminatus: A Ramon Llull Reader, ed. Anthony Bonner 

(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1308). 

261 Ramon Llull, "The Book of the Gentile and the Three Wise Men (abridged)," in Doctor 

Illuminatus: A Ramon Llull Reader, ed. Anthony Bonner (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 

1271-1276). 

262 Anthony Bonner, ed., Doctor Illuminatus: A Ramon Llull Reader (Princeton, NJ: Princeton 

University Press, 1993), p. 85. 

263 Desiderius Erasmus, "Excerpt from Consultatio de bello Turcis inferendo," in Documents on the 

Later Crusades, 1274-1580, ed. Norman Housley (NY: St. Martin's Press, 1996).

foundation of truth-seeking discourse was neither Revelation nor Tradition, but 

176 

Reason. 

Nevertheless, despite its emphasis on conversation and argumentation, the 

purpose of Gentile and Ramon’s Art in general was to generate converts to 

Christianity, or at least to inoculate its Christian readers against the temptation of 

converting to Islam. This missionary optimism, however, turned out to be relatively 

short-lived in the face of failure to convert any significant number of Muslims. In 

addition, Latin Christendom would be put on the defensive with the rise of the 

Ottoman Empire at the end of the thirteenth century. In two tracts on the recovery of 

the lands lost to Muslims – the 1305 De fine 264 and De acquisitione Terrae Sanctae 

four years later 265 – Llull therefore, in stark contrast to Gentile, fervently advocated 

the appointment of a Christian “warrior-king” (recall Pseudo-Methodius’ “kyng … 

of Cristen men” seven centuries earlier!) who could embark on crusades against the 

Turkish threat and recover the Holy Land. What had begun admirably as a quest to 

initiate a rational conversation between Islam and Christianity floundered when the 

real ambition – not conversation but conversion – was frustrated, and Llull the 

missionary fell back into the traditional patterns of interfaith hostility. 

It is ultimately a matter of preference (and fortunately not one of great 

importance) whether we treat this image as merely a variation on the heretic role that 

264 Ramon Llull, "Excerpt from De Fine," in Documents on the Later Crusades, 1274-1580, ed. 

Norman Housley (NY: St. Martin's Press, 1305). 

265 Ramon Llull, "Excerpt from De acquisitione Terrae Sanctae," in Documents on the Later 

Crusades, 1274-1580, ed. Norman Housley (NY: St. Martin's Press, 1309).

goes further in its emphasis on potential similarities between Muslims and 

177 

Christians and in attributing rationality to both, or if we give it a unique label. 

Regardless of what we call it, however, many of its features are shared by the other 

images examined in this chapter, all of which helped constitute a relatively inclusive 

collective identity for Latin Christians during the High Middle Ages. 266 Llull’s 

generous but patronizing image of Muslims clearly fits with the Comic version of the 

Biblical historical meta-narrative, which in turn was consistent with the generally 

confident atmosphere in Spain during the later stages of the Reconquista. 

THE LUSTFUL MUSLIM 

According to one report of the famous 1095 sermon in Clermont, Pope Urban 

alleged that the Turks who now controlled Jerusalem, “circumcise Christians and 

smear the blood from the circumcision over the altars or throw it into the baptismal 

fonts”. 267 One centrally important medieval image of Saracens and of Mohammed in 

particular that we have not so far considered involves sexual slander. It was 

266 We have not identified any standardized scripts of rational interfaith discourse in Llull’s writings. 

Considering the known fact that standardized conversion scripts as “formulas of abjuration” 266 were 

common liturgical devices throughout the Middle Ages, we might expect to find similar instruments 

in Llull’s treaties on conversion. There are of course standard and formulaic elements in his writings, 

including parts of Gentile that repeat well-worn Christian polemic concerning the allegedly profane 

nature of the Muslim paradise (see below and in following chapters). Nevertheless, we did not find 

any major scripts associated with the image discussed in this section. It is of course possible that we 

simply did not look hard enough, but Llull’s prose and style were as original as his entire project and 

there were probably few standardized precedents of interfaith discourse upon which he could model 

the central parts. For an examination of parts of a 12 th -century Byzantine abjuration text – its apotaxis 

and its syntaxis, see Daniel J Sahas, ""Holosphyros"? A Byzantine Perception of "The God of 

Muhammad"," in Christian-Muslim Encounters, ed. Wadi Zaidan Haddad and Yvonne Yazbeck 

Haddad (Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, 1995). According to Sahas, the literal 

translation of apotaxis is “siding aside from” (viz. the statement or renunciation), while the translation 

of syntaxis is “siding with” (viz. the statement of affirmation of the new faith). 

267 Quoted in Brundage, A Documentary, p. 18.

extremely widespread during the entire period studied so far, from John of 

178 

Damascus to Ramon Llull. Mohammed’s polygamy and alleged sexual appetite were 

favorite targets, with Riccoldo da Montcroce “quoting” him as having claimed that 

“God commanded me to commit this adultery”, 268 the British philosopher and 

Franciscan friar Roger Bacon claiming that he “took every beautiful woman away 

from her men [sic] and raped her”, 269 and his marriage to Zaynab (the divorced wife 

of his adopted son) a frequent target of ridicule and distortion. Other common topoi 

were the Qur’n’s alleged approval of sex with beasts and sodomy. Given the 

Christian emphasis on chastity and sexual restraint, these allegations must have 

especially upset (or exited) contemporary readers. The number of Christian writers 

who perpetuated these stories is too great to list them here, 270 but the following two 

chapters will take up this image and its history in some detail. It seems that when it 

came to sex, the zealous authors of Christian anti-Islamic tracts projected that which 

they most disliked about their fellow Christians onto Muslims, who thereby became 

symbols of all that a pious Christian should not be. 271 



270 But see authors mentioned on the following pages in e.g. Daniel, Islam and the West, pp. 96-102, 

145, 236, 274, and 358. and Tolan, Saracens, pp. 54, 61-64, 122, 140, 146, 152, 156-158, 166, 202, 

211, 226, 228, 237-240, 243, and 266-267. 

271 Meredith Jones has made a similar observation with respect to the portrayals of Muslims in the 

Songs of the Geste as essentially the antithesis of good Christians Jones, "The Conventional Saracen 

of the Songs of Geste," pp. 213-214, 220, 225.

CONCLUSION 

179 

This chapter focused on a set of images that helped constitute a more 

inclusive collective Christian identity than those examined in the preceding chapter. 

While the exclusive self-images tended to be used defensively, this chapter showed 

the inclusive variant to be more closely associated with an aggressive and expansive 

posture toward the Other. This rather surprising correlation might be explained by 

the fact that images representing the Other as merely different from Self by degrees 

(and not in kind) expose the collective Self to the danger of having its distinct 

identity tainted or even wholly erased by a more powerful Other. For this reason, we 

would expect to find inclusive identities and images of Other as similar to Self in 

communities that are assertive and concerned with expansion more often than among 

groups occupied with defense and maintaining their distinct identity. This 

“prediction” generally does seem to hold but we saw a potentially significant 

exception in the Cordoban martyrs’ defensive use of the pagan image and 

hagiographic script. There, images normally associated with an inclusive Christian 

identity surfaced within a subjugated Christian dhimmi-community. 

This Cordoban case is interesting for a number of reasons. First or all, it 

presents a prima facie argument against our assertion of a frequent correlation 

between inclusive identities and aggression and between exclusive identities and a 

more defensive posture. This should remind us that we are not dealing with 

deterministic models of mechanistic or effective causation but structures of meaning 

that require interpretation, in which there is always room for actors to re-interpret

existing social constructs and to improvise when invoking them. However, the 

180 

pagan role for Muslims that was invoked by the Cordoban Martyrs is that contained 

in the Hagiographic Script and differs significantly from the role of the pagan in the 

Pagan Duel Script. The question is whether these two roles should be treated as two 

distinct roles or as two distinct variations of the same role, and the answer is easy 

once we remember that roles are relational as well as plot-related. The 

pagan/Christian martyr role-relationship is unquestionably different in kind from the 

pagan/Christian knight role-relationship, their contributions to the plot of the 

narrative are equally dissimilar, and they feature in two separate scripts. They should 

clearly be treated as two distinct roles, one of which finds a “natural” home in the 

Biblical meta-narrative as Divine Comedy; the other belonging to the Tragic metanarrative 

counterpart. This is not an attempt to “explain away” observations that 

contradict our argument since the alternative would require us to falsely present two 

entirely distinct roles (in all but name) as more or less the same. The Cordoban 

Martyrs attempted to foster a collective Christian self-image that was anything but 

inclusive. Their primary objective was to rebuild the weakened social walls between 

Christians and Muslims, not to continue a confident expansion of the Christian faith 

by means of force if needed. 

However, the Andalusian example still presents a fruitful challenge. Why did 

the Cordoban Martyrs fail to spur a wider movement or at least to reduce the steady 

flow of Christian apostasy, which continued over the next several centuries? The 

answer is probably related to the reason why the Martyrs felt compelled to act in the

first place. The Martyrs reacted to what they saw as the dangerous complacency 

181 

of the Christian community in Cordoba toward the “Arabization” of its members. 

This same level of relative satisfaction among the Mozarabes with their situation 

appears to have been the reason why the spectacular remedy failed. The relatively 

harmonious coexistence of Muslims and Christians in al Andalus and the partial 

breaking down of boundaries between the two communities demonstrate the 

artificiality of the construction of such boundaries. This simultaneously illustrates 

why there is a constant need to reconstruct and perpetuate the imagery that maintains 

them, revealing both the possibilities and dangers inherent in Self-Other 

interaction. 272 Hence, the broader Andalusian experience is helpful in that it “denaturalizes” 

the dichotomy that permeates nearly all of the discourses examined so 

far: the distinction between the Muslim Other and the Christian Self. 

Ninth-century Cordoban co-existence notwithstanding, a rich typology of 

images of Muslims with associated scripts had been developed by the late Middle 

Ages that was deeply embedded within a Christian historical meta-narrative, which 

in turn was so widely accepted that it formed part of the assumed “background 

competence” of any adult Christian. These standardized typifications of the Muslim 

Other were “immortalized” in a number of anti-Islamic medieval Christian tracts that 

came to form a kind of “canon” of stereotypical portrayals of Muslims available to 

272 The Muslim authorities did their part to prevent the complete dissolution of boundaries between 

the groups. This included attempts to regulate personal interaction (such as conservative interfaith 

marriage and residency laws) and to control the visible display of markers of belonging (such as rules 

establishing who could wear what type of clothing where). These prohibitions, too, were frequently 

violated. (I owe the last point to Prof. Timur Kuran.)

later generations. As such, “the Saracen” moved from the target domain to the 

182 

source domain, to use George Lakoff’s vocabulary of how metaphors generate 

meaning through the mapping of knowledge and expectations from a familiar to an 

unfamiliar domain. In other words, the images of “the Saracen” had become so 

entrenched and familiar to Christians that they could be invoked to make sense of 

unfamiliar, new Others. As we shall see in the next chapter, one such Other was the 

Ottoman Turk.

183 

CHAPTER 4. “EUROPE” AND “THE TURK”: THE 

RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION 

INTRODUCTION 

This chapter examines western Christian images of Muslims in the context of 

three broad changes that occurred in the cultural and societal orientation of 14 th to 

17 th -century Europe. It begins with a discussion of the impact of the gradual 

replacement of “Christendom” by “Europe” as the primary geopolitical and cultural 

organizing concept among its inhabitants, which brings in the dimension of physical 

space for the first time in our analysis. The rediscovery of the Classical heritage 

during the Renaissance as it relates to the European image of “the Turk” has been 

analyzed elegantly elsewhere and will therefore only be considered briefly here 

together with the elements of continuity between the medieval images of Muslims 

and 15 th -century images of Turks. The explosion of internal divisions within Latin 

Christendom known as the Protestant Reformation, on the other hand, poses 

particular challenges to the broader argument advanced in this thesis and will thus be 

addressed in a detailed study of Martin Luther’s writings on Islam and the Turks. 

Many brief overviews of European history understandably depict these 

developments as part of the broader secularization trend in European politics and 

society, a development initiated by Italian Renaissance humanists, further advanced 

by the Protestant Reformers’ attack on the medieval Catholic Church, and finally

consolidated by the philosophes of the Enlightenment. Undoubtedly, the 16 th - 

184 

century papacy had seen the extensive powers of its medieval predecessor reduced 

significantly by a number of important developments, including its long exile in 

Avignon (1305-1376), the competing papacies of the Great Schism (1378-1417), and 

the reluctant agreement at the Council of Constance (1415-17) by the new pope 

(chosen by the Council) to submit to conciliar control. Following the Reformation, 

the destruction and division brought on by the many religious wars between the years 

1562 and 1648 and the principles of sovereignty and non-interference enshrined in 

the treaties of Augsburg (1555) and Westphalia (1648) further skewed the balance of 

power between the Church and secular rulers in favor of the latter. Moreover, the 

scientific advancements of the time, the rediscovery of pre-Christian Greek 

philosophy, and the increased knowledge of the natural and human world gathered 

by European maritime explorers might also lead us to suspect that there occurred a 

corresponding weakening in the grip of the medieval Christian worldview on the 15 th 

and 16 th -century European imagination. If so, one would expect there to have 

occurred both a reduction in the importance of Islam as a defining other and a 

profound transformation of the meta-historical narrative with which Europeans 

interpreted Muslims. Islam – an equally universalistic and proselytizing monotheistic 

rival religion whose adherents lived in relative geographic proximity – was perhaps a 

natural contrast to Christianity, but it would be a less obvious choice as the defining 

other to a religiously divided Europe increasingly defined in secular and territorial 

terms. Similarly, the gradual triumph of a proto-modern secular European worldview

over the medieval Biblical historical narrative would appear to invalidate the 

185 

entire repertoire of images and scripts identified in the previous two chapters and 

open the way for radically new perspectives on Islam. 

Strangely, no such broad and drastic changes in the images of Muslims 

actually occurred: Islam occupied a central place in 14 th -16 th -century European 

discourse, where it continued to be framed predominantly in terms of the Biblical 

images elaborated during the Middle Ages. The current chapter addresses this puzzle 

by exploring continuities and changes in 14 th -16 th -century European portrayals of 

Muslims in the hope of demonstrating that it is actually less puzzling than these 

initial remarks have suggested. It is important to be clear on this point; while we will 

argue that the basic structure and content of earlier Christian representations of 

Muslims proved surprisingly resilient, they were far from immune to change. Some 

existing images were altered, more or less novel types emerged, and a new Muslim 

other became the target of intense stereo-typification. Nevertheless, these changes 

should be seen in the context of earlier depictions and are better described as 

continuing the processes by which preexisting meanings were used to make sense of 

new phenomena than as constituting a radical break with the past. 

Specifically, this chapter argues that the period saw four major transfers of 

meaning with respect to the images of Muslims previously identified. First, Ottoman 

Turks gradually took over the role as Europe’s and Christendom’s primary Muslim 

“Other”, inheriting the roles discussed above that formerly were used to depict 

Saracens, Agarenes, and Ishmaelites. Second, the growing European interest in the

Classical heritage introduced ancient Greek frames of references with which the 

186 

Christian meta-narrative could be reinterpreted and elaborated by including new 

roles like that of the barbarian. However, this development did not constitute an 

eclipse of the Christian worldview by a radically different secular humanism, and the 

mostly Christian humanists retained the basic elements of medieval Christian images 

of the Saracen even as they rearticulated them in classical terms and applied them to 

the Ottoman Turks. Third, the Classical revival in Renaissance Europe involved the 

transfer of ancient Greek frames but also more recent – and very hostile – Greek 

Orthodox representations of the Turks who conquered Constantinople in 1453 and 

vanquished the Easter Roman Empire. Finally, beginning in the 15 th century many 

European representations of Turks were shaped as much by the proximity of the 

Ottoman military threat as by the European context of growing theological divisions 

between Catholics and Protestants. In many ways, this paralleled the manner in 

which rival eastern Christian sects had viewed the Arab invasions of the 7 th and 8 th 

centuries as divine comments on, or results of, their doctrinal disagreements. It also 

suggests that the image of “theTurk” had become so entrenched by the early half of 

the 16 th century that it could function as a model in its own right, which could be 

used for more or less benign purposes of interpreting other actors. 

FROM CHRISTIANITAS TO EUROPE – GEOPOLITICAL CONTEXT AND IDENTIFICATION 

The previous two chapters identified a trend according to which the initial 

interpretations of Islam elaborated by Christians in the Eastern Roman Empire and

Muslim Spain subsequently provided Latin Christian observers in the West with 

187 

a number of basic models for how to understand what they saw as a strange religion 

and its adherents. Later in this chapter, we will analyze the last phase of this east-towest/south-to-north 

trend, which occurred when Greek refuges fleeing the collapsing 

Byzantine Empire and the advancing Ottoman armies brought with them to Europe 

both classical learning and vivid anti-Turkish imagery. First, however, we should 

explore the broader significance of the shift in the center of gravity within Christian 

lands from East to West and the new geopolitical context signaled by the Ottoman 

sack of Constantinople in 1453. The sack itself was extremely important in ways we 

will discuss below, but it also constituted merely one element of a wider 

transformation whereby “Europe” eclipsed “Christendom” as a source of 

identification for Latin Christians, which Denys Hay has depicted in his classic 

Europe: The Emergence of an Idea. 273 The following discussion relies heavily on 

Hay’s work. 

The Universalistic Orientation of the Medieval Latin Church 

A central tenet of the medieval Church was the notion of Christianity’s 

universal mission. 274 In the words of William Chester Jordan, universalism – the 

“incorporation of all people through baptism in the Christian community, 

irrespective of color, ethnic origin, place of settlement, or previous beliefs – was a 

273 Hay, Europe: The Emergence. 

274 Hay, Europe: The Emergence, p. 27.

central element of the ideology and objectives of the Catholic church.” 275 There 

188 

were certainly parochial or particularistic elements of the faith and the spatial 

dimension was not entirely absent. However, the spatial components of the collective 

Christian identity were primarily what Chapter 1 described as topophilic 

identifications with important places mentioned in the Bible, not the territorial 

identification of a community with a continuous and exclusive area it supposedly 

occupies that we find in modern nationalisms. The partial identification of 

Christianity (or Christendom) with the territories occupied by Christians emerged 

slowly, beginning in the early Middle Ages in the context of Muslim expansion. 

According to Dominique Iogna-Prat, “le terme ‘Chrétienté’ au sens géographique 

(avec un majuscule) est une creation lexicale, fruit de la confrontation du 

christianisme latin avec l’Islam”. 276 One man who did much to establish this usage 

early on was Pope John VIII (872-882), who, like many of his predecessors, faced 

the task of ensuring the defense of the Christian realm against Muslim pirates. 

Christian territories in Europe were particularly vulnerable as the Carolingian 

Empire was in the process of disintegrating, but it is clear from Jean VIII’s writings 

275 William Chester Jordan, ""Europe" in the Middle Ages," in The Idea of Europe: From Antiquity to 

the European Union, ed. Anthony Pagden (NY: Cambridge University Press, 2002), p. 81. 

276 “[T]he term ‘Christianity’ (capital ‘C’) in its geographic sense is a linguistic creation and the fruit 

of Latin Christendom’s confrontation with Islam” Dominique Iogna-Prat, "L'Islam et la Naissance de 

la "Chrétienté" à la Fin du IXe Siècle," in Histoire de l'Islam et des Musulmans en France du Moyen 

Âge à nos Jours, ed. Mohammed Arkoun and Jacques le Goff (Paris: Éditions Albin Michel, 2006), p. 

74. Denys Hay makes the same argument in Hay, Europe: The Emergence, p. 24.

that he viewed Rome as responsible for defending all of Christianity (“defensio 

189 

totius christianitatis”), not just European Christendom. 277 

The mutual excommunication of pope and patriarch in 1054 caused a lasting 

Schism between the Greek and Latin churches and strained relations between the 

eastern and western halves of the former Holy Roman Empire. By the turn of the 11 th 

century, the spiritual authority of Rome was essentially limited to parts of the area 

today known as Europe and successful missionary activity essentially occurred only 

in the north-east and north-west. The First Crusade (1095) was thus a “European” 

undertaking in the limited sense that a Roman pope announced it in a French town, 

and that both monarchs and the armies they led came from present-day Europe. 

However, it is crucial to note that Latin Christians before the late Middle Ages did 

not equate Christendom with Europe, partly because not all of Europe was yet 

Christian and partly because the Latin church still emphasized its universal mission. 

The Schism had not yet severed the spiritual and psychological ties between eastern 

and western Christendom and, as Nancy Bisaha argues, the Crusades were partly 

intended to bridge the gap. 278 Indeed, the phenomenon of the Crusades illustrates 

both the emergent territorial considerations and the continued emphasis on the 

Church’s universal mission. 

A prerequisite for the Crusades was the ability of late 11 th to 13 th -century 

Popes to motivate large numbers of Latin Christians to accept the heavy financial 

277 Iogna-Prat, "Naissance," p. 75. 

278 Bisaha, Creating, p. 96.

urden of Crusading, not to mention the many ardors of the journey to the 

190 

Middle East and the great risk to life and limb. Their success in generating the 

necessary popular support is evident in the succession of armies that marched south 

and east under the leadership of European monarchs to ensure the liberation of 

Christians in the Holy Land and oust the Turks from formerly Christian lands. It is 

even more clearly demonstrated by the phenomenon of spontaneous popular 

crusades such as the Children’s Crusade or the Peasants’ Crusade. Several such 

“crusades” materialized in the climate of religious mass hysteria that often followed 

papal addresses like the speech by Pope Urban II at Clermont in 1095, which 

contained the first call for Latin Christians to take up the cross against the Selcuk 

Turks. 279 It is worth pausing to consider the rhetoric used by Urban II and his 

successors, given its obvious popular appeal and power to rouse the passions of the 

audience. Denys Hay identifies a few central themes that recur in all reports of 

Urban’s speech: 280 

There is first of all a unanimous acceptance of the global mission of 

Christianity and an acceptance of the Greek Church as part of the 

community of Christians. There is also an assumption of the territorial 

nature of the church viewed in this social way and a conviction that 

279 As James A. Brundage writes: 

The movement which Urban began at Clermont quickly grew far beyond the Pope’s 

wishes and expectations, … [and] was taken up and preached to the Western world 

at large, not only by the official hierarchy, but also by a number of popular 

preachers and demagogues. The expedition of Western knights and noblemen which 

Urban had planned and inspired quickly spawned a heterogeneous progeny of 

popular expeditions, whose participants were drawn in the main from the lower 

classes of Western society. Brundage, A Documentary, p. 24. 

280 We only know what Urban II said thanks to the existence of several second-hand accounts, all of 

which are discussed in Dana C. Munro, "The Speech of Pope Urban II at Clermont, 1095," American 

Historical Review XI (1906).

the brotherhood of all Christians has a political aspect no less than a 

sacramental. The Turkish threat had forced awareness [in] … 

Christendom of the common elements in its various component 

parts. 281 

191 

A key point to emphasize here is that the Turks in these portrayals occupied 

or threatened lands outside of Europe and Latin Christendom that Urban II 

nevertheless argued were or ought to be integral parts of Christendom. Because 

Christendom as Urban II conceived it was greater than Europe, he and other Crusade 

propagandists could play on both the territorial and the universal strain prevalent in 

the medieval Church to garner popular support for their cause in Europe. Hay quotes 

the English chronicler William of Malmesbury’s version of Urban’s speech at some 

length, and it serves our purposes to look closer at the same document as well. For 

example, we see the territorial dimension when, according to Malmesbury, the Pope 

shamed his audience with a lengthy list of the many lands occupied by Muslims: Can 

“anyone who cares for the glory of Christ, tolerate that we do not even share equally 

with them the inhabited earth?” 282 They first subdued Asia (“an area justly reckoned 

by our fathers as equal to the two other parts both for size and importance”) then 

Africa (“and I call this the ruin of Christian honour for this continent formerly 

nourished men of the greatest genius”). Urban continues (in Malmesbury’s words): 

There remains Europe, the third continent. How small is the part of it 

inhabited by us Christians! for none would term Christian those 

barbarous people who live in distant islands on the frozen ocean, for 

they live in the manner of brutes. 283 

281 Hay, Europe: The Emergence, pp. 30-31. 

282 Quoted in Hay, Europe: The Emergence, p. 32. 


Christendom has been diminished by the tragic losses of vast and 

192 

important territories and Christians have been relegated to a continent inhabited by 

barbarians – on the one hand, this lament thus betrays the identification of the faith 

with certain territories. The only proper response for a true Christian is to retake the 

lost territories of Christendom. On the other hand, when urging his audience to 

embark on this war to conquer territory Malmesbury’s Urban simultaneously 

reiterates the universal dimension of the faith, reminding them of the ultimate 

insignificance of earthly territories: 

Rid the sanctuary of God of the unbelievers, expel the thieves and 

lead back the faithful. Let no loyalty to kinfolk hold you back; man’s 

loyalty lies in the first place to God. No love of native heath should 

delay you, for in one sense the whole world is exile for a Christian, 

and in another the whole world is his country: so exile is your 

fatherland, our fatherland exile. 284 

He also relies on the universalistic orientation his audience of Latin 

Christians when playing on their sympathies for their “brothers” in the East. “For the 

Christians there – if any survive – eke out a miserable living, pay taxes to their 

wicked masters and silently long to partake of liberty having lost their own.” 285 

Urban does not mention the fact that most of them belonged to denominations – 

Melkite, Maronite, Nestorian, Coptic etc. – considered heretical by his own 

institution, describing them instead as Christians in need: “Wherefore rather, my 

dearest brothers, if it is necessary lay down your lives for your brothers.” 286 The use 

of the sibling metaphor (“brothers”) is what Ruth Wodak calls a nomination strategy 

284 Hay, Europe: The Emergence, p. 33. 

285 Hay, Europe: The Emergence, p. 32. 


that frames the relationship between the different sects in terms of a broader 

193 

Christian family that bridges the east-west divide. For centuries to follow, large 

numbers of Latin Christians heeded the admonitions of Urban and his successors, 

willingly risking their lives to try to bring Christian brothers and territories in the 

east back into this universal Christian family. 

We can thus piece together a more coherent account of some important 

conditions that framed, enabled, and contributed to the emergence and perseverance 

of the Crusading phenomenon. Church reforms that began in the mid-11 th century 

and continued throughout the 13 th – such as the reforms enacted by Pope Gregory 

VII (1073-1085) or the monastic reforms pursued by the Cluniac order and later by 

Dominicans and Franciscans – had addressed many of the internal challenges facing 

the Church and progressively strengthened the institution of the papacy. 

Consequently, the Roman Church and Papacy at the turn of the 11 th century was a 

emerging as a formidable institution in possession of tremendous financial resources, 

the power to legitimize or de-legitimize secular rulers (through excommunication), 

and claiming the power to confer the staff and ring on newly elected bishops across 

Latin Christendom. 287 The Church controlled an unmatched network capable of 

gathering and disseminating information and enjoyed substantial powers to influence 

the beliefs and thoughts of all Roman Catholics; preaching, in one historian’s words 

287 In 1077, Pope Gregory VII famously forced Holy Roman Emperor Henry IV to humiliate himself 

by begging on his knees outside the papal castle retreat at Canossa. Only after three days did the pope 

allow the excommunicated Emperor to receive absolution Steven Ozment, The Age of Reform 1250- 

1550: An Intellectual and Religious History of Late Medieval and Reformation Europe (New Haven: 

Yale University Press, 1980), p. 142.

“came to be the nearest that the middle ages had to a mass medium”. 288 The 

194 

Church ran the only existing higher educational institutions and could supply 

educated and literate bureaucrats to secular monarchs across Europe, powers 

enhanced by the status of Latin – the official language of the Church – as the 

language of higher education and administration throughout Latin Christendom. 289 

Nevertheless, the Church had achieved this position only through fierce 

theological and political power struggles within European Christendom. It continued 

to face challenges from secular powers over its right to appoint bishops, accusations 

concerning the unseemly lifestyle of the rural secular clergy, and divisive warfare 

between Christian princes. Moreover, one of the goals of the reforms that so 

invigorated the 12 th -century Church in the first place had been to control the 

widespread popular religious fervor in European Christendom mentioned in the 

previous chapter. But the reforms ultimately failed to stop the proliferation of 

heresies and by strengthening the role of the Church in the daily lives of its subjects 

it arguably stimulated the growth of an often unmanageable popular spirituality. In 

the context of these diverse challenges, the reports of pilgrims bound for Jerusalem 

being mistreated by the Selcuk Turks who now controlled the area must have 

provided a convenient focal point for Urban II. An external foe – enemy of all 


289 The cosmopolitan character and reach of the Latin Church in the High Middle Ages is illustrated 

by the career of papal legates like Giles of Verracclo. He was born in Monte Cassino in Italy, was 

appointed archdeacon of Thessalonika in Greece in 1218 and of Ely in the Fenland of East Anglia in 

England the next year. “Through the early 1220s he was a presence at the papal curia in Rome and 

served successively as papal legate to Croatia (1229), nuncio to Hungary (1230), and nuncio to Apulia 

in southern Italy thereafter.” Jordan, ""Europe" in," p. 86.

Christians – had the potential of uniting warring Christian princes under a 

195 

Christian peace and further solidifying the position of the Pope as the spiritual head 

of Christendom. The strong universalistic tendencies and topophilic identification 

with the Holy Land typical of the medieval Church combined with the widespread 

religiosity prevailing at the “grass-roots” level to produce a metaphorical gunpowder 

keg of empathy and zealotry ready to be ignited by a fiery sermon like the one Pope 

Urban II delivered in Clermont 1095. The institutional capabilities of the high 

medieval Church ensured that the message was heard throughout Latin Christendom, 

and the ideological authority of the pope – Christ’s vicar on earth – enhanced its 

rhetorical impact. 

The End of the Middle Ages: “Europe Now Alone is Christian.” 

However, things began to change toward the end of the Middle Ages. As Hay 

points out, the increasingly uneasy combination of territorial/parochial and 

spiritual/universal elements in the late medieval conception of Christianity is evident 

in the terminological confusion that accompanied the translation of the Latin terms 

christianitas (the faithful) and christianismus (the faith) into vernaculars. In Middle 

English, Christentie could first be used in either sense, and while the Italian, French, 

and Spanish derivations of christianitas (the faithful) – cristianità, chrétienté, and 

cristianidad – referred to the faithful and their lands, later English usage eventually 

settled on the English etymological equivalent, Christianity, as referring instead to 

the faith (christianismus) and Christendom to the areas inhabited by the faithful. 

Adding to the confusion, the German das Christentum, in contrast to its equivalent in

196 

English, signified the faith, not the lands or its people. 290 The many different, and 

sometimes contradictory, translations reflect the uncertainties associated with the 

interpretation of the two terms and, more importantly, reveals the tension which 

existed in late medieval Latin Christendom between the conception on one hand of 

Christendom as the areas inhabited by Christians and threatened by pagans, and on 

the other of Christianity as a faith that aims for the salvation of all mankind. 

By the 14 th century, three major developments had contributed to an 

increasingly parochial and territorially delimited notion of Christendom. First, the 

pagan countries in northern Europe (whom Urban had earlier referred to as the 

“barbarous people who live in distant islands on the frozen ocean”) and those in the 

far western and eastern corners of the continent had converted to Christianity one 

after another. Consequently, most of the area that corresponds to today’s Europe 

(excluding Turkey) had become Christian by the 14th century, with Lithuania-Poland 

being the latecomer in 1387 and the last Moors only being pushed out of Granada in 

1492. Second, even greater areas of eastern Christendom than those that had been 

listed by Malmesbury’s Urban were being lost to the Muslim foe, and the failures of 

successive crusading armies to add to or even keep the Levantine lands captured by 

their precursors fueled skepticism of the prospects of actually expelling the Muslims 

from the Holy Land. Empathy and identification with eastern Christians were thus 

tempered by the pragmatic realization that European armies appeared unable to 

achieve their eventual “liberation”, and were further diminished by the spiritual 


“gulf” that by now separated the two parts of the former Roman Empire. The 

197 

Crusades had increased the opportunities for interaction between Latin and Orthodox 

Christians, which in turn both enabled a growing awareness of the width and depth 

of this gulf and itself caused it to widen further. 291 It suffices perhaps to mention the 

debacle of the Fourth Crusade of 1204, in which Latin crusaders diverted from their 

intended target – Jerusalem – and instead attacked Constantinople, the center of 

Byzantine Christendom. Latin rulers and Roman Catholic bishops would rule the city 

for a half-century. We can summarize the state of affairs produced by these two 

broad developments as follows: From the point of view of late 14 th -century Latin 

Christians, (almost) all Europeans were Christian and all (real) Christians were 

European, or in the words of one of the delegates at the Council of Constance (1414- 

1417): “Europe alone is now Christian!” 292 Consequently, by the end of the Middle 

Ages Europeans increasingly identified Christendom with Europe and the two terms 

were often used interchangeably in 14 th and 15 th -century European writings. 293 

These two developments made it difficult for late Medieval and Renaissance 

popes to initiate new Crusades by playing on sympathies toward the plight of Eastern 

Christians. Moreover, a third development introduced a matter of more immediate 

concern to European rulers: the rising military might of the Ottoman Empire. This 

new threat became apparent with the Ottoman advances that began during the reign 

291 Bisaha, Creating, p. 96. 

292 Gilles Veinstein, "Une Nouvelle Toile de Fond: L'Avancée Ottomane en Europe," in Histoire de 

l'Islam et des Musulmans en France du Moyen Âge à nos Jours, ed. Mohammed Arkoun and Jacques 

le Goff (Paris: Éditions Albin Michel, 2006), p. 311. 

293 Hay, Europe: The Emergence.

of Sultan Murat II (1421-1451) and accelerated with his successor Mehmet II 

198 

“the Conqueror” (1451-1481). The fall of Constantinople in 1453 and the 

disintegration of the Byzantine Empire of which it was the center underlined what 

was increasingly clear to many clear-eyed Latin Christians: The eastern half of the 

former Roman Empire was a lost cause. As Norman Housley points out, “from this 

point onwards the organization of an adequate response to the Turks dominated the 

crusading movement” 294 (and we shall see below some examples of this from 

Housley’s collection of documents of the later crusades). Like their “brothers” in the 

east before them, now Latin Christians in Europe were put on the defensive by 

advancing Muslim armies, and in their eyes, the defense of Christendom became 

synonymous with the defense of Europe. Like his 9 th -century predecessor Pope John 

VIII, Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini, the skilled writer, diplomat, and bishop of Trieste 

who became Pope Pius II in 1458, agitated vigorously against the Islamic threat, now 

in the form of the Ottoman Turk. Unlike his predecessor, however, Piccolomini 

clearly saw this threat to the survival of the faith as one directed against Europe, 

geographically speaking. He cared primarily about what happened to “Europeans,” 

as he put it, “or those who are called Christians.” 295 

REPRINTING THE STEREOTYPES 

The word “stereotype” originally referred to the product of a printing 

technique by means of a solid plate (from the Greek stereos meaning “solid”) of type 

294 Housley, Documents, p. 134. 

295 Hay, Europe: The Emergence, p. 87., see also Veinstein, "Une Nouvelle," p. 311. and Bisaha, 

Creating.

(as in the metal forms for the letters used in typesetting). A stereotype generated 

199 

an impression or image that could be recreated repeatedly without change. 

Eventually, this came to be a metaphor for the process we now think of as 

stereotyping. But it is helpful to remember the etymology, for just as a solid plate of 

type once designed can be used almost endlessly to perpetuate a text or image in any 

number of different settings, so we have seen roles (populating scripts and 

narratives) representing the Other used in much the same way. They were initially 

elaborated by writers such as Isidore of Seville, many of whom had never heard of 

Islam or Muslims, then reinterpreted by Christians in the east to make sense of their 

new Muslim masters, and finally reused in Europe over many centuries to generate 

and maintain stereotypical images of the Saracen Other despite contexts quite 

different from those the writers such as Isidore originally could have had in mind. 

The investigation in the previous chapter ended at a point when the metaphorical 

letters in the initial typesetting had been sufficiently arranged and elaborated. 

However, it is one of the features of such printing techniques that once the mold has 

been created it is easy to put it to use again, and the image of the Saracen would 

indeed continue to function as a mold or model for Christendom’s new Muslim 

Other: “the Turk”. 

The Later Crusades: From “Saracen” to “Turk” 

The crusaders had been fighting Turks since the First Crusade and had not 

always distinguished them clearly from “Saracens” or other Muslim peoples, but 

“the Turk” would soon take center-stage as the dominant Other. If the Arabs had

twice laid siege to Constantinople the Turks eventually did the same to Vienna, 

200 

and with some modifications, the images of the Saracen became models for 

representations of the Turk. 296 According to Kenneth M. Setton, from “the later 

fourteenth century to the beginning of the twentieth, Europeans tended to identify 

Islam with the Ottoman empire.” In response to the Turkish threat, he continues, 

“biblical texts were recast into anti-Turkish prognostications” 297 , while histories of 

the Turks, like that of Michel Baudier (1625), were written “on the anti-Islamic bias 

of the monkish literature of the middle-ages”. 298 

John Tolan adds to the chorus in 

support of these claims: 

The following centuries showed little innovation in approaches to 

what was considered the “problem” of Islam. The solutions of the 

thirteenth century were recycled: Popes and publicists urged princes 

to crusade against the “Turk” in much the same language as their 

thirteenth-century counterparts (albeit at times in humanistic Latin 

style)… 299 

All of the images described in previous chapters – the Muslim Other as God’s 

Scourge, Antichrist, Pagan, Heretic, Chivalrous, and/or Lustful – were extended to 

the new foe, some more frequently than others. One collection of documents on the 

later crusades provides several illustrations of the reapplication of these preexisting 

types, such as the portrayal of Turks as pagans. In his first year as pope, Clement VI 

decreed crusade measures in 1342 against “those unbelieving pagans, called in the 

296 See e.g. Blanks’ introduction in David R. Blanks and Michael Frassetto, eds., Western Views of 

Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: Perception of Other (NY: St. Martin's Press, 1999). Or 

see Norman Daniel, Heroes and Saracens. An Interpretation of the Chansons de Gestes (Edinburgh: 

The University Press, 1984). 

297 Setton, Western Hostility, p. 17. 

298 Setton, Western Hostility, p. 52. 

299 Tolan, Saracens, pp. xvii-xix.

vernacular the Turks, who thirst for the blood of Christian people and seek the 

201 

destruction of the Catholic faith.” 300 A flattering biography from the same period 

describes how a young earl of Derby and duke of Lancaster by the name Henry 

Grosmont, God-fearing and never afraid of hard work “eagerly sought out all the 

front-lines of wars against pagans, Turks or Saracens.” 301 However, given that 14 th 

and 15 th -century Latin Christians were no longer in a position of relative strength 

compared to the Islamic world now represented most vigorously by an increasingly 

confident and expanding Ottoman Empire, the images associated with a more 

inclusive and assertive Christian identity were employed less often than the more 

defensive images: The Muslim Other as the Antichrist or as God’s Scourge. 

Some 50 years after Clement VI’s decree, his namesake Pope Clement VII 

chose instead the image of God’s Scourge to describe the Ottomans when 

announcing that he would grant financial assistance to the Hospitaller crusading 

order. His stated intention was to enable the Hospitallers to hold Smyrna, which 

“lacks soldiers to such an extent that unless reinforcements arrive quickly, it [will 

fall] to the strength and fury of the Turks. In recent days, alas, we have seen these 

increasing against the Christians, the Lord permitting it on account of [our] sins.” 302 

we have already mentioned that Cardinal Bessarion of Trebizond, titular patriarch of 

300 Clement VI, "Pope Clement VI decrees crusade measures in support of his naval league against the 

Turks, 30 September 1343," in Documents on the Later Crusades, 1274-1580, ed. Norman Housley 

(NY: St. Martin's Press, 1996), p. 78. 

301 John Capgrave, "John Capgrave describes the youthful exploits of Henry Grosmont, earl of Derby 

and duke of Lancaster (c. 1300-61)," in Documents on the Later Crusades, 1274-1580, ed. Norman 

Housley (NY: St. Martin's Press, 1996), p. 82. 

302 Clement VII, "Pope Clement VII grants the Hospitallers the proceeds from a plenary indulgence to 

help bear the costs of defending Smyrna, 19 April 1390," in Documents on the Later Crusades, 1274- 

1580, ed. Norman Housley (NY: St. Martin's Press, 1996), p. 102.

202 

Constantinople, similarly invoked the image of God’s Scourge a decade after the 

1453 sack of the imperial center, and this became a frequent ingredient in western 

accounts of the sack. 303 Poggio Bracciolini, a Florentine humanist historian, blamed 

the Greeks for the Turkish advances in a satirical work entitled De miseria 

conditionis humanae and chastised his fellow Italians for their similar vices. 

Similarly, the Brescian humanist Ubertino Puscolo’s first hand account of the 

Turkish victory was a scathing indictment of the 15 th -century Byzantine Empire, 

which he accused of having abandoned both humanistic values and Christian 

virtues. 304 The Scourge of God Script still gave comfort as well. In his preface to the 

English translation of an account of the siege of Rhodes (authored by a Guillaume 

Caoursin), John Kay commented on the let-up of the Turkish threat after the death of 

Mehmed II. “Jhesu cryste our redemptour wold not his crysten people to be put into 

lenger peyne, or to more trybulacion: he hath retayte & withdrawen hys rodde: as a 

kind father to his dere children contente with grete menasses & lytil punycyon”. 305 

This methaphorical portrayal is almost an exact parallel of the use of this image in 

the 12/13 th -century Chronicle of the Third Crusade discussed in Chapter 2. 306 

303 See e.g. Schwoebel, Shadow of the Crescent. 

304 Schwoebel, Shadow of the Crescent, p. 17. 

305 From the preface to Guillaume Caoursin’s The Siege of Rhodes, tr. John Kay (London, 1483), 

quoted in Schwoebel, Shadow of the Crescent, p. 171. A rough translation would be: “Jesus Christ our 

redeemer would not keep his Christian people in pain any longer or subject them to further 

tribulations: he has withdrawn his rod: as a kind father to his dear children, content with great menace 

and little punishment.” 

306 See Chronicle of the Third Crusade, pp. 46-47.

Renaissance Europe and the Sack of Constantinople: Barbarian Conquests 

As both Robert Schwoebel and Nancy Bisaha have shown, 15 th -century 

203 

humanists in Italy and elsewhere relied not only on Biblical models for their 

understanding of Turks, but also on ancient classical models. 307 Their most 

significant contribution was the image of Turks as the new barbarians, which was 

greatly boosted by reports circulating in Europe of how the conquering Turkish army 

had burned invaluable copies of ancient Greek books held in the libraries of 

Constantinople and of killings of civilians following the sack. A more or less 

formulaic Exhortatio ad bellum contra barbaros – an oration on war against the 

barbarian Turk – became a standard component at “diplomatic congresses, the 

reception of ambassadors, the elevation of a pope, the marriage of a prince, or almost 

any public occasion”. 308 According to Bisaha, the association between “Turks” and 

“barbarians” had become so strong by the second half of the 15 th century that one 

often finds simple mentions of “barbarians” in state records, denoting Turks but 

without clarification of this fact. “Apparently the audience knew well enough what 

this signifier had come to mean. … The Turks had become Europe’s new 

barbarians…” 309 

While this image was present in Europe before 1453, the sack of 

Constantinople that year made a profound impression on Latin Christians and 

accounts of this loss did much to influence European perceptions of Turks in the 15 th 

307 Bisaha, Creating; Schwoebel, Shadow of the Crescent. 

308 Schwoebel, Shadow of the Crescent, pp. 149-150. 

309 Bisaha, Creating, p. 72.

and 16 th centuries. This was perhaps particularly true among classically trained 

204 

humanists, many of whom functioned as translators and conduits of reports of the 

sack in Greek to a Latin-speaking European audience. One such account by a 

humanist scholar can be found in the then popular and widely distributed letters 310 of 

the humanist Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini (later Pope Pius II), who heard of the sack 

while serving as secretary of the chancery to Emperor Frederick III in Germany. 

Nancy Bisaha quotes from one of Aeneas’ letters: 

What utter slaughter in the imperial city would I relate, virgins having 

been prostituted, boys made to submit as women, nuns raped, and all 

sort of monks and women treated wickedly? … Those who were 

present say that the foul leader of the Turks, or to speak more aptly, 

that most repulsive beast, raped on the high altar of Hagia Sophia, 

before everyone’s eyes, the most noble, royal maided, and her young 

brother, and then ordered them killed. 311 

Bisaha points out the formulaic qualities of this narration, with its 

resemblances to the rape of King Priam’s daughter in tales of the fall of Troy and 

similar classical scripts. The fall of Rome in 410 to Germanic barbarians became one 

common model for accounts of the fall of Constantinople. We might add that 

Aeneas’ account is also reminiscent of another medieval script, which we saw in 

Pope Urban II’s colorful description in 1095 of atrocities against Christians in 

Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulcher (see Chapter 3). To mention but one other 

example of many, John V. Tolan describes a poem from the turn of the millennium 

that glorifies one of the Cordovan Martyrs: a boy named Pelagius. In this German 

poem, “the Saracen pagan king, inspired by the demons whose idols he worship, 

310 According to Bisaha, they were printed at least 10 different times before 1500. 

311 Quoted in Bisaha, Creating, p. 63.

lusts after pure Christian boys and decapitates them when they do not surrender 

205 

their bodies to him.” 312 Typical elements of this script are depictions of a military 

conquest, disproportionate violence and cruelty on the part of the conquerors, sexual 

violence against particularly vulnerable victims like nuns or youngsters, often 

sodomy and often committed by the “barbarian leader” himself, and sacrilegious 

treatment of symbolic/holy places (including defacement, turning churches into 

mosques, or by making them the setting of the sexual violence depicted). We might 

name this the Script of (military and sexual) Conquest. This script and the general 

practice of associating the Muslim Other with sex and violence had been a staple of 

medieval anti-Islamic polemics, but it would occupy a comparable and perhaps even 

more important position in the European Renaissance image of the Barbarian Turk. 

As Bisaha shows, Greek refugees from the Ottoman conquests of the 15 th 

century brought not only knowledge of the classics – including their favorite images 

and scripts – from Ancient Greece to Italy and the rest of Europe, but also the 

extensive contemporary Greek repertoire of anti-Turkish images and moving 

accounts of Turkish cruelty, typically framed in classical term. 313 Perhaps the most 

influential of these Byzantine humanists in Italy was Cardinal Bessarion, who 

campaigned throughout his life in favor a unified (Latin and Greek) Christian front in 

the war against the Turks and sheltered many Byzantine refugees newly arrived in 

Italy. Upon hearing of the sack of Constantinople, he made an impassioned appeal to 

312 Tolan, Saracens, p. 107. The poem in question is “Pelagius” by Hrotsvitha, a nun at the abbey of 

Gandersheim. 

313 Bisaha, Creating.

the doge of Venice to recapture the city that is somewhat reminiscent of Aeneas 

206 

Piccolomini’s lament over the same event. With the fall of Constantinople, 

the refuge of all good things has been captured, despoiled, ravaged, 

and completely sacked by the most inhuman barbarians and the most 

savage enemies of the Christian faith, by the fiercest of wild beasts. 

… Men have been butchered like cattle, women abducted, virgins 

ravished, and children snatched from the arms of their parents. If any 

survived so great a slaughter, they have been enslaved in chains so 

that they might be ransomed or a price, or subjected to every kind of 

torture, or reduced to the most humiliating servitude. 314 

We have here the elements of cruel brutality and sexual violence that were 

important components of the image of the “inhuman barbarians” and the Script of 

Conquest, but we also see the religious dimension in the description of the Turks as 

“enemies of the Christian faith”. The classical image typically coexisted with the 

standard religious images, it did not replace them. Their classical roots did not enable 

15 th -century humanists to fully escape the Biblical historical meta-narrative and its 

templates. It would be instructive to quote Schwoebel at some length on this point. 

As he observes, 

it is not easy to explain the fact that so many humanists were or 

appeared to be committed to the crusade and the medieval conception 

of the Moslems. Advocates of a cultural and educational program 

based essentially on the moral precepts and teachings of the ancients, 

the humanists were the authors of the new morality for their time. But 

… they were, with few exceptions, unconcerned to breech the barriers 

of orthodoxy in reorienting the attitudes of contemporaries toward 

non-Christians. It was precisely at this point that their favorite antique 

models failed them; for few among the ancient Greek or Roman 

314 Quoted in Bisaha, Creating, pp. 2, 110.

historians had been able to view objectively the so-called barbarians of 

their day. 315 

207 

The image of the new barbarian was a mélange of classical and Christian 

influences that presented “the Turk as the bloodthirsty foe of Christ and Plato”, as 

Schwoebel puts it. 316 In terms of its content, it is in fact often difficult to distinguish 

this image from the Protestant Reformers’ later portrayals of Turks as cruel and 

lustful, which we shall examine as part of the analysis of Martin Luther’s writing on 

the Ottoman Turks and Islam. 

FROM MONTECROCE TO LUTHER – INTERNAL DIVISIONS AND A COMMON ENEMY 

“The Turk” in the Divided Europe of the Reformation 

The Protestant Reformation in Europe presents a prima facie “tough case” for 

a narrative according to which Islam and “the Turk” served as the external enemy or 

Other that unified Christian Europe. Instead of unity, the Reformation created a 

permanent division within Latin Christendom and occasioned the loss of the Catholic 

Church’s ideological near-hegemony in Europe. The Reformation is often credited 

with having initiated or accelerated the secularization – both institutional and 

intellectual – of European society. Some historians of the Reformation use the term 

“secularization” rather narrowly to denote the transfer of church property into the 

hands of secular governments in areas that embraced the new creed. But many also 

emphasize the wider intellectual ripple effects of the ideas espoused by Luther and 

his contemporaries, as in one 19 th -century study of Luther and Erasmus: “The 

315 Schwoebel, Shadow of the Crescent, pp. 147-148. 

316 Schwoebel, Shadow of the Crescent, p. 166.

208 

Reformation broke the theological shackles in which men’s minds were fettered. 

It set them thinking, and so gave birth to science.” 317 The German historian Wilhelm 

Dilthey embraced Hegel’s “glowing praise of Luther’s theology as a major step in 

mankind’s progression to full self-consciousness” and saw in Luther’s notion of 

justification (salvation) by faith an “anticipation of the modern concept of individual 

freedom,” as Steven Ozment puts it. 318 That Max Weber saw the “protestant ethic” as 

an important contributing factor behind the “spirit of capitalism” is of course well 

known. Thus, in the writings of Hegel, Dilthey, and Weber, the Reformation became 

a precursor of the Enlightenment or Modernity. While it does not go as far, even the 

more circumscribed notion of institutional secularization depicts a process whereby 

the medieval Church saw its significant (ideational or institutional) powers 

diminished. Should we not conclude then, that medieval biblical narratives – and 

with them images of the Muslim Other – lost their grip on the imagination of 

Europeans during and after the Reformation? This suggestion becomes all the more 

convincing once we consider how 15 th , 16 th , and 17 th -century European rulers lined 

up their armies on different sides of the Lutheran-Catholic, Calvinist-Catholic, 

Anabaptist-Calvinist (etc.) divides, fighting untold wars against “fellow” Christians 

and “fellow” Europeans. 

Moreover, the Reformers rejected the Catholic Church’s claim to the position 

as sole interpreter of Scripture and advocated for the first time that mass should be 

317 James Anthony Froude, "Times of Erasmus and Luther: Three Lectures Delivered at Newcastle, 

1867," in Short Studies on Great Subjects, ed. James Anthony Froude (London: Longmans, Green, 

and CO., 1894). 

318 Ozment, Age of Reform, p. 260.

celebrated and Scripture read in the vernacular. Most likely inspired by the 

209 

Renaissance humanists’ renewed interest in original classical source documents, the 

Reformers rejected the reliance so characteristic of medieval theology on the 

traditional, authoritative commentaries of the Church Fathers and of Scholastics like 

Peter Lombard in favor of direct reliance on Scripture under the slogan “sola 

scriptura” (only Scripture). In this spirit, Luther himself translated the Bible into 

German and it would be natural to assume that he adopted a similarly critical attitude 

toward the medieval canon of Christian images of Saracens examined in previous 

chapters, or that he at least exhibited caution when superimposing images of 

Saracens onto the Ottoman Turks of his own day. Indeed, Luther criticized the 

canonical anti-Islamic texts available to him for presenting what he realized was a 

partly skewed and misleading picture of the religion of the Turks, explicitly sought 

more direct information about it, and even saw to the very first publication of the 

Qur'n in vernacular translation (Bibliander’s Alcoran). 319 

However, a closer look at Europe during the Reformation reveals no such 

dramatic “improvement” in the quality of images of Muslims and Turks at the time. 

As we will argue below, Ottoman Turks were not only portrayed by 16 th -century 

European Reformers in ways strikingly similar to how seventh and eight-century 

Christians in Syria and the Holy Land had interpreted “Saracens”, but the function 

filled by the Muslim Other (on the fourth, contextual level of analysis) was also in 

319 Sarah Henrich and James L. Boyce, "Martin Luther - Translations of Two Prefaces on Islam: 

Preface to the Libellus de ritu et moribus Turcorum (1530), and Preface to Bibliander's Edition of the 

Qur'an (1543)," World & World 16, no. 2 (1996).

many ways closely analogous. Moreover, Machiavellian power political 

210 

calculations were indeed a part of Reformation-era “international” politics but 

neither was this an entirely novel development, nor did it usually eclipse or even 

overshadow other concerns. 320 When certain political leaders were seen as going too 

far towards accommodating the Ottomans, we often see every indication of the 

presence of a norm. There were attempts to conceal policies that might be construed 

as violating the norms or expectancy-rules governing the appropriate behavior of a 

Christian and European ruler, self-conscious attempts to justify such actions by 

arguing that they indeed did align with prevailing norms, and/or condemnation from 

other actors, both internal and external. We will begin with a description of the 

images of Turks as they emerge in the writings of the central figure of the 

Reformation and see where they did and did not differ from those of his medieval 

predecessors. 

320 We place “international” within quotation marks because 16 th -century Europe arguably housed no 

nations in the modern sense of the world (even though some communities could perhaps be described 

as proto-nations or, to use Anthony Smith’s term, ethnies). More importantly, many of the key actors 

in military and diplomatic affairs were also something other than states. The Swiss Confederation was 

a complex entity made up of more or less independent Cantons and communities (themselves often 

confederations of smaller semiautonomous polities). The Holy Roman Empire was an eclectic 

collection of principalities, archbishoprics, duchies, counties, landgraviates, and palatinates as well as 

a multitude of free imperial cities, knights, and even (a few) free peasant communities. The Empire 

was governed by an elected monarch whose powers were circumscribed partly due to the 

“capitulations” (promises) initially extracted by his electors in return for their vote, partly to the 

requirement that he submit imperial propositions for review by electors, princes, and representatives 

of free cities at the triennial meetings of the German estates (Diets). Most princes defended their 

autonomy vigorously and often with arms. The League of Schmalkalden, for example, was a loose 

confederation of Protestant German imperial principalities who banded together for their mutual 

security against the Catholic emperor Charles V and his allies.

211 

Luther’s Context and Influences 

Martin Luther (1483-1546) lived and wrote during the height of Ottoman 

power in Europe and, like anyone living in the Holy Roman Empire, was acutely 

aware of the treat posed by the repeated Hungarian Campaigns of Suleiman II (the 

Magnificent). While Luther struggled against papal excommunication and imperial 

ban, war was raging at not too great a distance from his Wittenberg. 321 Belgrade fell 

to Suleiman in 1521; at the Battle of Mohacs five years later his forces destroyed the 

Hungarian army that had long protected the southeastern flank of European 

Christendom, killing the Hungarian king as well as much of the country’s nobility; 

and in 1529, the Sultan laid siege to Vienna. Many contemporary Europeans 

regarded the lifting of the siege of Vienna as little more than temporary relief from 

the otherwise seemingly invincible Turks. 322 Indeed, despite having been routed at 

Vienna, Suleiman II maintained military pressure on the southeastern parts of the 

Holy Roman Empire, penetrating into inner Austria again in 1532 and finally 

submitting all of Hungary during the 1540s. In 1532, German Emperor Charles V 

prescribed regular prayer days against the Turks, and “reformed preachers in 

Strasbourg and Geneva urged the city magistrates to introduce similar days of prayer 

and penitence” in 1541. 323 Vienna would find itself besieged by Turkish armies again 

321 Only the Kingdom of Bohemia separated Saxony – the principality in which Wittenberg was 

located – from the Archduchy of Austria that Suleiman repeatedly attacked. 

322 Further away but contributing to the general perception in Europe of the invincible Turks, 

Kurdistan, Syria, Egypt, Algeria, and much of present-day Iraq had been conquered by Suleiman’s 

predecessor Selim I (1512-1520). Not counting his European acquisitions, Suleiman would add parts 

of Armenia, the rest of Iraq, a part of Iran, Rhodes, Tunis, and Tripoli. 

323 Jan Slomp, "Calvin and the Turks," in Christian-Muslim Encounters, ed. Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad 

and Wadi Zaidan Haddad (Gainsville, FL: University Press of Florida, 1995), p. 127.

as late as 1683. Unsurprisingly, Luther’s private letters reveal a lasting concern 

212 

with the Turkish threat, a concern that appears to have been exacerbated by 

persistent rumors of pending Ottoman invasions. A 1539 letter to fellow clergymen 

opens with the following admonition: 

We have been so led astray lately by reports of the Turks’ approach, 

that we scarcely know what to believe. And in case God’s wrath 

should be nearer than we think, and we should be surprised by the 

Turk, when, like the wolf, we have become so accustomed to the 

outcry that we feel secure, let us arm ourselves through prayer, 

pleading with God to keep the house and prevent such a visitation, 

and forgive our great and manifold sins, to the glory of His holy 

name. 324 

Setting aside for the later the comment about “God’s wrath”, this quote 

illustrates how the Turkish military threat worried Luther. 325 There are indeed 

references to “the Turk” throughout his writings 326 and faced with what he saw as the 

likelihood that Islam would soon swallow Christendom 327 Luther also responded 

324 “Circular Letter to all the Clergy in Christ who love the Gospel”, February 2, 1539.” Martin 

Luther, The Letters of Martin Luther, Selected and Translated by Margaret A. Currie, trans. Margaret 

A. Currie (London: MacMillan and Co., Limited, 1908), p. 365. 

325 Gregory Miller writes that “Luther reported that the news of the siege of Vienna made him 

physically ill” Gregory Miller, "From Crusades to Homeland Defense," Christian History & 

Biography, April 1 2002, p. 31. 

326 A simple word count found 75 occurrences of the word “Turk” or some variation thereof in 

Currie’s collection in English of 500 of Luther’s letters (see Luther, Luther's Letters.), which only 

represents about one fourth of the over 2000 published letters of Martin Luther. Apart from his letters 

and the six publications just mentioned, some of the works in which Luther comments on “the Turk” 

in some significant manner include Papacy at Rome (1520, 6 mentions), Open Letter to the Nobility 

(1520, 14 mentions), An Argument in Defense of the Articles of Dr. Martin Luther Wrongly 

Condemned in the Roman Bull 1521 (1521, 14 mentions), Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved 

(1526/27, 7 mentions), An Exhortation to the Clergy Assembled at the Diet at Augsburg (1530, 18 

mentions), Comments on St. Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians (1531/35, his preface contains 39 

mentions), and several of his Sermons (1544, e.g. “3 rd Sunday after Trinity”: 9 mentions, “9 th Sunday 

after Trinity”: 3, and “26 th Sunday after Trinity”: 12). The word occurs 29 times in Hazlitt’s 

translation of The Table-Talk of Martin Luther, not counting the separate section titled “Of the 

Turks”, which contains 50 mentions. 

327 R W Southern, Western Views of Islam in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, MS: Harvard University 

Press, 1962), pp. 105-106. Luther sometimes approaches defeatism on this question. In the of his tract

213 

with six larger publications specifically addressing the Turkish threat. “Since we 

now have the Turk and his religion at our very doorstep,” he wrote, “our people must 

be warned lest ... they deny their Christ and follow Muhammad.” Unless they are 

properly informed, he argued, there was a real “danger that many of our people will 

become Turks”. 328 Two of the six publications directly support our hypothesis that 

medieval narratives helped frame 16 th -century European interpretations of Muslims. 

This for the simple reason that they were translations of two major medieval tracts 

on Islam. Most significant was Luther’s own German translation of the Dominican 

friar Ricoldo da Montecroce’s tremendously influential Confutatio Alchoran (1300), 

a text described by R.J. Southern as “one of the great anti-Islamic works of the 

thirteenth century”, 329 which was published in 1542 with preface and concluding 

comments written by Luther. 330 The same year, Luther successfully convinced the 

Council at Basil to lift a ban it had imposed on the publication of a Latin translation 

of the Qur’n. The translation was published by Theodore Bibliander (a Zwinglian 331 

on Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved he laments: “I have long known that at last I would have to 

become a Turk” Martin Luther, "Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved," in Luther's Works, The 

Christian in Society III, ed. Robert C. Schultz, Luther's Works (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1967), p. 

136. Also: “Truly, we Germans are jolly fellows … wholly heedless of the Turk. Germany has been a 

fine and noble country, but ‘twill be said of her, as of Troy, fuit Llium” (or “Troy once was”) Martin 

Luther, The Table-Talk of Martin Luther, Translated by William Hazlitt, Esq. (The Lutheran 

Publication Society, 1997 [cited March 1 2007]); available from 

http://www.reformed.org/master/index.html?mainframe=/documents/Table_talk/table_talk.html. 

328 Henrich and Boyce, "Two Prefaces," p. 260. Note that here, as in the quote in footnote 327, Luther 

uses the notion “become a Turk” as synonymous with converting to Islam. We will say more on this 

below. 

329 Southern, Western Views, p. 105. 

330 Recently republished Riccoldo da Montecroce and Martin Luther, Islam in the Crucible: Can it 

Pass the Test? ("Confutatio Alchoran" with Foreword and Conclusion by Martin Luther, trans. 

Thomas C. Pfotenhauer (New Haven, MO: Lutheran News, Inc., 2002). 

331 Zwinglians were followers of the Swiss protestant reformer Huldrych Zwingli, many of whom 

would later embrace Calvinism.

protestant reformer whose real name was Theodore Buchmann) the following 

214 

year with prefaces by Luther and Philip Melanchton, a close friend and supporter of 

Luther. 332 However, Bibliander’s annotated Alcoran was essentially a reprint of 

Robert Ketton’s translation (known as Lex Mahumet pseudoprophete), which Peter 

the Venerable abbot of Cluny had commissioned in 1142. 333 Ketton’s translation was 

in fact the only one widely available in Europe until the late 17 th century and as part 

of the Cluniac corpus of anti-Islamic polemics and apologetics, it hardly presented an 

objective picture of the religion Ketton himself described as a “diabolical heresy”. 334 

Bibliander’s Alcoran was thus, like the original, less an exact translation than a 

paraphrase accompanied by commentary in the tradition of medieval Christian 

polemics. 335 In overseeing the publication of these two medieval texts, Luther helped 

332 Luther’s preface is translated into English in Henrich and Boyce, "Two Prefaces." 

333 Thomas E. Burman, "Tafsir and Translation: Traditional Arabic Qur'an Exegesis and the Latin 

Qur'ans of Robert of Ketton and Mark of Toledo," Speculum 73, no. 3 (1998): p. 705. Bibliander’s 

Alcoran was actually a collection of most of the then available treatments of Islam. Its complete title 

is Alcoran: The Lives of Muhammad, the Chief of the Saracens, and of His Successors, Their 

Teachings, and the Qur'an Itself. Ketton’s translation was only one piece of this collection, which also 

included most of the other works in the Cluniac corpus as well as Riccoldo’s Confutatio, Cusa’s 

Cribratio (see below), a letter by Pope Pius II to Mahomet II, and a “long tract against Islam by the 

sometime Byzantine emperor John VI Cantacuzene. Rollin Sr. Armour, Islam, Christianity, and the 

West: A Troubled History, ed. Paul F. Knitter, Faith Meets Faith (NY: Orbis Books, 2002), pp. 112- 

113. Norman Daniel writes that Buchmann’s 

own work as editor … gave circulation to much important mediaeval and other 

work on Islam, which otherwise might well have been forgotten, so that for his 

readers he was a principal architect of anti-Islamic polemic. His introduction to his 

collection does not show him to be more, personally, than the summariser of what 

his own authors would say. He had a particularly vivid sense of the historical 

setting, and of the pressure of Islam upon Germany in his own day; a strong feeling 

for the identification of Muhammad as the head, of Islam as the body of Antichrist. 

Daniel, Islam and the West, pp. 280-281. 


335 The prominent Orientalist and translator George Sale wrote that Ketton’s version “deserve[d] not 

the name of a translation; the unaccountable liberties therein taken, and the numberless faults, both of

frame the image of the Ottoman enemy in 16 th -century Europe in terms that 

215 

ensured a remarkable degree of continuity with earlier interpretations. We may 

perhaps say that in these cases, the perpetuation of an earlier stereotype involved its 

literal reprinting – the original “type” reused in both a metaphorical and a literal 

sense. 

There are also direct clues to the influences on Luther’s view of Islam. 

Another of the six publications on the topic mentioned above was the 1530 printing 

of a late 15 th -century Tract on the Religion and Customs of the Turks, likely written 

by a former Turkish captive and later Dominican priest among the curia in Rome by 

the name Georg von Muelbach. 336 Luther wrote a preface to this text in which he 

admitted that before getting his hands on it, his sources of information on Islam had 

been limited to two older texts: 

Although I have eagerly desired for some time to learn about the 

religion and customs of the Muhammadans, nothing has been 

available to me except a certain Refutation of the Alcoran and the 

Critique of the Alcoran by Nicholas of Cusa; I have tried in vain to 

read the Qur’n itself. 337 

The first work mentioned by Luther is Riccoldo’s 13 th -century Confutatio 

discussed above. Nicholas of Cusa was a 15 th -century German Cardinal who had 

applied his considerable philological skills (it was Cusa who showed that the 

omission and commission, leaving scarcely any resemblance of the original.” Burman, "Tafsir and 

Translation," p. 706. 

336 Henrich and Boyce, "Two Prefaces," p. 258. 

337 From Luther’s 1530 Preface to the Tract on the Religion and Customs of the Turks, in Henrich and 

Boyce, "Two Prefaces," p. 258.

Donation of Constantine was a forgery 338 ) to a lengthy textual criticism of the 

216 

Qur’n published in 1460. Cusa was an original thinker and careful scholar more 

inclined to conversation than conflict. His earlier De Pace Fidei (On the Peace of 

Faith, written only weeks after the fall of Constantinople) was a relatively 

sympathetic treatment that acknowledged that Islam harbored important (albeit 

Christian) truths, but like his contemporaries he was nevertheless held hostage by 

medieval interpretations of Islam. 339 Such interpretations were certainly further 

perpetuated in his Critique – or Sifting – of the Alcoran (Cribratio Alkorani), “by and 

large ... a scathing denunciation of the Qur’n, its Prophet, and Islam” 340 and one of 

Luther’s sources. The Critique rejected the claim that the Qur’n was the word of 

God, identifying instead three more worldly intellectual influences: Nestorianism, 

Jewish anti-Christian ideas, and corruptions introduced by “correctors” after 

Mohammed’s death. 341 We can trace the references to Nestorian and Jewish 

influences on the Qur’n as far back as to John of Damascus’ eight-century On the 

Heresy of the Ishmaelites, 342 and they remained a favorite theme in medieval 

338 The Donation of Constantine was a famous fraudulent document used by the papacy to justify its 

claim to the territories of the papal states and Rome Armour, A Troubled, p. 105. 

339 De Pace Fidei was an attempt to promote peaceful dialogue between the different faiths and was 

perhaps a defensive response to the threat of further Turkish conquests, which many in Europe 

expected after the sack of Constantinople. That Cusa even then was open to a military solution is 

evidenced by a letter that he sent to John Capistran from the diet of Ratisbon on May 28, 1454. This 

diet was the first of three called by emperor Frederik III on the question of organizing a crusade 

against the Ottomans. According to Robert Schwoebel, the letter urged Capistran, a holy Minorete 

friar of the Observance, to work “for a reconciliation between Poland and Prussia that their arms may 

be turned against the Turks.” Schwoebel, Shadow of the Crescent, p. 41. 

340 Armour, A Troubled, p. 108. 

341 Southern, Western Views, pp. 93-94. 

342 Sahas, Heresy of the Ishmaelites, p. 73., which also contains a translation of John’s tract against the 

Saracens in the appendix.

treatments of Islam, including Riccoldo’s Confutatio. 343 Riccoldo is in fact very 

217 

detailed on this point: 

Since Muhammad was an uneducated layman, the devil provided him 

with some helpful associates – several apostate Jews and some runaway 

Christian heretics. … Jews, Finhas, Abdia (called Salon), 

afterward Abdullah and Selem became Muslims. Some Nestorians 

joined. Agreeing with the Muslims, they said that the blessed Virgin 

did not give birth to God, but only to the man Jesus Christ. 344 

Riccoldo also goes on to comment on the alleged corruption of the Qur'n by 

Muslims after Mohammed’s death. 345 The overlap between Cusa and Riccoldo is not 

coincidental. Rather, it is indicative of the significant “cross-pollenization” between 

medieval Christian writers on Islam and the establishment of a set of well-known 

images, types, and scripts – a canon, if you will – for interpreting Islam, which 

existed within a broader Christian historical meta-narrative common to all. Although 

Cusa had seen an Arabic version of the Qur'n in Constantinople, he worked from 

Robert Ketton’s annotated Latin translation and we should thus not be surprised that 

he repeated many of the inaccuracies found in this or other texts from Peter the 

Venerable’s Cluniac corpus. Rollin Armour writes of Cusa that “most of his 

denunciations derive from … Peter the Venerable, the Apology of al-Kindy [part of 

the Cluniac corpus], and Ricoldo [sic], among others.” 346 Norman Daniel concludes 

343 See Daniel, Islam and the West, pp. 184-194, 275-278. 

344 Montecroce and Luther, Islam in the Crucible, p. 92. 

345 Montecroce and Luther, Islam in the Crucible, pp. 93-94. 

346 Armour, A Troubled, p. 109.

218 

that Cusa’s Critique was the result of “a fresh mind working over the old themes 

with varying success.” 347 

Despite Luther’s relative geographical proximity to Turkish Hungary, then, 

his understanding of Islam was primarily influenced by texts of medieval origin or 

influence – Ketton’s annotated Qur’n, Riccoldo’s Confutatio, and Cusa’s Cribratio 

– all of which repeated much of the same (dis)information. We can hardly fault 

Luther for the relative paucity of information available to him, having already seen 

that he had long wanted to know more and that he was actively seeking sources of 

knowledge on Islam. The strange fact is that the situation had changed for the worse 

since the mid-12 th century. Peter the Venerable at Cluny had then encountered little 

difficulty recruiting Peter of Toledo to translate the Apology of al-Kindy from Arabic 

or the Englishman Robert Ketton to translate the Qur'n with the help of a Muslim 

scholar by the name Muhammad. Toledo, Cordoba, and Seville were at the time 

important centers for the translation of Arabic, Greek, and Syriac-language 

manuscripts and for the dissemination of science and learning to Latin Christendom. 

Assisted by other skilled translators, Peter of Toledo would translate several further 

Islamic texts, including the Qur'n. 348 But three centuries later (in the 1430s), when 

Ketton’s inadequate translation failed to satisfy the renaissance-sensibilities of 

Nicholas of Cusa’s colleague John of Segovia and the latter sought an Arabicspeaker 

to translate the Qur'n anew, he found only a Muslim jurist from Salamanca 


348 Armour, A Troubled, pp. 81-82. Toledo’s Qur'n remained unpublished and little known in Europe 

for many centuries. Compared to Ketton’s version, it is a much closer literal translation, but there is 

disagreement as to which translation is better. See e.g. Burman, "Tafsir and Translation."

who eventually withdrew and killed the project. Cusa and then Luther were thus 

219 

stuck with Ketton’s translation when they wanted to read the Qur'n for themselves. 

The point, however, is neither to assign nor to deflect “blame” for distorting images 

but to identify the images that dominated a particular period, trace their influences, 

and consider them in the relevant social, political context. We have already noted 

that Luther perpetuated certain older images of Islam by ensuring the republication 

of medieval anti-Islamic tracts and we now known something of his influences. 

Next, we turn to Luther’s own intellectual contributions with a particular focus on 

his portrayals of Turks. 

“The Turk” as the Rod of God’s Fury 

As we would expect after this examination of some of Luther’s sources, the 

revolutionary on matters of theology internal to Latin Christendom contributed little 

new to portrayals of Islam or Muslims on the outside. Like his medieval counterparts 

in the east and west, Luther made sense of the Muslim foe by casting him in familiar 

roles in a Biblical historical meta-narrative, and while these depictions occasionally 

seem inconsistent with each other they all conform to his basic theology and the 

Reformers’ motto of sola scriptura. Luther wanted to learn “what we must know 

about the Turk and who he is according to Scripture.” 349 Like many Christians before 

him, he painted these images in the context of both intra-Christian politicotheological 

struggles and a military encounter with a different religion and foreign 

civilization. 

349 Quoted in George W. Forell, "Luther and the War against the Turks," Church History 14, no. 4 

(1945): p. 260.

220 

If we recall Luther’s 1539 letter to the clergy quoted above, we have in it 

an illustration of Luther’s consistent casting of “the Turk” in the now well-worn role 

of the Scourge – or Rod, as he preferred to call it (following e.g. Psalm 125:3) – of 

God’s Fury. The following passage is from his 1542 preface to Riccoldo’s 

Confutatio: 

For hundreds of years the Saracens and Turks have enjoyed victory 

and prosperity (albeit frivolous and empty) over against the 

Christians. We, on the other hand, have experienced much adversity 

under their control. … However, this does not mean that 

Muhammad’s faith is right and our faith is wrong, as the blind 

Muslims boast. … God permits us to be punished and suppressed on 

account of our sins, as we read in Psalm 79:8,9. 350 

As Suleiman II was pressing toward Vienna in 1528, Luther had admonished 

that everyone “pray who can pray that this abomination may not become lord over us 

and that we may not be punished with this terrible rod of God’s anger.” 351 He drew 

on the well-known Biblical precedents for how God punished the sinful. “I fear and 

must almost resign myself”, he wrote in one sermon, “that Germany may have the 

same experience as Sodom and Jerusalem, and will be a thing of the past; it will 

either be destroyed by the Turks or it will crumble by its own hand…” 352 These are 

but a few of the many references to Turks as “the wrath of God” 353 throughout 

Luther’s writings. Previous chapters argued that this image was frequently used 


351 Martin Luther, "On War Against the Turk," in Luther's Works, The Christian in Society III, ed. 

Robert C. Schultz, Luther's Works (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1967), p. 178. 

352 Martin Luther, "Twenty-Sixth Sunday After Trinity," in Sermons of Martin Luther, ed. John 

Nicholas Lenker (Minneapolis: The Luther Press, 1909). The same reference to Sodom and Gomorra 

as a model for Germany’s fate can be found in e.g. Luther, Table-Talk (Hazlitt's trans.). 

353 Luther, Table-Talk (Hazlitt's trans.).

during the Middle Ages in the context of military defeat or occupation, that it 

221 

was an essentially defensive construct with expectancy-rules that typically did not 

promote military aggression, that it functioned to insulate the (would-be) occupied 

Christians from conversion, that it laid the blame for the misfortune on Christians 

themselves, that it was often used as a rhetorical tool in intra-Christian theological or 

political battles, and that it gave Christians hope that God would ultimately save 

them if they only prayed and repented their sins. All of these features are present in 

Luther’s treatment of the Ottomans and some of them were in fact part of the reason 

he got in trouble with Rome, as we shall soon discover. 

The internal logic of the image of Muslims as God’s Scourge led Luther to 

advocate, as it had many earlier proponents, a seemingly pacific approach to the 

invading Turks. This was highly unpopular in Rome since it constituted both a 

challenge to its doctrine on Crusading and a potential threat to an important source of 

income for the Church – the sale of indulgences. Therefore, one of Luther’s 41 

articles denounced as heretical in the 1520 papal bull Exsurge Domine – article 34 – 

was the natural conclusion of the expectancy-rules associated with the Scourge of 

God role and script: “To make war against the Turks is nothing else than to strive 

against God, Who is punishing our sins by means of the Turks.” 354 This apparent 

willingness to submit to Turkish conquest was difficult to swallow even for some of 

354 Martin Luther, "Defense and Explanation of All the Articles of Dr. Martin Luther which were 

Unjustly Condemned by the Roman Bull," in Luther's Works, Career of the Reformer II, ed. George 

W. Forell, Luther's Works (Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press, 1958), p. 89. The point was originally 

made in Martin Luther, "Explanations of the Ninety-five Theses," in Luther's Works, Career of the 

Reformer I, ed. Harold J. Grimm, Luther's Works (Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press, 1957), p. 88.

those not otherwise radically opposed to Luther’s writings and he consequently 

222 

felt obliged to explain himself and elaborate on this argument – initially made in 

1518 – repeatedly. In his 1521 German-language response to Exsurge Domine, 

Luther clarified his position: 

But this article does not mean that we are not to fight against the 

Turk, as that holy manufacturer of heresies, the pope, charges. It 

means, rather, that we should first mend our ways and cause God to 

be gracious to us. We should not plunge into war, relying on the 

pope’s indulgence, with which he has deceived Christians in the past 

and is deceiving them still. 355 

Luther’s On War Against the Turk, written 1528 but published a year later 

(the first printed pages were lost “through the servant’s carelessness” 356 ), showed 

that still further clarification was needed. In the Letter of Dedication that prefaced 

the tract, Luther was visibly annoyed by the persistent requests that he address the 

topic yet again: 

Certain persons have been begging me for the past five years to write 

about war against the Turks, and encourage our people and stir them 

up to it, and now that the Turk is actually approaching, my friends are 

compelling me to do this duty, especially since there are some stupid 

preachers among us Germans (as I am sorry to hear) who are making 

the people believe that we ought not and must not fight against the 

Turks. … also because our German people are such a wild and 

uncivilized folk that there are some who want the Turk to come and 

rule. All the blame for this wicked error among the people is laid on 

Luther... 

Therefore, he continued, 

it is necessary for me to write about these things … so that innocent 

consciences may no longer be deceived by these slanders and made 

355 Luther, "Defense and Explanation of All the Articles," p. 90. 

356 Letter to Nicolas Hausmann, February 15, 1529, in Luther, Luther's Letters, p. 187.

suspicious of me or my doctrine, and so they may not be deceived into 

believing that we must not fight against the Turks. 357 

223 

Though perhaps too nuanced for some of his contemporaries, Luther’s 

position was consistent with overall protestant theology, which clearly distinguished 

between the obedience owed to God’s law by a person as a Christian and that owed 

to secular society or the ruler thereof by a person as subject, but which did not 

relieve man from either. 358 Luther had explicitly addressed this issue in works like 

including Temporal Authority: To What Extent it Should be Obeyed (1523) and 

Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved (1527). In the latter, he objected to war in the 

name of Christ but he did not deny the validity of a defensive war under the 

legitimate leadership of a secular ruler. “[I]f there is to be war against the Turk, it 

should be fought at the emperor’s command, under his banner, and in his name.” 359 

The important distinction to keep in mind here was that the “emperor is not head of 

Christendom or protector of the Gospel or of the faith.” 360 One contemporary who 

appreciated Luther’s nuanced position on this issue was the famous Christian 

humanist Desiderius Erasmus. In his Consultatio de Bello Turcis Inferendo he came 

to a position that in practice was very close to that of Luther; between those who 

advocated war against the Ottoman Turks in the name of Christ and those who 

rejected war in any form as a rebellion against God. This is somewhat surprising 

357 Luther, "On War Against," pp. 161-162. 

358 See e.g. Ozment, Age of Reform, pp. 264-272. on this aspect of Luther’s theology. 

359 Luther, "On War Against," p. 185. 

360 Luther, "On War Against," p. 185.

given the otherwise growing mutual animosity between Erasmus and Luther. 361 

224 

True to style, however, Erasmus managed to defend Luther’s argument while 

maintaining the appearance of denouncing it, thus avoiding conflict with such 

powerful institutions as the Theology Faculty at the Sorbonne, which had 

condemned Luther’s critique of Holy War as “erroneous in every respect”. 362 

Nevertheless, Luther cautioned, this war could not be won by the emperor or 

with the sword alone. Soldiers could only hope for success on the battlefield if “Sir 

Christian, that is, the pious, holy, dear body of Christians” had first done their part on 

a very different battlefield. “Since the Turk is the rod of the wrath of the Lord our 

God and the servant of the raging devil, the first thing to be done is to smite the 

devil, his lord, and take the rod out of God’s hand…” 363 It was the job of the clergy 

to effect this crucial spiritual and moral victory by revealing to the Christian masses 

“our great and numberless sins and our ingratitude, by which we have earned God’s 

wrath and disfavor, so that He justly gives us into the hands of the devil and the 

Turk”, thereby propelling “Sir Christian” to repent. 364 In an echo of Sophronius, the 

Patriarch of Jerusalem responding to the first Muslim victories nearly a thousand 

years before, Luther comforted his readers that despite the dire situation, “no one 

should doubt that repentance and right conduct always find grace.” 365 The God’s 

Scourge script still gave comfort and hope. 

361 Ozment, Age of Reform, pp. 290-302. 

362 Housley, Documents, pp. 179-180. 




225 

“The Turk” as the Antichrist 

When faced with the conquering army of Caliph Umar I, Sophronius and his 

7 th -century contemporaries had viewed it as God’s Scourge but also as a sign that the 

end of times was near – as the Antichrist. 366 These were the two most common 

medieval images of “the Saracen” in the context of defeat or a generally defensive 

posture. We have observed that Luther believed that his fellow Christians in Europe 

were facing a threat similar to that experienced by Sophronius and that he embraced 

the first of these two images as models for how to understand the Turkish victories. 

The second, eschatological or apocalyptic image and script also meshed well with 

Luther’s overall theology and its tendencies toward millenarianism, but his adoption 

of it involved some subtle changes from the medieval images of Mohammed and his 

followers as Antichrist. He did indeed view the seemingly unstoppable expansion of 

the Ottoman Empire as a sign that the Apocalypse was near at hand. In On War 

Against the Turk, Luther saw the temporal threat that the Turkish armies posed to the 

(German) Holy Roman Empire as advertising the Second Coming of Christ: 

If we can do no more, we must let our Lord Jesus Christ counsel and 

aid us by his coming, which cannot be far off. For the world has come 

to its end… now that the Roman Empire is almost gone, Christ’s 

coming is at the door, and the Turk is the Empire’s token of the end, a 

parting gift to the Roman Empire. 367 

In The Table-Talk of Martin Luther, we read that “The Turk will go to Rome, 

as Daniel’s prophecy announces, and then the last day will not be very distant. 

366 See Chapter 2 above. 

367 Luther, "On War Against," pp. 199-200.

Germany must be chastised by the Turks.” 368 Likewise in Table-Talk: “For the 

226 

last judgment draws nigh, and the angels prepare themselves for the combat, and to 

strike down Turk and pope into the bottomless pit.” 369 In his sermon for the 9 th 

Sunday after the Trinity (1544), he wrote: 

we are now in the last and most evil of days, a time bringing many 

awful dangers and severe punishments. It is foretold in the Scriptures, 

predicted by Christ and the apostles, that awful and distressing times 

will come, when there shall be wide wanderings from the true faith 

and sad desolations of the Church. And, alas, we see the prophecies 

only too painfully fulfilled in past heresy, and later in 

Mohammedanism and the papacy. 370 

Luther here made explicit what some of the above quoted passages – 

describing Turks as the Scourge of God’s Fury – had only suggested: The most 

grievous of the sins for which God punishes the Christians are those of the 

“papists.” 371 In fact, while Luther clearly saw the Turks as a fearsome enemy, the 

one he most loathed was in Rome. As should be well known, the 1517 publication of 

Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses – a document fiercely critical of many of the practices 

and doctrines defended by Rome – had roused the ire of the Papal Court and 

precipitated the so-called indulgences dispute that resulted in Luther’s 

excommunication. Luther responded to the attacks from the pope and his court by 

368 Luther, Table-Talk (Hazlitt's trans.). 


370 Martin Luther, "Ninth Sunday After Trinity," in Sermons of Martin Luther, ed. John Nicholas 

Lenker (Minneapolis: The Luther Press, 1909). 

371 In his sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Trinity, Luther writes: 

great countries, vast kingdoms, claiming to be Christian but disregarding the true 

doctrine of faith, are punished by the Turk’s desolating hand, and instead of the 

incense of Christianity, with them is the revolting odor of Mohammed’s faith. Great 

and terrible was the punishment of the Jewish people. … But the punishment of this 

last age is infinitely more awful… Luther, "Ninth Sunday After Trinity."

suggesting that they were the Antichrist. He did so tentatively at first (beginning 

227 

in late December 1518) 372 but his conviction grew until this accusation became a 

centerpiece of his critique of the Catholic Church. The kingdom of the Antichrist 

prophesied by Daniel (7) had arrived in the form of the “Kingdom of the Pope”, of 

which he wrote: 

If it were only luxury and lust, as before the flood; or outward sins, as 

among the Sodomites; I could not for this cause, be so soon brought 

to believe, that that Day of the Lord was so near at hand; but now 

seeing they overthrow, destroy, condemn and blaspheme the Worship 

of God, the word of God, the Sacraments of God the Children of God 

and whatsoever else is of God, and do set up the Devil in his place, 

and worship and adore him for God, and honour his lyes instead of 

the Truth of God I am verily perswaded, that the end of this so 

grievous wickedness, will be sooner then men to think.” 373 

We can identify another Biblical model for the account of the Antichrist in 

this passage as that found in St. Paul’s Second Epistle to the Thessalonians: 

Let no man deceive you by any means: for that day shall not come, 

except there come a falling away first, and that man of sin be 

revealed, the son of perdition; Who opposeth and exalteth himself 

above all that is called God, or that is worshipped; so that he as God 

sitteth in the temple of God, shewing himself that he is God”. (2 

Thessalonians 2:3,4) 

The pope was thus the son of perdition, sitting in the temple of God and 

deceiving true Christians. But if the Pope was the Antichrist, where did that leave 

372 Mark Greengrass, The Longman Companion to the European Reformation, c.1500-1618, ed. Chris 

Cook and John Stevenson, Longman Companions to History (New York: Longman, 1998), p. 52. 

373 Martin Luther, The Signs of Christs coming, and Of the last Day. Being the Substance of a very 

choice and excellent Sermon, preached by that Faithful Servant of Christ, and Famous Light of the 

Church, Martin Luther, upon Luke 21. ver. 25, 26, etc. to ver. 34. lately translated out of his 

Enarrations on the Gospels and Writings of the Apostles, and other places of Scripture., Early 

English Books Online (London: 1661), p. 6.

228 

“the Turk”? Luther opened the discussion “Of the Antichrist” in Table-Talk with 

a seemingly unequivocal statement on this question: 

Antichrist is the pope and the Turk together; a beast full of life must 

have a body and soul; the spirit or soul of Antichrist is the pope, his 

flesh or body the Turk. The latter wastes and assails and persecutes 

God’s Church corporally; the former spiritually and corporally too, 

with hanging, burning, murdering, etc. 374 

However, this clear statement appears to contradict his position as outlined in 

later works like the conclusion to his German translation of Riccoldo’s Confutatio. 

There, he maintained the eschatological script: “God has released his final anger 

allowing the devil to unleash his full agenda of malevolence. In the East, through 

Muhammad; here in the West, through the pope. They conspire, deliberately with 

mockery and power.” 375 Then, a few pages later he seems to present a different view 

of Islam’s role in the Biblical historical meta-narrative: 

I do not consider Muhammad to be the Antichrist; he is far too gross, 

his devilish ways far too obvious – difficult to deceive those 

possessing faith and common sense. … Among us the pope is the real 

Antichrist who possesses the mighty, subtle, attractive, doubledealing 

devil. He sits in the inner sanctum of Christianity… As St. 

Paul writes, (2 Thessalonians 2:4) he sets himself up in God’s temple, 

that is, in the church or Christendom. … he rules so skillfully, that his 

decretals, his “Koran,” his human teachings, are placed above God’s 

Word. 376 

The most charitable interpretation of the apparent discrepancy in this 

particular case is that Luther distinguished carefully enough between the Prophet of 

Islam (discussed in this passage) and the “Mohammedans” of his own day – “the 



376 Montecroce and Luther, Islam in the Crucible, p. 136.

Turks” (discussed in the above quoted passage from his Table-Talk) – to cast 

229 

them in different Biblical roles. On the other hand, he appeared to express this same 

uncertainty on the question of whether “the Turk” should be seen as the Antichrist in 

other places as well. In his On War Against the Turk, he noted that the pope 

persecuted the innocent: 

… as a true Antichrist. For he does this while sitting in the temple of 

God [II Thess. 2:4], as head of the Church; the Turk does not do that. 

But as the pope is the Antichrist, so the Turk is the very devil 

incarnate. The prayer of Christendom against both is that they shall go 

down to hell, even though it may take the Last Day to send them 

there; and I hope it will not be far off. 377 

However, we should probably not make too much of this passage. Elsewhere 

in the same text, Luther described “the Turk” as (merely) the “servant” or “army” of 

the “raging devil”, not the devil himself. 378 Moreover, Luther’s “Of the Antichrist” in 

Table-Talk made a similar claim about the pope: “Seeing [as] the pope is antichrist, I 

believe him to be a devil incarnate. Like as Christ is true and natural God and man, 

so is antichrist a living devil.” 379 At different times, then, Luther described both pope 

and “Turk” as Antichrist, the devil incarnate, and the devil’s servant. Since we run 

the risk of getting lost in a vast theological maze if we try to sort out Luther’s 

position on this issue in much greater detail than this, it is perhaps best not to 

overanalyze its many nuances. As Luther himself concluded his discussion of this 

377 Luther, "On War Against," pp. 180-181. 

378 Luther, "On War Against." Also e.g. Montecroce and Luther, Islam in the Crucible. 


230 

matter, “God knows how it stands… Let us not vex ourselves with seeking overknowledge.” 

380 

Besides, some of these fine nuances surely owe more to Luther’s 

considerable skills at Biblical exegesis than to his (less impressive) knowledge of the 

Ottoman Empire, the Qur'n, and the history of Islam. Given the many Biblical 

models for the eschatological script (of which Ezekiel and Daniel from the Old 

Testament and The Book of Revelation, Matthew, and 2 Thessalonians from the New 

Testament are only the most important), there was plenty of room for variation and 

interpretation of the broader image of the Muslim Other as the Antichrist for 

someone of Luther’s exegetic abilities and inclinations. For example, Luther also 

described “the Turks” as Gog and Magog, that is, as the two nations/giants/beasts to 

be unleashed by the devil after his thousand-year imprisonment (Revelation 20:7-9) 

and a common ingredient of apocalyptic prophecies: 

Here, now, the devil’s final wrath gets to work; there, in the East, the 

second woe, Mohammed and the Saracens; here, in the West, papacy 

and empire, with the third woe. To these is added, for good measure, 

the Turk, Gog and Magog… After the Turks, the Last Judgment 

follows quickly ... as Daniel 7:7 also shows. 381 

Luther himself was skeptical as to the validity of the Book of Revelations and 

its bountiful prophetic imagery so we may wish to treat this passage, too, with some 

caution and not as his definitive word on the matter (though he used the same image 


381 Martin Luther, "Preface to the Books of the Bible: The Revelation of Saint John (1)," in Works of 

Martin Luther, ed. Henry Eyster Jacobs, Adolp Spaeth, and L.D. Reed (Philadelphia: A. J. Holman 

Company, 1915).

in other places as well). 382 Regardless, we can say with certainty that “the Turk” 

231 

generally played the key role of forbearer of the Apocalypse in Luther’s adaptation 

of the Eschatological Ecript. While he occasionally wavered on the details, Luther 

consistently depicted the Turks as the Antichrist, occasionally precisely defined as 

the body of the Antichrist, whereas the Pope was its head or soul. This image had 

given comfort to Sophronius many centuries before and it did so again for Luther. 

Despite his repeated assertions to the contrary, it is thus not surprising that we can 

detect a certain defeatism and fatalism in some of Luther’s comments on the 

Ottoman advances in Hungary and Austria. If the Second Coming of Christ was to 

follow Turkish conquest, a true Christian had in fact more to look forward to than to 

fear. “Consequently,” he argued, “we should allow the Turks, the Saracens, with 

their Muhammad to run their course. … by the grace of God we are preserved and 

kept faithful, so that we will not be damned with Muhammad.” 

The Cruel and Lustful Turk 

Another medieval stereotype reproduced by Luther was that of the sinful and 

lustful Muslim. One of the vices he accused the papists and Turks of sharing was 

their contempt for the institution of marriage. He wrote of the “fleshy life of the 

Turks” and of their marriage custom, about which he sarcastically commented that it 

“closely resembles the chaste life that the soldiers lead with their harlots…” The 

Qur'n allowed any man take “ten or twenty wives and to desert or sell any of whom 

he will,” Luther argued, “so that in Turkey women are held immeasurably cheap and 

382 Luther, "On War Against."

are despised; they are bought and sold like cattle.” 383 The immediate source for 

232 

this depiction appears to be Riccoldo’s Confutatio, in the conclusion to which Luther 

made the same allegations almost verbatim against “[t]hose who live according to 

Muhammad’s rules”. 384 The roots of the Turk’s sinfulness were to be found in their 

holy book and Prophet. Riccoldo’s portrayal of the licentious Prophet (like that 

found in Cusa’s Cribratio) is representative of the many medieval accounts of the 

“life of Mahomet” in which his sinfulness was a key theme. Likewise, his discussion 

of the Qur'n’s position on sex and marriage was representative of most anti-Islamic 

polemics, and like these Riccoldo presented the allegedly base depiction of Heaven 

in the Qur'n as a central argument against its divine origin: “Muhammad’s religion 

is shown to be opposed to God and sanity in that mankind’s greatest and final gain 

consists in fleshly concerns.” 385 He elaborated on this point in chapter eight (entitled 

“Muhammad’s Koran Is Salacious, Crude”), but the gist of Riccoldo’s view of the 

Prophet of Islam is adequately summarized in an off-hand remark from another 

chapter: “This Muhammad simply suffocates in the female body! His entire thought 

patterns, words and works, are immersed in carnal lust. The man is consumed with 

sex, sex, sex.” 386 

Another likely source of influence on Luther’s view of Turks and sexuality 

was the many oral and written accounts of alleged Turkish atrocities that circulated 

in Europe at this time. According to Egil Grislis, Luther “was exposed to the 




386 Montecroce and Luther, Islam in the Crucible, p. 69.

233 

developing oral tradition which reported on the Turkish advances into Europe” 387 

and we know from e.g. his letters and from Table-Talk that he indeed received 

continuous updates on these matters. 388 One remark by Luther himself suggests that 

not all of these reports confined themselves to military topics: “I hear one horrible 

thing after another about what an open and glorious Sodom Turkey is”. 389 Indeed, 

this type of “horrible things” was a relatively common ingredient in contemporary 

oral accounts of Turkish ways and deeds. Like many of the Reformers, Luther was 

familiar with the writings of 15 th and 16 th -century humanist scholars and their 

frequent depictions of the lustful and cruel Barbarian Turk (described above) are 

likely to have reached him as well. Recall Aeneas Piccolomini’s account of “boys 

made to submit as women” etc. during the sack of Constantinople. That the element 

of “sodomy” had an even longer legacy is illustrated by Riccoldo’s version of an oftrepeated 

medieval tirade against Mohammed: In Surah Cattle (6), Riccoldo alleged, 

“he claims that it is not unnatural to fraternize with boys...” 390 Nevertheless, 

“sodomy” was never such a central feature of the images of the Muslim Other as it 

became in images of “the Turk” from the 15 th century on. Thus, Reformers not only 

retained the medieval image of the lustful Mahomet, but also elaborated upon it in 

ways seen in Luther’s discussions of alleged Ottoman depravities. 

387 Egil Grislis, "Luther and the Turks: Parts I & II," The Muslim World 64, no. 3 & 4 (1974): p. 180. 

388 See e.g. DCCCXXIX, DCCCXXX, DCCCXXXIII, and DCCCXXXV in Luther, Table-Talk 

(Hazlitt's trans.). 


390 Riccoldo in Montecroce and Luther, Islam in the Crucible, p. 39.

Yet another important remnant of earlier representations was the view of 

234 

Muslims as inherently prone to violence. This notion was so often and emphatically 

underlined during and after Luther’s time that it would become the dominant 

characteristic in European depictions of Turks for centuries. Riccoldo outlined the 

traditional medieval critique in a chapter entitled “Muhammad’s Law is Tyrannical”: 

[Muhammad] acquired for himself a right proper work tool, a sword, 

the killing piece. He placed in his Koran the command that all who 

opposed his statutes and refused to believe should be killed! He 

speaks this way throughout his entire book, not just in one chapter. 

Kill! Kill! 391 

15 th and 16 th -century European Christians embraced the old trope of the 

sword with a new sense of urgency that stemmed from their own perception of a 

serious and persistent Turkish military threat to Western Europe. In this, too, he was 

likely influenced also by the standard 15 th -century humanist depictions of Turks as 

“inhuman barbarians”. 

It is difficult to ascertain whether Luther had read Bessarion’s or Aeneas’ 

particular accounts, but he was clearly familiar with similar reports from his day. In 

December of 1536, a certain marquis of Brandenburg visited Luther at Wittenberg 

with news of a Turkish victory over the Germans, “whose fine army had been 

betrayed and massacred”. He stated that many had perished while “such Christians as 

remained prisoners, had been treated with extreme cruelty, their noses being slit, and 

themselves used most scornfully.” 392 At another occasion, Luther received news (via 



the neighboring Saxon town of Torgau) alleging that “the Turks” had led 23 

235 

Christian prisoners out into the “great square at Constantinople”, all of whom “on 

their refusing to apostatize, were beheaded.” 393 The Script of Conquest may not be 

strictly invoked in these passages, but it is clearly casting a shadow over them. 

Luther’s On War Against the Turk implored Charles V to try to hold off this 

“destroyer”, “this blood-dog and devil” who is “nothing but a murderer or 

highwayman” and thus prevent Germans from experiencing “the misery and 

wretchedness that befalls his [the Turk’s] subjects.” The emperor knew even better 

than Luther, he wrote, 

how cruelly the Turk treats those whom he takes captive. He treats 

them like cattle, dragging, towing, driving those that can move, and 

killing on the spot those that cannot move, whether they are young or 

old. 394 

Recalling Bessarion’s lament over how men had been “butchered like cattle 

… and children snatched from the arms of their parents” only to be “enslaved in 

chains” etc. we see the perpetuation of certain similar themes and tropes among very 

different authors. An image of Turks and cruel and violent, frequently associated 

with the Script of Conquest, emerged during the Renaissance and further crystallized 

during the Reformation. This particular image would prove to be stable and highly 

influential for centuries to come, which may stem from the fact that the portrayal of 

Turks as violent was also a key component of images like God’s Scourge and the 

Antichrist. 



236 

The Contextual Function of Turks as “Papists” I: Shared Vices 

Both Cardinal Bessarion’s and Aeneas Piccolomini’s accounts of the sack of 

Constantinople made use of the Script of Conquest in which the twin themes of 

violent brutality and sexual depravity were fused into a single image of the cruel and 

depraved Turk. We find this also in popular stories like the one describing how 

Mehmet II, so enchanted by one of his many wives that he was unable to concentrate 

on his duties as Sultan, allegedly had her slain just to free himself from her 

distracting presence. 395 To Luther, each of these two elements filled an important 

theological and polemical function. When taken together, the Turks’ reliance on the 

sword and their “fleshy” contempt for marriage constituted the last two of Luther’s 

three-legged critique of the religion of the Turks, the first being their denial of the 

Truth of Christ’s word. In On War Against the Turk, he argued that when these errors 

were taken together they showed how “according to their Koran these three things 

rule among them, namely, lying, murder, and disregard of marriage”. 396 This was no 

accidental triad of error; Luther accused the papacy of the same sins. Both the Turks 

and papists lied in the sense that they denied the truth (the Gospel of Christ): 

[T]he pope is not much more godly than Mohammed and resembles 

him extraordinarily; for he, too, praises the gospel and Holy Scripture 

with his lips …[even though] he does not rule with the gospel, or 

word of God, but has made a new law and a Koran, namely, his 

decretals … 397 




Observe how Luther here called the pope’s decretals his “Koran”, a 

237 

rhetorical move he employed in other works as well. This argument went to the core 

of his disagreement with Rome. Luther denounced the pope for claiming for himself 

the “power, rule, and authority over the Christian church, and over the Holy 

Scriptures, the Word of God…” As a professor of Biblical exegesis he was 

particularly infuriated by the pope’s assertion that “no man must presume to expound 

the Scriptures, but only he, and according to his ridiculous conceits…” 398 “[O]f the 

gospel [the pope] hath made mere laws, yea, and such as are ceremonial only.” 399 

Against the introduction of the pope’s “inventions and lies”, Luther urged the return 

to Scripture as the sole source: sola scriptura. 

then 

Following the first error of replacing the Gospel with his decretals, the pope 

… enforces [them] with the ban just as the Turk enforces his Koran 

with the sword. He even calls the ban his spiritual sword… 

Nevertheless, he uses the temporal sword when he can … 400 

As we have noted above, Luther had experienced the workings of the papal 

ban: “[T]he pope disputes with me, not according to justice and equity, but with the 

sword and his power. He uses no written law, but club law.” 401 He viewed the 

Bohemian John Huss as having been martyred by the Church in an example of its 


399 Martin Luther, A Commentary on St. Paul's Epistle to the Galatians, by Martin Luther, to which is 

Prefixed Tisher's Life of Luther. Abridged: A short Sketch of the Life of Zuingle; as also, A Discourse 

on the Glorious Reformation, by S.S. Schmuckee, D.D. (Philadelphia: Smith, English & co. Miller & 

Burlock, 1860), p. 226. 



inappropriate use of “the sword” against pious, orthodox Christians. Luther was 

238 

no pacifist, and he supported the brutal repression of the Swabian peasants during the 

1525 peasants’ rebellion, 402 but he believed that the temporal and spiritual domains 

should be separated and that Christ’s message to the Christians as believers and 

clergy was to turn the other cheek. It was the proper role of the temporal powers to 

carry and wield the sword, whereas the papacy’s heavy reliance on forceful tools 

such as the ban, excommunication, decretals, the inquisitions etc. was a sign of its 

moral and spiritual weakness. The role of “the Turk” in this moral/doctrinal drama 

was to teach Christians the truth of this argument: 

because the papists reject it, arbitrarily and without Scripture, the 

Turk must take its side and prove its validity with the fist and deeds. If 

we will not learn from the Scriptures, we must learn from the Turk’s 

scabbard, until we learn from dreadful experience that Christians are 

not to make war or resist evil. Fools should be beaten with rods. 403 

In addition to these two accusations – that the pope resorted to the sword, and 

that he did only because he could not rely on the Truth of the Gospel that he had 

rejected, to defend his doctrine – Luther raised the issue of sexual promiscuity. 

According to Luther, 

both the pope and the Turk … think lightly of marriage… I hear one 

horrible thing after another about what an open and glorious Sodom 

Turkey is, and everybody who has looked around a little in Rome and 

Italy knows very well how God there revenges and punishes the 

forbidden marriage, so that Sodom and Gommorah, which God 

overwhelmed in days of old with fire and brimstone [Gen. 19:24], 

402 This (also known as the Great Peasants’ War) was a rebellion of German peasants in Swabia and 

the Black Forest over a range of issues from resentment of feudal dues and tithes to the right of 

evangelical preachers to freely preach the Word. See e.g. Greengrass, European Reformation, pp. 75- 

81. 


239 

must seem a more jest and prelude compared with these abominations. 404 

We now come full circle, returning to the sins of the Christians for which 

“the Turk” was punishment; the final scourge before the Day of Atonement. In this 

context, Luther used the Turks as an instrument in his battle with “the papists”. This 

function is almost exactly parallel to that filled by the “Saracen”, “Hagarene”, or 

“Ishmaelite” in the writings of eastern Christians commenting on the 7 th -century 

Muslim conquests. To them, the Christian losses were the result of the sins of 

whoever was on the other side(s) of the Christological debates that consumed them: 

Melkites or Copts, Monophysites, Chalcedonians, or Monothelites. Their 

interpretations of the Muslim Other were really contributions to the struggle over 

how to define Christendom, and the same can be said about Luther’s depictions of 

the Ottoman Turks. 

Turks as “Papists” II: Empty Virtues 

Luther’s comparisons between Turks and “papists” also took a somewhat less 

spiteful form. Adapting the medieval image of the chivalrous Saracen into what we 

may call an image of the noble Turk, he occasionally acknowledged that Turks could 

have good qualities. In particular, he focused on their loyalty toward one another, the 

efficiency of their government, their reputation for doing “good works”, and the 

splendor of their religious ceremonies. “It is said,” wrote Luther, “that the Turks are, 

among themselves, faithful and friendly and careful to tell the truth. I believe that, 


and I think that they probably have more fine virtues in them than that.” 405 

240 

However, such seemingly kind words were not intended to extol the general virtues 

of Turks. Luther was in fact typically less gracious toward Turks than many of the 

medieval proponents of the chivalrous Saracen image, and followed any praise with 

explicit denunciations or caveats. In the case of the above quote, for example, he 

immediately put the acknowledgement of alleged Turkish virtues in proper 

perspective: 

No man is so bad that there is not something good in him. Now and 

then a woman of the streets has good qualities that scarcely ten 

honorable matrons have. So the devil would have a cloak and be a fair 

angel, an angel of light; therefore he hides behind certain works, that 

are works of the light. Murderers and robbers are more faithful and 

friendly to each other than neighbors are, nay, more so than many 

Christians. 406 

Given this caution not to make too much of tales of Turkish virtues, one 

might wonder why Luther felt obliged to mention them at all. It is possible that he 

wanted to be fair and present both the good and bad sides of the Turks, as he saw 

them. Primarily, however, the image of the noble Turk functioned as a rhetorical 

instrument with which Luther wanted to convey a more important point. As the 

reference in this passage to the “works of light” behind which the devil hides 

suggests (and to which we will return shortly), he had a familiar target in mind: 

sinful Christians, occasionally his fellow Germans but more often the pope and his 

supporters. By comparing “papists” to Turks, he aimed to shame the former in one of 

two ways. First, he tried to show that the “papists” were even worse than the 



241 

(terrible) Turks or Muslims, such as in a passage comparing “how the gross devil 

over there (Mohammed) and the more subtle Satan over here (the pope) have trifled 

with marriage.” While the “shameless, immoral Muhammad makes no attempt at 

appearing chaste” takes women like a “whore-master,” the “lily-white, chaste” pope 

gives the appearance of chastity but “how many wives does he none-the-less take, 

discounting whores”? However, unlike Mohammed, the pope does all this in the 

name of Christ. Therefore, “[c]ompared to the pope, Muhammad appears absolutely 

pious.” This was then followed by a caveat: “Should this make us happy concerning 

Muhammad, the quintessential enemy of Christendom? Of course not.” It only meant 

that Christians also needed to battle the “inner enemy, the Antichrist with his devils”, 

namely, the pope. 407 Indeed, these portrayals only barely amount to an image of 

Turks as particularly noble or virtuous and show that the discursive boundary 

between the more sinister images of “the Turk” as “papist” discussed above and the 

more positive representations of Turkish virtues in comparison to those of the 

“papists” examined below, is fluid. Whether “the Turk” is presented in a highly 

negative or somewhat positive fashion, the function of the image of “the Turk as 

papist” is essentially the same and for this reason, we have chosen to treat them as 

versions of the same image or as different representations of the same rolerelationship. 

Second, Luther emphasized the similarity of Turkish virtues to those of the 

“papists” in order to show that such virtues were of little real value. The following 

407 Montecroce and Luther, Islam in the Crucible, pp. 138, 139.

passage on civic virtues is typical of Luther’s rare and often blatantly 

242 

backhanded “praise” of Turks: 

One can hardly find greater obedience to a sovereign or Lord [than 

among the Turks]. Would to God that we had just one blessed 

authority where the subjects were all so loyal, so faithful, so brave, so 

obedient, so willing to please as these murderers, traitors, pillagers, 

devil’s rot. … While they applaud belief and obedience, they are less 

inclined toward doing real good… 408 

These passages must be viewed in light of Luther’s broader critique of the 

Catholic Church and theology. The question of “how we are saved,” said Luther, “is 

the chiefest of the whole Christian doctrine.” 409 As his answer to this pivotal 

question, Luther espoused the notion of “justification by faith”, which assumed that 

eternal salvation required (only) faith in Christ as one’s savior and which remains 

one of the most (if not the most) important principles of Protestantism to this day. 

Consequently, Luther rejected the belief that papal indulgences could “buy” 

remission from sins, or that “good works” like frequent prayers, kindness toward 

neighbors, fasting, or even refraining from sins improved one’s chances of salvation. 

Salvation (or “justification”) was a gift from God that man could never earn – no 

matter how pious we are, we will die sinners and can only have faith that God will 

forgive our sins by virtue of his grace. This truth could be found in Scripture but had 

been obscured by the many inventions of the papacy: its canon law and decretals as 

well as the church’s emphasis on ceremony, prayer, and good works. In this context, 


409 Martin Luther, Luther's Table Talk; or, Some Choice Fragments from the Familiar Discourse of 

that Godly, Learned Man, and Famous Champion of God's Truth, Dr. Martin Luther (London: 

Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green, 1832), p. 186.

Luther’s reference to the “works of light” in the quote above appears quite 

243 

deliberate. Indeed, he goes on to argue a little later that “the Turk” is “a papist; for he 

believes that he will become holy and saved by works”. 410 The point of Luther’s 

comparison, then, is clearly to show that good works do not make a good Christian, 

as the “papists” falsely claim, for even the murderous Turks do them! 

With respect to ceremonies, Luther makes a similar argument in his (1530) 

preface to the tract on Turkish customs and religion (likely) written by Georg von 

Muelbach of Hungary. Robert Schwoebel describes the author of this relatively 

accurate and knowledgeable account of Turkish life, as someone “not above praising 

the Turks”. 411 Luther admits that the book shows that 

the religion of the Turks or Muhammad is far more splendid in 

ceremonies – and, I might almost say, in customs – than ours … The 

modesty and simplicity of their food, clothing, dwellings, and 

everything else, as well as the fasts, prayers, and common gatherings 

of the people that this book reveals are nowhere seen among us … 

Furthermore, which of our monks, be it a Carthusian … or a 

Benedictine, is not put to shame by the miraculous and wondrous 

abstinence and discipline among their religious? Our religious are 

mere shadows when compared to them, and our people clearly 

profane when compared to theirs. Not even true Christians, not Christ 

himself, not the apostles or prophets ever exhibited so great a display. 

This is the reason why many persons so easily depart from faith in 

Christ for Muhammadanism and adhere to it so tenaciously. I 

sincerely believe that no papist, monk, cleric, or their equal in faith 

would be able to remain in their faith if they should spend three days 

among the Turks. 412 

410 Luther, "On War Against." 


412 Henrich and Boyce, "Two Prefaces," p. 259.

This (again rather transparently false) praise reveals Luther’s motive in 

244 

publishing the tract in question, or at least indicates its primary discursive function. 

“For this reason, therefore, we are publishing this book and thrusting it in the face of 

the opponents of the gospel”. In order that these opponents – the “papists” – may 

“finally then grasp this truth, namely, that the Christian religion is by far something 

other than good custom or good works. For this book shows that the Turks are far 

superior to our Christians in these things as well.” 413 Luther’s description of what the 

original author of the tract accomplished is perhaps the best indication of Luther’s 

own intensions: 

He relates details so as not only to recount the evils of the Turks but 

also to exhibit alongside them the best things, and he presents them in 

such a way that through comparison with those people he might 

reprove and censure our own. Nevertheless, he does not approve of 

such things, however piously they are done, but refutes them with as 

much vigor and strength as had been done up to that time. 414 

While Luther never achieved the same degree of understanding or sympathy 

toward Islam and the Ottoman Turks as that exhibited by George von Muelbach 

(however imperfectly), Luther’s occasional reference to Turkish virtues 415 filled 

much the same function. He aimed to “reprove and censure” his Christian opponents 

in the struggles over the Reformation by linking them to either the virtues or vices of 



415 The reader should be aware that the process of selecting passages from Luther’s writings to quote 

in this chapter was if anything biased toward passages with favorable remarks about Turks. Positive 

depictions in the original texts (which are relatively few) are therefore proportionally overrepresented 

in this chapter compared to the rather small sample of negative evaluations presented here (which are 

much more numerous in the original sources). This choice was made so as to dispel any suspicion that 

we treated Luther unfairly by “picking the bad apples”, so to speak, but also because the passages 

where he praises this foe reveal much about the function of “the Turk” in Luther’s life and in the 

political and religious life of 16 th -century Europe.

245 

“the Turk”. We may here recall such works as Guibert of Nugent’s eleventhcentury 

chronicle of the First Crusade and the late fourteenth-century Florentine 

poem Novellino, which we discussed in previous chapters. For also on this matter, 

Luther emulated the authors of the medieval canon of anti-Islamic texts, who had 

employed the image of the chivalrous Saracen for very similar purposes. 

Others have shown that Renaissance humanists failed to break free from 

earlier Christian meaning-structures. The above analysis of Luther’s portrayals of 

Turks has attempted to show that he remained a captive of images of Islam and of 

Muslims that had been created by early medieval Christians, and the particular 

theoretical framework advanced here helps us understand this astonishing resilience 

of millennia-old constructs. As a Christian, Luther shared the Tragic variation of the 

Biblical historical meta-narrative that the creators of the early medieval images of 

“the Saracen” had embraced. This narrative came with ready-made templates for the 

interpretation of all aspects of social life, including the kinds of existential threats, 

military setbacks, and spiritual degeneration that so worried the Reformer. The 

primary function of the repertoire of devilish Biblical characters (the Rod of God’s 

Fury and the Antichrist) was to inflict onto the Christians whatever tribulation the 

Tragic Biblical plot prescribed, according to the rules of a small number of 

prefabricated Tragic scripts (the God’s Scourge Script and the Eschatological 

Script). Luther’s images of Turks as God’s Scourge placed his fellow Christians in 

the role of sinners who needed to repent, while casting the Turk as the Antichrist 

placed them in the role of God’s children who must remain faithful and not be

deceived by the Devil on the eve of Christ’s Second Coming. The respective 

246 

scripts imposed order and meaning on confusing and frightening military-political 

events, and provided guidance and hope to those who would abide by the relevant 

expectancy rules. Luther’s writings on the Turkish threat clearly reveal a vision of 

man’s descent along a possibly inevitable downward trajectory, matching Northrop 

Frye’s definition of a Tragedy. 416 He saw the work of devils and deceivers all around 

him in the events of these “last and most evil days”, bringing the world ever closer to 

its violent end. However, we also see the ultimately Romantic macro-structure of the 

Biblical historical meta-narrative, for while Luther knew that even more “awful and 

distressing times” lay ahead, his yearning for the final Day of Judgment and Christ’s 

Second Coming, which would bring an end to “this so grievous wickedness”, was 

stronger than his fears. Luther’s was thus truly an Apocalyptic narrative in both the 

ordinary sense of this word with all its common associations to death, disaster, and 

violent upheaval, and in the distinctive sense that Northrop Frye defends, where 

apocalyptic imagery is the direct opposite of demonic imagery and where the 

ultimate associations are to heaven, redemption, transcendence, and paradise. 417 

This part of the analysis has been limited to Luther’s writings and 

generalizations from it should be made with caution, but the wider European context 

was likely conducive to his Tragic apprehension of the world and the trajectory of 

history. Recurring and debilitating wars over land, politics, and/or religion, the 

416 Frye, Anatomy of Criticism. 

417 Frye, The Great Code: The Bible and Literature.

decline of the Catholic Church, and the fear of Ottoman conquest combined to 

247 

create an atmosphere in which Luther’s message could take hold and then spread like 

a wildfire throughout Europe. Widespread familiarity with the Biblical historical 

meta-narrative encouraged the intersubjective interpretation of events in the terms 

that it provided, and its broad legitimacy gave these interpretations force despite their 

reliance on a conceptual apparatus that had been shaped many centuries before to 

account for entirely different peoples: 7 th -century Muslim Arabs, not 16 th -century 

Ottomans. 

CONCLUSION 

The Protestant Reformation did cause a division of European Christendom, 

but the writings of Martin Luther suggest that this did not automatically lessen the 

significance of the Muslim Other as a means by which 16 th -century European 

Christians defined Christendom. As we have stated repeatedly throughout this 

dissertation, a performative and constructivist view of language means that unity 

within a given collective is not a prerequisite for collective identity construction 

processes therein that make use of external Others as counteridentities. In such cases, 

external enemies and threats may or may not generate internal unity and different 

internal factions will likely attempt to link their internal opponents to the external 

enemy, but the distinction between internal and external – between Us and Them, 

Self and Other – remains. Linking or likening a rival Christian to a Muslim is an 

offense to the former precisely because of his pre-understanding that the latter is a 

dangerous and despised Other. Thus, Luther did not interpret the papacy as God’s

248 

scourge for the sins of the Turks – always the other way around. The morality or 

sinfulness of the Turks was not important in itself, except as a rhetorical tool by 

which to shame sinful Christians, and Luther’s many comparisons between “papists” 

and Turks was meant as insult and critique of the former. 

Moreover, even internal opponents agreed on the denotation or reference of 

the image of the external enemy as opposed to that of the internal enemies. 

Consequently, we see the same strategies employed by Luther’s opponents, such as 

in a 17 th -century English translation of a pamphlet titled Luther’s Alcoran first 

written by a French cardinal against the Huguenots, which levels the accusation “that 

Lutheranisme agreeth with Mahumetisme, or Turcisme, in Fourty pointes concerning 

Fayth and Religion”. In fact, Lutheranism “semees to be no more (if not lesse) 

warrantable and justifiable, then Mahumetisme”. 418 The content and expectancy rules 

associated with the various images of “the Turk” was so familiar to Europeans 

during the Reformation that it formed part of the source domain for arguments by 

analogy in the theological and political disputes of the time. Luther and his Catholic 

adversaries sharply and profoundly disagreed on matters of doctrine, concerning the 

relationship between secular and religious authorities, the proper role of ceremony in 

worship, the “ownership” of scriptural interpretation and many other issues, but they 

understood and employed “the Turk” in very similar ways. Theirs was a battle over 

the soul of Christendom. 

418 Jacques Davy du Perron, Luthers Alcoran, Being a Treatise first written in French by the Learned 

Cardinall Peron, of famous memory, against the Hugenots of France, and translated into English by 

N.N.P., trans. N. N. P. (1642).

We have seen that Christendom by the time of the Reformation had been 

249 

confined to Europe, at least in the eyes of those who lived there. The increasingly 

important territorial identification on the part of 16 th -century Latin Christians with 

the Christian areas of Europe constituted a marked departure from the relative 

insignificance of the spatial dimension in processes of constructing the collective 

identity of medieval Christendom. The spatial component of the latter had been less 

territorial than topophilic in the sense that the places in the Holy Land upon which 

value was placed were mainly significant as symbols of the faith; medieval 

Christendom had not been strongly identified with the lands occupied by Christians. 

A consequence of this development was that the attempts to define and maintain a 

distinct Christian collective identity de facto helped define a slowly emerging 

European identity. Moreover, this happened more or less simultaneously with the 

transfer of the mantel of Christendom’s primary Other from “the Saracen” to “the 

Turk” along with the medieval canon of anti-Islamic imagery. In addition to such 

religious images, Renaissance humanists employed a classical dichotomy in defining 

the meaning and extension of Christian Europe in contrast to the Ottoman Turks: that 

between civilization and barbarians. None of these constituted definitive breaks with 

the medieval past – they involved appropriations and reinterpretations of earlier 

traditions that ensured significant continuities. The Turks were seen as threats to both 

Europe’s secular heritage (exemplified by Plato) and to its religious identity 

(symbolized by its devotion to Christ) and while the images of Turks would be 

“secularized” over the course of the following several centuries, this initial

association of Europe with Christendom and Turks with Islam would prove 

250 

difficult to overcome.

251 

CHAPTER 5. MAHOMET THE IMPOSTER: OLD AND NEW IN 

17 TH AND 18 TH -CENTURY EUROPEAN IMAGES OF ISLAM 

INTRODUCTION 

Chapter 4 argued that a dramaturgical theory of collective identity accounts 

for the striking continuities between certain medieval representations of Islam, 

“Mahomet”, and “the Saracens” on one hand and Martin Luther’s 16 th -century 

depictions of Islam, “Mahomet”, and “the Turk” on the other. Luther was performing 

a (Tragic) version of the same Biblical historical meta-narrative as that embraced by 

medieval Christians, and it provided him with similar guidance for how to make 

sense of the Muslim Other. However, it is generally believed that this Christian 

meta-narrative came under serious attack two centuries later, during the European 

Enlightenment. This chapter approaches the question of what happened to the 

established “canon” of Muslim roles and scripts in Europe during the 18 th -century by 

focusing on a writer who arguably personified at least the French Enlightenment – 

Voltaire – and his portrayal of Muhammad. The philosophe who would be 

“demonized, in nineteenth-century eyes, as the prophet of atheism” 419 wrote a 

popular and controversial play about the prophet of Islam, who had long also been 

demonized by Christians. 

419 Karen O'Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment: Cosmopolitan History from Voltaire to Gibbon, ed. 

Howard Erskine-Hill and John Richetti, vol. 34, Cambridge Studies in Eighteenth-Century English 

Literature and Thought (NY: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 21.

Drawing on revisionist historical research into the role of religion during 

252 

the “siècle des lumièrs”, as some contemporaries called the 18 th century, this chapter 

argues that the self-consciously secular and progressive discourse of the 

Enlightenment philosophes on Islam carried a heavier debt to earlier Christian 

discourse than they were perhaps willing to admit and certainly greater than we are 

accustomed to believe. It does so by considering the characteristics of Voltaire’s 

view of history and by tracing the likely sources of influence on his play Mahomet 

ou le Fanatisme, considering in particular two 17 th -century works on Mohammed (by 

Pierre Bayle and Humphrey Prideaux) and their influences in turn. 

VOLTAIRE’S NARRATIVE HISTORY 

Few today think of Voltaire (born François-Marie Arouet in 1694) as 

primarily a historian, yet many of his contemporaries knew him as just that. Even 

many of his fictional works evidence his significant historical knowledge. In the 

words of one modern editor of Voltaire’s writings – René Pomeau – “ses écrits en 

général se nourrissent d’une large erudition d’historien : plus étendue que celle de 

Rousseau…; plus sure que celle de Montesquieu”. 420 In his study of 19 th -century 

historians, Hayden White notes that while the latter tended to view Enlightenment 

historiography in general as a cautionary example to avoid emulating, this was not 

true across the board. Some “of the philosophes, and most notably Voltaire, 

420 “His writings were generally nourished by his significant knowledge of history, which was broader 

than that of Rousseau…; more certain than that of Montesquieu” René Pomeau, "Présentation," in 

Politique de Voltaire, ed. René Pomeau, Collection U / Série "Idées Politiques" (Paris: Armand Colin, 

1963), p. 10.

continued to exercise a profound influence during the period of Romanticism, 

253 

and Voltaire himself was regarded as an ideal worthy of emulation by even as 

Romantic historian as Michelet.” 421 Some go further than this, like another editor of 

a modern collection of Voltaire’s essays who describe him as “the father of modern 

history”. 422 Ernst Cassirer, the famed intellectual historian of the Enlightenment, 

assigns Voltaire’s historical writings a role in the emancipation of the social sciences 

that approximates that of Newton’s physics and mathematics in the development of 

the natural sciences. In the field of natural science, Cassirer writes, 

Voltaire is only the literary disciple of Newton and the popularizer of 

his ideas and principles; but in the field of history he ventures to 

formulate an original and independent conception, a new 

methodological plan, for which he paves the way in his Essay on 

Manners. All great historical works of the eighteenth century were 

henceforth written under the influence of this philosophical 

achievement. As in France Turgot and Condorcet are influenced by 

Voltaire, similarly in England Hume, Gibbon, and Robertson take 

Voltaire as their model. … Just as mathematics becomes the prototype 

of exact knowledge, so history now becomes the methodological 

model from which the eighteenth century acquires new understanding 

for the general task and the specific structure of the abstract 

sciences. 423 

In a number of works – the most important of which were Histoire de 

Charles XII, Le Siècle de Louis XIV, and Essai sur le mæurs et l’esprit des nations 424 

– Voltaire developed an influential model of narrative history that was at the same 


422 Haskell Block, M, "Introduction," in Voltarie: Candide and Other Writings, ed. Haskell Block, M 

(NY: The Modern Library, 1956), p. xii. 

423 Ernst Cassirer, The Philosophy of the Enlightenment, trans. Fritz C. A. Koelln and James P. 

Pettegrove (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1951), pp. 200-201. 

424 The first edition of the Essai was published under a different title: François Marie Areouet de 

Voltaire, Abregé de L'Histoire Universelle, depuis Charlemagne, jusques a Charlequint, II vols., vol. 

I (London: Jean Nourse, 1753).

254 

time innovative and highly symptomatic of his time. We are here concerned with 

the broad characteristics of his narrative history, how it compares to the confessional 

historical meta-narratives that preceded it, and what place it accorded the Muslim or 

Turkish Other and the collective Self, however construed. 

Periodization 

Karen O’Brien’s Narratives of Enlightenment examines what she calls 

Voltaire’s “neoclassical poetics of history” along with the works of five other 18 th - 

century historians. According to O’Brien, the form and structure of Voltaire’s 

historical works are distinguished by their use of periodization, a narrative format, 

and universal types. Concerning the first, she observes that Voltaire rarely gets the 

credit he deserves for his role in developing the system of periodization familiar to 

every modern student of history. “The elaboration of a common descriptive model 

for the history of Europe through separately periodised ancient, medieval, early 

modern and enlightened modern stages” 425 was a peculiar feature of the historical 

narratives of the Enlightenment and owed much to Voltaire, whose “four happy 

ages” belonged to Ancient Greece, Ancient Rome, Renaissance Europe (esp. Italy), 

and Europe of Louis XIV. 426 Rebuking Jean-François Lyotard (and to a lesser extent 

Hayden White), O’Brien views this as a departure from the reliance on historical 

meta-narratives. Not one of the 18 th -century works of history that she examines 

425 O'Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment, p. 11. 

426 François Marie Areouet de Voltaire, An Essay On the Age of Lewis XIV By Mr. De Voltaire, Being 

His Introduction to the Work, trans. Lockman (Dublin: George Faulkner, 1760), pp. 3-6.

“grounds its claim to validity in a universal, unchanging logic of nature or spirit 

255 

as all meta-narratives are said to do.” 427 Instead, she sees in these writings 

a philosophically informed and politically principled skepticism 

towards the grand narratives of their forebears and contemporaries – 

towards the exclusivity and chronology of Christian universal 

history… Where their predecessors and contemporaries looked for 

constancies and continuities in the past, these historians tended to 

disaggregate history into periods and stages, specifying the forms of 

polity, culture and even consciousness which differentiated one era 

from the next. 428 

If we were to accept this account, we would be tempted to conclude that 18 th - 

century historians like Voltaire achieved a radical break with the historical writing of 

all previous periods by rejecting the Biblical meta-narratives that had informed pre- 

18 th -century historians in favor of with a more pluralistic approach to history that 

embraced historical diversity and discontinuity. As it is, the argument appears to be 

based on a misunderstanding of the notion of meta-narrative and a misreading of 

both the 18 th -century historians and their predecessors. While a significant break did 

occur, it was of a different nature than that suggested in O’Brien’s portrayal. First, 

the periodization employed by Enlightenment historians was hardly part of a larger 

relativistic or even pluralistic worldview that depicted and evaluated each era on its 

own terms, as the above quote implies. O’Brien herself points to “the central idea, 

shared by all of the historians … that they were living in an age more enlightened 

than the past.” 429 Notwithstanding her dislike for Lyotard and the concept of metanarratives, 

even O’Brien’s analysis reveals the existence of a teleological master- 



429 O'Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment, p. 11.

narrative of progress – or “perfection”, as Voltaire preferred to call it – that 

256 

united and structured their historical writings, periodized as they were. Let us return 

to this point shortly. 

Second, while the particular periodization employed by Voltaire may have 

been new in some respects (though even this is open to discussion), the practice of 

periodization per se was nothing unique to 18 th -century historiography. One of 

Voltaire’s French neoclassical predecessors, bishop Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet (1627- 

1704), elaborated a historical method based on the notion of twelve epochs (or 

“places to stop and look around”) 430 and seven ages in his Discours sur l’histoire 

universelle (1681), a work that portrays history as the unfolding of God’s plan for 

mankind. 431 As noted in Chapter 2, Isidore of Seville had incorporated a 

periodization of world history in six ages (and a seventh in which the world would 

end) into a formal chronology in the early 7 th century. The above mentioned Pomeau 

recognizes that Voltaire’s periodization was not without precursors, suggesting that 

he found inspiration for the structure of a four-fold division of world history in the 

writings of medieval and Renaissance historians, who in turn modeled their work on 

the prophecies of Daniel: 

Une philosophie de l’histoire, que les auteurs de la Renaissance 

héritèrent des chroniqueurs médiévaux, divisait l’histoire universelle 

430 Fabian, Johannes. (1983). Time and Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object, NY: Columbia 

University Press, quoted in David Hammerbeck, "Voltaire's Mahomet, the Persistence of Cultural 

Memory and Pre-Modern Orientalism," Agora: An Online Graduate Journal 2, no. 2 (2003): p. 17. 

431 Cassirer, The Philosophy of the Enlightenment, p. 220; Peter Gay, The Enlightenment: An 

Interpretation: The Rise of Modern Paganism, 2 vols., vol. 1 (NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1966), pp. 76-77; 

Bernt Olsson and Ingemar Algulin, Litteraturens Historia i Världen, 4th ed. (Stockholm: Nordstedts 

Förlag, 1995), pp. 242-243.

257 

en quatre monarchies, qu’on disait avoir été annoncées au livre de Daniel, 

2, 40. Saint Jérôme avait définitivement identifié l’empire romain 

comme la quatrième de ces monarchies; celle-ci devait rester la 

dernière; d’où naquit la fiction du Saint Empire romain germanique. 

Durant près de deux siècles, dans les écoles protestantes et chez 

nombre d’écrivains catholiques, cette théorie demeura classique 

comme cadre de l’histoire. 

Voltaire ne devait pas l’ignorer. Il en conserve quelque chose dans 

l’exposé célèbre qui ouvre son Siècle de Louis XIV. Mais il corrige, et 

modernize : la repartition en quatre siècles est décalée vers l’époque 

contemporaine. Et les critères de grandeur sont ceux de la philosophie 

éclairée. 432 

According to Pomeau, Voltaire updated and modified the four-part structure 

to suit his purposes but he did not invent it. Peter Gay, one of the most influential 

modern historians of the Enlightenment, confirms that Renaissance historians like 

Giorgio Vasari had elaborated the same basic periodization (minus the fourth age, of 

course) centuries before. 433 It therefore seems reasonable to say that Voltaire’s 

historical works were part of a shift that included a rejection of the Biblical historical 

meta-narratives that had informed previous generations of historians (and most of his 

contemporaries), but not that it involved the abolition of all historical meta-narratives 

as such. Enlightenment historians developed their own meta-narrative in place the 

432 René Pomeau, ed., Politique de Voltaire, Collection U / Sèrie "Idées Politiques" (Paris: Armand 

Colin, 1963), p. 89. “A philosophy of history that the Renaissance inherited from the medieval 

chroniclers divided universal history into four monarchies, which were said to have been announced 

in the Book of Daniel, 2, 40. Saint Jerome had definitively identified the Roman Empire as the fourth 

of these monarchies, and this had to remain the last, for which reason was born the fiction of the Holy 

Roman Empire of the German nation. This theory remained the classic model of historical 

periodization for almost two centuries, in both protestant schools and with numerous catholic writers. 

Voltaire could not ignore this. He conserves something from it in the famous exposition that opens his 

Siécle de Louis XIV. But he corrects and modernizes it: the partition in four centuries is superimposed 

on the contemporary era. And the criteria for grandeur are those of enlightened philosophy.” (My 

translation.) 

433 Gay, The Rise, p. 35.

older ones and in doing so they appear to have retained significant elements of 

258 

the latter. 

Voltaire’s complicated relationship to Bossuet’s above mentioned universal 

history usefully illustrates these matters. Voltaire greatly admired the book as a 

“literary masterpiece” but saw in it precisely the kind of naïve teleological history 

that must be avoided; one that posits a divine plan in light of which every historical 

event receives its significance. 434 To avoid this pitfall, history must become an 

inductive empirical science. The historian must proceed in a manner analogous to the 

natural scientist and uncover the fundamental laws that govern the universe trough 

careful study of the facts. Voltaire lived as he preached in this respect and most of 

his own historical writings were based on extensive archival research. However, he 

was also well aware that not “[e]very event that occurs is … worth recording.” 435 

Given the vast collections of archival material available, the historian must “limit 

himself and select from these immense collections which serve only to confuse. They 

constitute a vast store-house, from which you take what is necessary for your own 

occasions.” 436 A good historian is guided in these decisions by a clear notion of what 

qualifies as important and by a worthy reason for writing. Voltaire’s own motivation 

was a concern to capture the historical progress of reason and the refinement of the 

“spirit and the customs of men, which may serve for instruction and to counsel the 

434 Cassirer, The Philosophy of the Enlightenment, p. 220. 

435 François Marie Areouet de Voltaire, "The Age of Louis XIV," in Voltarie: Candide and Other 

Writings, ed. Haskell Block, M (NY: The Modern Library, 1956), p. 225. 

436 François Marie Areouet de Voltaire, "An Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations, and on the 

Principal Events of History from Charlemagne to Louis XIII, Introduction," in Voltarie: Candide and 

Other Writings, ed. Haskell Block, M (NY: The Modern Library, 1956), p. 314.

love of virtue, of the arts and of the fatherland.” 437 To Voltaire, Cassirer writes, 

259 

“the process by which reason emerges empirically and becomes comprehensible to 

itself, represents the fundamental meaning of history.” 438 As long as Voltaire gets 

this point across to the reader, he has reached his main objective. “It is enough,” he 

assures any reader overwhelmed by the wealth of information in The Age of Louis 

XIV, “if we have shown that during the past century mankind, from one end of 

Europe to the other, has been more enlightened than in all preceding ages.” 439 

This emphasis on revealing the progress of reason throughout history is no 

minor point. “In this conception of historiography,” writes Cassirer, “Voltaire has set 

up the program followed henceforth by all historians of the epoch of the 

Enlightenment.” 440 Voltaire’s repeated assertions of “the wonderful superiority of 

our age over that of the ancients” 441 and all following ages suggest the basic story 

contained in this influential view of history. They also suggest that Voltaire may 

have more in common with Bossuet than he was willing to admit. In Cassirer’s view, 

he 

falls prey here to that naïve teleology which as a pure theorist he so 

strongly rejects and attacks. Just as Bossuet projects his theological 

ideal into history, so Voltaire projects his philosophical ideal; as the 

former applies to history the standard of the Bible, so the latter freely 

applies his rational standards to the past. 442 

437 Voltaire, "Age of Louis XIV," p. 225. 





442 Cassirer, The Philosophy of the Enlightenment, pp. 221-222.

This inclination toward teleology was fuelled by the tendency, common 

260 

to all of the philosophes, to view the world in terms of a basic opposition between 

forces of superstition and oppression on one hand and those of reason and 

enlightenment on the other. “The past to them was unreason,” writes Hayden White, 

“the present was a conflict of reason and unreason, and the future alone was the time 

which they could envision as that of the triumph of reason over reason, perfect unity, 

redemption.” 443 The four periods identified in the famous first chapter of The Age of 

Louis XIV were defined in terms of this struggle, as the “four happy ages when the 

arts were brought to perfection and which, marking an era of the greatness of the 

human mind, are an example to posterity.” 444 The last age was that signified by the 

title of the book, and was “perhaps of the four the one which most nearly approaches 

perfection”. The possibility of a cumulative relationship between each period and the 

one that preceded it explained the superior status of the last age: 

Enriched with the discoveries of the other three it accomplished in 

certain departments more than the three together. All the arts, it is 

true, did not progress further than they did under the Medici, under 

Augustus or under Alexander; but human reason in general was 

brought to perfection. 445 

In sum, Voltaire did not write a traditional medieval history of the world as 

the unfolding of a divine plan, but neither did he merely report historical events as 

they had “actually” unfolded. His histories told a story. The basic outlines of this 



445 Voltaire, "Age of Louis XIV," p. 222.

narrative of progress have already emerged but the place of narration in 

261 

Voltaire’s histories can be fleshed out more fully. 

Narrative and Types 

The other two formal/structural characteristics of Voltaire’s historical works 

that O’Brien identifies are related: their embrace of the narrative format as a 

legitimate form of writing history and their reliance on universal types. O’Brien 

points out that Voltaire was an acknowledged master of the epic and tragic literary 

genres by the time he composed his most important historical studies. Moreover, 

literature was by then firmly established as an art form that was legitimized and 

regulated by a body of works on neoclassical literary theory, such as Boileau’s 

influential L’art poétique (1674). 446 Though it sounds odd to someone trained in 21 st - 

century American social science, Voltaire believed that he could enhance the 

prestige of history by situating it “within identifiable literary structures”. 447 He only 

gradually moved from poetry to history via works like the historical epic poem about 

Henri IV, La Henriade (1728), and his first prose history, Histoire de Charles XII 

(1731), a trail of breadcrumbs that makes it easy to spot the continued significance of 

the neoclassical literary format even in Voltaire’s later historical works. 448 On one 

hand, then, writing history was an art and as such was subject to rules like those that 

guided the other arts. Under the entry for “Histoire” in his Questions Sur 

L’Encyclopédie (intended as a smaller companion dictionary to Diderot and 

446 Olsson and Algulin, Litteraturens Historia, p. 219. 


448 O'Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment.

D’Alembert’s famous original), Voltaire described some of the stylistic 

262 

requirements of writing history: 

On sait assez qu’il faut un stile grave, pur, varié, agréable. Il en est 

des loix pour écrire l’histoire comme de celles de tous les arts de 

l’esprit; de beaucoup de préceptes, & peu de grands artistes. 449 

These were clearly literary criteria. On the other hand, history was different 

from other kinds of literature and Voltaire venomously criticized what he called 

“satirical” and “fabulous” history for dealing in untruths. 450 Voltaire’s definition of 

history makes this distinction clear. “L’histoire est le récit des faits donnés pour 

vrais, au contraire de la fable qui est le récit des faits donnés pour faux.” 451 However, 

he defended this view by relying on the neoclassical literary concept of 

vraisemblance, or the probable, which “encapsulated the moral and aesthetic 

requirement that literature should treat only of the natural and probable, and never of 

the fantastic, trivial or debased.” 452 The marriage of literature and science in this 

conception of history is significant to us in rather obvious ways; most importantly 

because it left room for Voltaire to emplot his subject matter rather than just report it. 

More accurately, history conceived as the literary art of accurately representing 

significant facts in a tasteful and engaging fashion, demanded rather than allowed 

attention to the story dimension. 

449 “It is well enough know that it demands a style that is serious, pure, varied, and pleasant. It is with 

the laws for writing history as it is with those of all the arts; there are many precepts and few great 

artists.” François Marie Areouet de Voltaire, Questions sur l'Encyclopédie, Distribuées en Forme de 

Dictionnaire, par des Amateurs, 2nd ed., vol. VII (London: Hérésie-Loix, 1772), p. 72. 

450 White, Metahistory, pp. 49-50. See e.g. Voltaire’s discussion of “Histoire Satyrique” in Voltaire, 

Questions sur l'Encyclopédie, pp. 66-69. 

451 “History is the depiction of events presented as true, in contrast to the fable which is the depiction 

of events presented as untrue.” Voltaire, Questions sur l'Encyclopédie, p. 15. 

452 O'Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment, p. 26.

The literary component can be seen in the fact that like “his precursor 

263 

epic and mock-epic poets, such as Chapelain and Boileau, Voltaire situates the 

substance and meaning of history in supra-historical types.” 453 In other words, the 

actors in Voltaire’s narrative histories were typified as playing a limited number of 

familiar roles: the tragic hero, the fanatic, the sage etc. The justification for this 

practice – which is commonplace in fictional writing but not obvious as a device for 

writing factual history – was a two-fold assumption regarding the requirements and 

limitations inherent in the art of writing on one hand and in the historical subject 

matter on the other. According to Voltaire, 

the great natural opportunities which are suited to the nation for which 

the author is working are few in number. The subjects available and 

their appropriate elaboration have much narrower limits than might be 

thought. The Abbé Dubos… was of the opinion that in the whole of 

French history there was but a single subject for an epic poem, the 

destruction of the League by Henri-Quatre. … It is the same with the 

art of tragedy. It is a mistake to believe that the great tragic passions 

and emotions can be infinitely varied in new and striking ways. 

Everything has its limits. High comedy has no less its own. In human 

nature there are at the most a dozen characteristics that are really 

comic... 454 

The finite number of comic or tragic human characteristics made it possible 

for the historian to work with only a limited number of characters (or roles), and the 

finite number of epic or tragic true stories in history made it possible for him to work 

with a small number of types of story. Voltaire had of course himself written the 

great epic poem about Henri IV in his Henriade (1728). While he cast The Age of 

Louis XIV in the genre of history instead of poetry, its protagonist is in many ways a 

453 O'Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment, pp. 27-28. 


standard tragic hero who is endowed with great ambitions and capabilities, and 

264 

who first achieves great success but ultimately overreaches and falls. In the end, the 

king is brought to the somber realization that he is “no longer invincible”, 455 entirely 

according to the standard formula of the Tragedy where the final reconciliation 

consists in the “resignations of men to the conditions under which they must labor in 

the world.” 456 The types that Voltaire employed in his historical writings derived in 

part from the fundamental oppositions that he read into the past: between nature and 

the unnatural, reason and superstition, the wise skepticism of age and the blind 

fanaticism of youth. The “most enlightened” age of Louis XIV was thus juxtaposed 

against a France before Louis XIV that was defined essentially in terms of its 

absence of all that was great about the later age, by its “défaut de lumières”. 457 “In 

short,” concludes his discussion of France before the age of the Sun King, “customs, 

laws, the arts, society, religion, peace and war, were as nothing to what they 

afterwards became in the century known as the Age of Louis XIV.” 458 In this sense, 

certain periods of Voltaire’s history were essentially negations of the modern era, 

which was true not only of Europe’s “savage” past but also of places outside of 

Europe today. 



457 That is, by its “lack of enlightenment”. O'Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment, p. 35. 


265 

European Progress and Oriental Stagnation 

O’Brien argues that Voltaire’s outlook was not that of the narrow nationalist 

but that of the cosmopolitan European. She points out his status as a historian of 

Europe: 

It was the thematic concerns of a unique, common European 

civilisation, that particularly attracted an international readership. 

Voltaire was the first historian to articulate in detail an Enlightenment 

narrative of the rise of Europe as it was hastened by the growing 

wealth and independence of the middle order of society. He was the 

first to explain the political utility of this common sense of European 

identity, and the first to show how this sense of identity had a more 

solidly political basis than the older Renaissance notion of a shared 

classical heritage. 459 

This account is well grounded. Voltaire did identify certain European 

commonalities, a basic cultural unity beneath the variety of nations and cultures that 

was based on both a shared religious heritage and the influence of the ancients. 

“From the age of the Renaissance, which took the ancients for its models,” he wrote, 

“Homer, Demosthenes, Virgil, and Cicero have in some way or another reunited 

under their laws all the peoples of Europe, and have made of so many different 

nations a single republic of letters…” 460 In addition, Voltaire observed what 

international relations theorists in the English School would later treat in greater 

detail: the emergence of a European society of states even before the age of Louis. 

Already for a long time one could regard Christian Europe (except 

Russia) as a sort of great republic divided into several states, some 

monarchical, others of a mixed character; the former aristocratic, the 

latter popular, but all in harmony with each other, all having the same 

substratum of religion, although divided into various sects; all 


460 Voltaire, "Age of Louis XIV."

possessing the same principles of public and political law; unknown in 

other parts of the world. In obedience to these principles the European 

nations do not make their prisoners slaves, they respect their enemies’ 

ambassadors, they agree as to the pre-eminence and rights of certain 

princes, such as the Emperor, kings and other lesser potentates, and 

above all, they are at one on the wise policy of maintaining among 

themselves so far as possible an equal balance of power, ceaselessly 

carrying on negotiations, even in wartime, and sending each to the 

other ambassadors or less honorable spies, who can acquaint every 

court with the designs of any one of them, give in a moment the alarm 

to Europe, and defend the weakest from invasions which the strongest 

is always ready to attempt. 461 

266 

As these quotes illustrate, Voltaire clearly transcended a narrow French 

nationalist position, as O’Brien argues. The problem with her interpretation on this 

point is that she construes cosmopolitanism as essentially the rejection of 

nationalism. However, the denigrating reference in the last quote to “other parts of 

the world” where they e.g. make “prisoners slaves” because they do not know 

European principles of law (leaving aside the glaring problem of the extensive use of 

slaves by European colonialists), raises the question of whether “Eurocentric” is not 

a better description than “cosmopolitan”. Voltaire embraced the diversity of tastes 

among the nations of Europe while insisting on their underlying commonalities, 

which distinguished Europe as a whole from the rest of the world. The introduction 

to his Essai sur le mæurs explains why the book begins with ancient China and then 

moves westward and forward in time (until it ends in 16 th -century Europe) by 

referring to the trajectory of progress in world history. “Let us survey the world 

together; let us see in what condition it was then, by studying it in the same way in 

which it seems to have been civilized: that is, from the oriental countries to our 

461 Voltaire, "Age of Louis XIV," pp. 225-226.

own”. 462 While Europe of the modern era had reached the highest level of 

267 

progress, eastern empires like China and Ottoman Turkey had stagnated. The 

Chinese, for example, indeed had a glorious and long history, but according to 

Voltaire “ce qui met les Chinois au-dessus de tous les peoples de la terre, c’est que ni 

leurs loix, ni leurs mæurs, ni la langue que parlent chez eux les letters, n’ont changé 

depuis environ quatre-mille ans.” 463 Likewise with the Turks, who by the early 17 th 

century “were no longer what they had been under the Selims, the Mahomets and the 

Soleymans; effeminacy corrupted the seraglio, but did not banish cruelty.” 464 Like 

Europe’s own barbarian past, the contemporary barbarians outside of Europe were its 

negation. 

In sum, the story Voltaire told in his writings on history was that of the 

progress of civilization. The slow perfection of reason, laws, and culture began in the 

east due to its favorable climate and reached its greatest heights in modern Europe, 

which owed its success not to the climate but “to time, to commerce, and to belated 

industry.” 465 For two reasons, this is properly described as a historical metanarrative. 

First, Voltaire developed this story throughout his entire career and it is a 

characterization of his historical writings taken as a whole, not of any one work. 

Second, this narrative ought to be familiar since in its broad outlines it conforms to 

the standard Enlightenment narrative of progress, or the historical meta-narrative 

462 Voltaire, "Introduction," p. 320. 

463 “But what places the Chinese beneath all the peoples in the world is that neither their laws, nor 

their customs, nor the language spoken among their learned men has changed for about four thousand 

years.” Voltaire, Questions sur l'Encyclopédie, p. 18. 


465 Voltaire, "Introduction," pp. 314-315.

developed during the Enlightenment. 466 On Voltaire’s take, this trajectory of 

268 

progress was not uniform or smooth but proceeded in fits and starts, as we see in his 

periodization schema. In some respects, it is as if he believed each age to carry 

within itself the seeds of its own destruction or at least decline. At least when it came 

to the arts the possibilities of continuous perfection and improvement were limited: 

One should not try to treat, for example, the topic of religious hypocrisy in a comedy 

again, since Molière’s masterly Tartuffe had already exhausted the possibilities of 

this approach. 467 Considering the perhaps inevitable decline of fine arts within each 

age, the individual acts of this historical narrative could be Tragedies, like the history 

of Louis XIV (and, as we shall see, the play Mahomet). However, Voltaire cast the 

historical meta-narrative on the macro level in the mode of Comedy – it was a story 

of gradual progress that appeared to be heading toward the ultimate victory of the 

forces of reason and enlightenment over those of superstition or fanaticism. 

We should not exaggerate the coherence, consistency, or rigidity of this metanarrative, 

however. Hayden White argues that 18 th -century historians evolved from 

this initial attempt to treat their subject matter in either Tragic or Comic mode. By 

the end of the century, he believes, many of them had reached the Ironic position of 

skepticism as to the possibility of employing either of these two modes and 

pessimism regarding the ability of man to reach a successful Comic resolution to his 

466 See e.g. Brett Bowden, "In the Name of Progress and Peace: The 'Standard of Civilization' and the 

Universalizing Project," Alternatives: Global, Local, Political 29, no. 1 (2004). 


problems or even an enlightening Tragic defeat in pursuit of this quest. 468 

269 

O’Brien identifies Voltaire’s evolving views in changes he made to the multiple 

editions of his Essai sur le mæurs, among which were the additions of many satirical 

asides and ironical remarks to the text. Nevertheless, judging from La Philosophie de 

l’Histoire – an introductory essay added to the Essai in 1769 – his later works reveal 

a belief in the teleological progress of reason no less than his earlier writings did. 469 

If there was such a shift toward an Ironic mode of historiography as White argues, 470 

it occurred after Voltaire’s death. 

Having outlined the contours of the historical meta-narrative that informed 

Voltaire’s work and touched upon the role of the Oriental Others in this narrative, we 

can now turn to the promised investigation of his play about Mohammed. 

VOLTAIRE’S MAHOMET: LE FANATISME AND THE PROGRESS OF REASON 

Voltaire’s Mahomet was first performed in 1741 to an approving audience in 

Lille, and its début at the Théâtre Français in Paris followed a year later. There, 

however, it generated enough controversy to be taken off the stage after only one 

week. Only after Voltaire in 1745 secured the surprising blessing of the pope himself 

for the play could it again be staged freely. By itself, the play hardly occupies any 

singular place in the intellectual developments of the 18 th century, but on the 

received view that the Enlightenment philosophes were pursuing the “intellectual 


469 O'Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment, pp. 54-55. 

470 White, Metahistory, pp. 66-69.

destruction of Christendom” 471 it is often seen as one of many important 

270 

contributions to this project (which makes the pope’s blessing all the more 

surprising; an apparent contradiction to which we shall return later in the chapter). In 

a letter to Frederick II of Prussia that prefaces the printed play, Voltaire makes no 

secret of the fact that his Mahomet is a stand-in for religious fanaticism (or 

enthusiasm, as the philosophes liked to call it) in general and Christian fanaticism in 

particular: “Mahomet n’est ici autre chose que Tartufe les armes à la main”. 472 

Religious superstition, he wrote, 

persécute le sage qui n’est qu’homme de bien, par la main du fou qui 

est enthousiaste; ... elle donne à Jurieu, qui faisait le prophète, assez 

de crédit pour réduire à la pauvreté le savant et philosophe Bayle. ... 

En vain la raison humaine se perfectionne par la philosophie qui fait 

tant de progrès en Europe: ... On voit dans ce même siècle, où la 

raison élève son trône d’un côté, le plus absurde fanatisme dresser 

encore ses autels de l’autre. 473 

Here we have again the dualistic narrative of the Enlightenment as a battle 

between reason/philosophy and religion/superstition, the one (represented in this 

passage by Pierre Bayle) standing for progress, the other (represented by Pierre 

Jurieu, who with Bayle will be discussed further below) standing in its way. In this 

conflict, Voltaire was not a neutral observer and Mahomet was not meant as mere 

471 Rich, "Myth of Islam," p. 444. 

472 “Mahomet is here nothing but a Tartuffe with sword in hand.” Tartuffe, of course, was the lead 

character in Molière’s play by the same name, who represented a stinging caricature of the French 

clergy. François Marie Areouet de Voltaire, Mahomet le Prophète ou le fanatisme (Paris: Librarie de 

la Bibliothèque Nationale, 1878), p. 8. 

473 “[S]uperstition ... persecutes the sage who is but a good man by the hand of the fool who is an 

enthusiast; ... she grants Jurieu, who plays the role of a prophet, enough credit to reduce to poverty the 

savant and philosopher Bayle. Human reason is in vain perfected by philosophy, which is making 

such progress in Europe. ... Even in this century, when reason ascends its throne on one side, one sees 

the most absurd fanaticism still raising its altars on the other.” Voltaire, Mahomet, pp. 6-7.

entertainment. He states that he would be satisfied if the play made but a few in 

271 

the audience ask themselves: 

“Pourquoi obéirais-je en aveugle à des aveugles qui me crient: 

Haïssez, persécutez, perdez celui qui est assez téméraire pour n’etre 

pas de notre avis sur des choses mème indifférentes que nous 

n’entendons pas?”... L’esprit d’indulgence ferait des frères: celui 

d’intolérance peut former de monstres. 474 

The play – ostensibly about Mohammed’s siege of Mecca – can thus be (and 

often is) seen as striking a forceful political blow against the remnants of medieval 

religious intolerance and persecution in Europe and for progress, tolerance, freedom 

from oppression, and freedom of conscience, much in the same vein as the author’s 

later Candide or Traité sur la Tolérance. As such, it was a contribution to the 

development of a secular, liberal, and progressive movement in 18 th -century Europe 

to redefine itself by framing a new set of basic legitimizing values upon which to 

build a social and political order. This task was certainly not completed during 

Voltaire’s century, but the foundation was laid by Enlightenment thinkers who 

challenged the ideas underlying the ancien régime. And as Anthony Pagden argues, 

the project was to be taken up by later proponents of European integration: 

As Saint Simon saw at the time of the Congress of Vienna, a unity 

something like the one that he believed to have existed in Europe 

before the Reformation could be recreated only if it replaced the force 

474 “’Why do I blindly obey the blind who yell at me: hate, persecute, get rid of those who have the 

audacity to not be of our opinion even on matters so indifferent that we do not listen?’ ... The spirit of 

indulgence makes brothers: that of intolerance can create monsters.” Voltaire, Mahomet, pp. 8-9.

of religious belief by the politics of liberalism, and the institutions of the 

Church by those of parliamentary democracy. 475 

272 

In short, Voltaire’s Mahomet ou le Fanatisme contributed to the emerging 

understanding of Europe as based on a small number of progressive and universal 

values – an inclusive European self-image that we discussed in the introductory 

chapter and which will figure prominently in Chapter 6 – and it did so by considering 

the Islamic Other. From a methodological standpoint, it could be argued that the play 

constitutes a “tough case” for the argument developed in this chapter, namely that 

European Enlightenment images of Islam and Mohammed were more beholden to 

their medieval Christian predecessors than is commonly acknowledged. The play 

was allegedly intended as a blow against religion and in favor of secularism and was 

written by one of the key characters of the European Enlightenment; the author of 

numerous works famously critical of religion and brave defender of those who like 

the Calais family 476 were victims of religious oppression. If anyone should have been 

able to break free from the medieval legacy, it should have been Voltaire. Indeed, a 

brief analysis of the play’s plot structure and of its inter-textual functions confirm 

that despite its Tragic form, Mahomet ou le fanatisme fits within Voltaire’s Comic 

meta-narrative of progress and the victory of reason over superstition that it 

postulated. 

475 Anthony Pagden, "Introduction," in The Idea of Europe from Antiquity to the European Union, ed. 

Anthony Pagden (Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and Cambridge University Press, 

2002), p. 22. 

476 The father of this Protestant family had been tortured and broken on the wheel, unjustly accused of 

having killed his son for allegedly having married a Catholic. Voltaire led a successful campaign to 

“rehabilitate the Calais family” (Gay, 1966, p. 187).

273 

Mode of Emplotment: A Tragic Act in the Comic Historical Meta-Narrative 

Voltaire cast Mahomet in a somewhat peculiar version of the Tragic mode of 

emplotment. That is should be seen as a tragedy is confirmed by the author himself, 

who described it as a tragedy in five acts, and by the cataclysmic ending (in which 

the son kills the man who turns out to be his father, Mahomet kills the son and 

romantic rival, and whose sister then takes her own life rather than become 

Mahomet’s lover) which is tragic by Northrop Frye and Hayden White’s 

definitions. 477 It is slightly peculiar in the sense that Mahomet – the nominal 

protagonist – is not among the heroic or deceived characters that perish at the end, as 

is usually the case in the classic Tragedies. On the other hand, his “victory” is 

hollow, even pyrrhic: above all he wanted the young Palmire and he ended up 

destroying her. His ending is therefore ultimately still Tragic. However, this begs the 

question of how the play, a Tragedy, fits within Voltaire’s overall Comic historical 

meta-narrative that we described earlier in this chapter. 

The answer to this question is rather straightforward. Unlike most of the 

earlier confessional narratives that we have examined in previous chapters, the 

protagonist in Voltaire’s play is the Muslim Other. On our fourth, contextual, level 

of narrative analysis, this point-of-view reversal implies a corresponding reversal in 

the moral function of the mode of emplotment: Mahomet’s Tragic loss (or pyrrhic 

victory) is consequently “our” (Comic) gain. The inevitable self-destruction of this 

religious imposter and the Tragic fate of his fanatic young disciples are fully 

477 See Chapter 1 above.

consonant with the ultimate Comic victory of reason and progress in the 

274 

historical meta-narrative that Voltaire embraced. Arguably, Voltaire also portrayed 

neither Mahomet nor his enthusiastic followers as fundamentally and irrevocably 

Other, as most earlier Tragic meta-narratives had done with their respective Muslim 

or Turkish Others. Voltaire’s Muslim Other embodied universal moral types and 

functioned as stand-ins for their dogmatic or hypocritical Christian counterparts in 

Europe. The rhetorical force of the play’s implicit argument depended on the mutual 

understanding between its author and the audience that there were fundamental 

similarities between the hypocritical Mahomet on stage and the hypocrites in the 

pulpits of many French churches. These similarities were between the Muslim Other 

on the outside and the dogmatic Others inside Europe (the “Tartuffes”), not between 

the former and the European forces of progress. Given that understanding, the 

Tragedy could be reconciled with the shared Comic meta-narrative of the 

Enlightenment. 

We noted above that Voltaire’s historical meta-narrative did not cast this 

stagnant and despotic eastern Other as a likely candidate for secular “conversion”, 

and in this sense he was de facto, if not in principle, essentially and unchangeably 

Other. However, this is not unlike the attitude of those medieval Christian who, like 

Ramon Llull, approached Islam from the standpoint of an inclusive and expansive 

Christian identity but ended up pessimistic about the prospects of converting this 

Other, however human and rational he was conceived. Inclusive Self-images 

represent difference between Self and Other as temporary and surmountable,

275 

whereas exclusive identities assume essential and insurmountable difference, but 

these stark theoretical divergence between the two views often recede or even vanish 

in practice. Voltaire’s Mahomet represented a despotic Oriental Other who was 

defined by his lack of Enlightenment and who belonged to the past; nowhere does 

Voltaire suggest that these differences will actually be overcome. This de facto 

convergence between the theoretically distinct views of inclusive and exclusive 

identities will be discussed further in the next chapter, in the context of the debate 

about Turkey’s application for membership in the European Union. Before we get 

there, however, we must first complete our narrative analysis of Voltaire’s play with 

an examination of its images of the Muslim Other. 

A Genealogy of the Images of Mohammed in Voltaire’s Mahomet 

A brief 1961 article in the journal French Review considers the sources of 

Voltaire’s Mahomet and concludes that it relied heavily on a contemporary 

biography written by a historian named Comte Henri de Boulainvilliers, not on the 

Life of Mahomet written by Humphrey Prideaux. 478 If true, this conclusion would be 

interesting since in stark contrast to Prideaux’ Life, Boulainvilliers’ Vie de Mahomet 

was one of the most sympathetic accounts of the Prophet of Islam written by a 

Christian to that date. It was even rumored (though surely incorrectly) that that the 

aristocrat and historian Boulainvilliers had converted to Islam on his deathbed and he 

was sometimes nicknamed the “Mahometan Christian”. However, two brief 

examples suffice to show the flimsy nature of the evidence presented in support of 

478 Ronald W. Tobin, "The Sources of Voltaire's "Mahomet"," The French Review 34, no. 4 (1961).

the genealogy in mentioned article. First, the author argues that Boulainvilliers 

276 

must be Voltaire’s source for the story of how Mohammed is supposed to have 

stolen the wife of one of his disciples, whom Voltaire calls “Séide”. The reason 

given is that this story is also found in Boulainvilliers’ Vie, where the name of the 

disciple is the nearly identical “Zéid”. 479 Unfortunately, the exact same story can be 

found in Prideaux’ Life, where the name is “Zeyd”, as well as in another work that 

we shall consider further below as a likely source for Voltaire; under the entry 

“Mahomet” in the Dictionary of Pierre Bayle who quotes further variations on the 

disciple’s name: “Zaidi”, “Zaido”, “Zaidis”, and “Zaidus”. 480 Second, in what seems 

like a research coup-de-grace, the author then cites a study of Voltaire’s library 

records for 1747, which definitively confirms that he checked out Boulainvilliers’ 

Vie. 481 Again unfortunately, the author forgets that Voltaire’s play was first 

performed six years before this date! If we are interested in the sources of the 

portrayal of Mohammed in the play, we clearly have to do some further research. 482 

The Imposter 

Inventing new legends and a mostly fictional plot within a historical setting 

on the way (as Voltaire himself admits in the letter to Frederick II), 483 Mahomet 

479 Tobin, "The Sources of Voltaire's "Mahomet"," p. 374. 

480 See Humphrey D D Prideaux, The True Nature of Imposture Fully Display'd in the Life of 

Mahomet. With a Discourse annex'd, for the Vindicating of Christianity from this Charge; Offered to 

the Consideration of the Deists of the present Age, The Third Edition Counted. ed. (London: Printed 

for William Rogers, at the Sun against St. Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet, 1698), pp. 147-148. Also 

see Pierre Bayle, "Mahomet," in The Dictionary Historical and Critical of Mr. Peter Bayle, ed. des 

Maizeaux (London: Midwinter, D. et. al., 1737), p. 263 n.(T). 

481 Tobin, "The Sources of Voltaire's "Mahomet"," p. 376. 

482 A better analysis, with which the discussion in this chapter has much in common, is Hammerbeck, 

"Voltaire's Mahomet." 

483 Voltaire, Mahomet, pp. 4, 8.

portrayed Mohammed as a cunning imposter who deceived his followers for 

277 

personal gain. The fanatic of the title was thus not the false Prophet himself but the 

young followers he exploited. When Mahomet at the end of the play calls out to his 

God, his deceit is obvious: “Dieu, que j’ai fait servir au malheur des humains, / 

Adorable instrument de mes affreux dessins,” he exclaims. 484 This image of 

Mohammed as an imposter was not Voltaire’s invention – it is as old as the earliest 

Christian biographies of him. However, we need not assume that Voltaire had read 

many medieval Christian apologetic or polemic accounts of the “Life of Mahomet”, 

as was the standard title for many such works, for we know that had read and 

admired Bayle’s Dictionnarie, which, unlike Boulainvilliers biography, contains the 

same depiction of the Prophet as an imposter. 485 

In his unmistakable style (which reveals a desire to achieve scientific 

precision and objectivity through a complex, multi-layered system of notes that 

dominated each page, and still manages a vivid and distinctly personal prose), Bayle 

quoted a variety of authors in his entry on “Mahomet” and gave voice to contrasting 

viewpoints on the question of whether Mohammed was an imposter who cunningly 

484 “God, whom I have placed in service of the misfortune of mankind, / Adorable instrument of my 

hideous designs” Voltaire, Mahomet, p. 94. 

485 We also find the depiction of the Prophet as a “wicked impostor” and “inventor” of a false religion 

in the generally nuanced introduction to George Sale’s translation of the Koran, and in the 

“Preliminary Discourse” appended to it (George Sale, The Koran: Commonly Called the Alkoran of 

Mohammed, Translated from the Original into English, with Explanatory Notes Taken from the Most 

Approved Commentators. To Which is Prefixed a Preliminary Discourse (NY: Frederick Warne and 

Co., 1734), pp. 10, 56, 99.) and while occasionally critical of Prideaux, Sale cites him on the question 

of imposture. Since Sale’s work was closer in time to the publication of Voltaire’s Mahomet than that 

of either Prideaux or Bayle, it is quite possible that Voltaire was familiar with it. The library list 

mentioned above also includes Sale’s study, but the chronology precludes any automatic conclusions 

here as it did with respect to Boulainvilliers above.

278 

and knowingly created a book full of lies, or an “enthusiast” who truly believed – 

however misguided a belief – in what he preached. Though Bayle dismissed many of 

the more absurd stories of Mohammed’s alleged miracles as inventions by overly 

zealous Christian authors eager to ridicule Islam and its Prophet, he nevertheless 

concluded that “I chuse rather to concur with the common opinion, That Mahomet 

was an impostor: for, besides what I shall say elsewhere his insinuating behaviour, 

and dexterous address, in procuring friends, do plainly shew, that he made use of 

religion only as an expedient to aggrandize himself”. 486 

Among the works cited frequently in Bayle’s entry “Mahomet”, we find a 

Historia Orientalis by a professor of Oriental languages – Elmacin apud Hottingeri – 

(first published 1651) and Johannes Andreas’ de Confusione Sectae Mahometanae 

(written in the late 15 th century but published in Latin 1595). In support of the claim 

of Mohammed’s imposture he cited in particular the work of a contemporary: Dr. 

Humphrey Prideaux (1697), which he also recommended to any reader interested in 

a good overview of the Prophet’s life. The latter work is of interest to us here, and 

the position it took on the question of whether Mohammed was an imposter was 

clarified already in the title of the book: The True Nature of Imposture Fully 

Display'd in the Life of Mahomet. Some of the particular elements of Prideaux’ study 

will shortly be analyzed further, but let us at this point clearly state the connections 

between the three authors. Whereas Prideaux’ Life has elsewhere been identified as a 

486 Bayle, "Mahomet," p. 30. The “Critical” in the title hints at Bayle’s aim with the dictionary, which 

was to refute rumors and falsehoods about history through careful investigation of sources. In this 

case, one assumes that the falsehoods being targeted were as much Mohammed’s own as those of his 

most polemical Christian critics.

279 

key source for Voltaire’s play, 487 we can at least say for certain that it was one of 

the most important sources for Bayle’s entry on “Mahomet”, especially for those 

passages where Bayle attempts to establish the interpretation of the Prophet as an 

imposter. Moreover, Bayle’s “Mahomet” was in turn a highly likely source for 

Voltaire’s Mahomet, a central element in which is the depiction of Mohammed as an 

imposter. 

The Lustful Mahomet 

Further support for a genealogy that stretches from the Middle Ages to the 

18 th century – from (for example) Riccoldo da Monte Croce, the Dominican friar and 

author of a highly influential 13 th -century anti-Islamic text; to the above mentioned 

15 th -century Venetian bishop of Aleria, Johannes Andreas; to Prideaux; to Bayle; and 

to Voltaire – can be gathered by considering some of the specific characteristics of 

“Mahomet’s” alleged imposture. Voltaire’s Mahomet was driven by ambition but 

above all by his lust: “L’amour seul me console; il est ma récompense, / L’objet de 

mes travaux, l’idole que j’encense, / Le dieu de Mahomet; et cette passion / Est égale 

aux fureurs de mon ambition”. 488 Bayle, too, believed that Mohammed’s “lewdness” 

was an argument in favor of viewing him as a cunning imposter rather than a 

religious fanatic: 

With an impudence, that cannot be sufficiently admired, he forged, 

that GOD forbid incest to other men, but allowed it him by a peculiar 

grace. [...] Thus this impostor begun with committing a crime, and 

487 Hammerbeck, "Voltaire's Mahomet," p. 4. 

488 “Love is my only consolation; it is my only reward, / The object of my work, the idol I adore, / 

Mahomet’s god; and this passion / Is equal to the furor of my ambition.” Voltaire, Mahomet, p. 36.

finished with converting it into a general law. This does not at all favour 

Fanaticism. 489 

280 

In this he agrees with Prideaux, citing at length the latter’s claim that 

Mohammed “made his imposture subservient to his lust”, 490 who elaborates on this 

point over some 17 pages. 491 There we learn that Mohammed’s “Lust grew upon him 

with his Age, and at length he seemed totally dissolved into it.” 492 In the end, 

according to Prideaux, “it seems the Old Lecher feared his Lust should not be 

sufficiently provided for, if any thing less than the whole Sex were allowed him for 

the gratifying of it.” 493 This way of explaining the teachings in the Quor’an regarding 

the relations between the sexes by reference to Mohammed’s alleged private 

perversions and desires was widespread around this time. In a 1688 English 

translation of Andrew du Ryer’s Life of Mahomet, for example, which accompanied 

his French translation of the “Alcoran”, we are told that “his Mind ... was full of 

deceit, vicious, and cruel, never sparing any thing to advance his lust (in which he 

equalled himself to forty Men) or to procure his revenge.” 494 

Like the more general notion of Mohammed the imposter, this image had a 

long history in earlier Christian writings on Islam. We introduced the image of the 

489 Bayle, "Mahomet," p. 36. 

490 Bayle, "Mahomet," p. 47; Prideaux, Life, p. 158. 

491 Prideaux, Life, pp. 141-153. 

492 Prideaux, Life, p. 153. 

493 Prideaux, Life, pp. 155-156. 

494 du Ryer, The Alcoran of Mahomet, Translated out of Arabick into French by the Sieur du Ryer, 

Lord of Malezair, and Resident for the French King, at ALEXANDRIA and Newly Englished, for the 

satisfaction of all that desire to look into the Turkish Vanities. To which is prefixed, the Life of 

Mahomet the Prophet of the Turks, and Author of the Alcoran. With a Needful Caveat, or Admonition, 

for them who desire to know what Use may be made of, or if there be danger in Reading the Alcoran., 

pp. xiii-xiv.

281 

Lustful Saracen in Chapter 3 but did not elaborate on it until Chapter 4. There we 

noted that the sexual component featured prominently in Luther’s discussions of the 

sexual and marital practices of Mohammed and the Ottoman Turks, and briefly 

traced it back to some of Luther’s medieval sources. During the Middle Ages, it was 

immensely popular among all learned men, both humanists and scholastics: Petrarch, 

the 14 th -century Christian Humanist, saw Mohammed as an “adulterous and 

licentious fellow” (mechus et impurus homo) 495 and Thomas Aquinas had earlier 

reproduced the idea that “he seduced the people by promises of carnal pleasure to 

which the concupiscence of the flesh goads us”. 496 John Tolan traces the fascination 

with Muslim sexuality to the turn of the millennium and hagiographies of Christian 

martyrs by the hands of Muslims in al-Andalus (Muslim Spain), but argues that it 

was with the growth of Christian anti-Islamic polemics and crusader-propaganda 

during the 12 th century, which portrayed Islam as a heresy, that it became truly 

widespread. 497 Norman Daniel also discusses extensively the medieval Christian 

obsession with Mohammed’s many wives (the exact number varying greatly between 

different authors) and with sexuality in Islam in general. 498 Recurring themes were 

those of Mohammed’s lustfulness, of pedophilia, incest, homosexuality, and the 

supposed justification in the Quor’an of general promiscuity. The plot of Voltaire’s 

495 This is a Latin word-play where he uses the word adulterer [ or debased] (mechus) to insinuate that 

Mohammed chose to bless Mecca “because its name reflected his own debased [and adulterous] 

character”. Bisaha, Creating, pp. 165-166. In the 12 th century, Gautier de Compiègne had used the 

exact same pun in his De otia Machometi, arguing on the basis of incorrect factual information that 

Mohammed chose to place his grave in Mecca (!) for the same reason. Tolan, Saracens, p. 143. 

496 Bisaha, Creating, pp. 165, 168. 

497 Tolan, Saracens. 

498 Daniel, Islam and the West, pp. 96-102, 144-146, 355-358..

Mahomet ou le Fanatisme revolves around the first of these topoi: Mahomet’s 

282 

lustfulness. It is his burning desire for the slave girl Palmire and the complications 

arising from her having been taken prisoner by his enemy Zopir – who is also 

(unbeknownst to all but Mahomet) her father – and from Palmire’s love for another 

of Mahomet’s slaves, Seid – who is also (unbeknownst to all but Mahomet) her 

brother – that drives the unfolding story towards its inevitable tragic end. As this 

brief outline of the motivations of the main characters of the play and their familial 

ties suggests, the topoi of pedophilia and incest are also frequently insinuated, albeit 

not always explicitly stated. For example, while Mahomet is not actually the father 

of the young Palmire that he so desires, she nevertheless refers to him as such 

throughout the play. 

The Ambitious and Cruel Mahomet 

Voltaire also ascribed to the Mahomet of his play the dual characteristics of 

cunning ambition and the readiness to use force when spreading his faith. The first 

(ambition) we have already seen mentioned in several quotes from Voltaire’s play 

and Bayle’s Dictionnaire. For his part, Prideaux put as much weight on this vice as 

that discussed in the previous section, writing that Mohammed’s “two predominant 

Passions were Ambition and Lust.” 499 With regard to the second characteristic (the 

use of force), the setting of Voltaire’s play is Mohammed’s impending conquest of 

Mecca during which he is depicted by the author as employing threats, assassination, 

hostage taking and the like tactics. (Indeed, one could even see the entire play as a 

499 Prideaux, Life, p. 141.

creative interpretation and elaboration of the Script of Conquest.) It is clear that 

283 

the use of violence for religious purposes was one of Voltaire’s concerns when 

writing the play. Recall his description of his Mahomet as nothing more than 

“Tartufe les armes à la main”. Bayle, who had a similar interest in denouncing the 

use of force in such matters (more on this below), viewed as a powerful argument 

against Islam the observation that “the principal cause of the great progress 

[Mahomet] made, was the method he took to force those by arms, to submit to his 

religion, who would not embrace it readily.” In contrast, the “Divinity” of the 

Christian religion was proven by its rapid spread during the first centuries after 

Christ, despite its lack of any significant political or even less military support. 500 

And these notions of Muslim violence and Mohammed’s cunning ambition, like that 

of Mohammed as an imposter in general and the role of his sexual lewdness in the 

forming of his imposture in particular, also had a long history. 

As we saw in the preceding chapter, the notion of the violent Muslim had 

been carried over from the middle ages to Europe of the Renaissance and the 

Reformation in the form of the cruel and barbaric Turk. For many medieval as well 

as early modern Christian writers who saw Christ as the model, Mohammed’s use of 

arms had long been seen as clear evidence that he was no real prophet. For example, 

du Ryer’s Mohammed defends his inability to create miracles by insisting that “God 

had sent him to confirm his Law by force of Arms, and not by Miracles”. 501 In short, 

500 Bayle, "Mahomet," p. 31. 

501 du Ryer, The Alcoran of Mahomet, Translated out of Arabick into French by the Sieur du Ryer, 

Lord of Malezair, and Resident for the French King, at ALEXANDRIA and Newly Englished, for the

as with the images of Mahomet the impostor, the lustful, and the cunning it is 

284 

also possible to trace the notion of the violent Muslim that emerges from Voltaire’s 

Mahomet all the way back to anti-Islamic polemics authored by medieval Christians 

writing within the framework of a Biblical historical meta-narrative. 

THE CONTEXT OF RECONTEXTUALIZATION 

What are we to make of this genealogical sketch? The dominant 

interpretation of the persistence of traditional, Christian anti-Islamic themes in the 

writings of the philosophes, including Voltaire’s Mahomet, is that presented by 

Rebecca Joubin and Thierry Hentsch. According to the latter, it is “unmistakable” 

that Voltaire’s use of anti-Islamic rhetoric in the play was anti-Christian critique in 

disguise. 502 After considering this argument a little more closely, we shall propose a 

slightly more complicated alternative narrative below that takes seriously the 

political and religious contexts in which Prideaux, Bayle, and Voltaire wrote and 

within which they recontextualized the medieval legacy. 

The Traditional View of the Enlightenment and the Philosophes 

It is within the confines of a familiar and rather convincing story that many, if 

not most, studies of 18 th -century European images of Turks and Islam have been 

written. To identify the master-narrative that frames any given text one usually has to 

read carefully between the lines, but it is occasionally stated quite clearly. The latter 

satisfaction of all that desire to look into the Turkish Vanities. To which is prefixed, the Life of 

Mahomet the Prophet of the Turks, and Author of the Alcoran. With a Needful Caveat, or Admonition, 

for them who desire to know what Use may be made of, or if there be danger in Reading the Alcoran., 

pp. xiii-xiv. 

502 Thierry Hentsch, Imagining the Middle East (Cheektowaga, NY: Black Rose Books, 1992), p. 105.

is the case in Rebecca Joubin’s careful analysis of the portrayal of Islam and 

285 

Arabs in the French Encyclopédie. Her opening words paint a rather faithful sketch 

of the traditional account of the Enlightenment: 

The 18 th -century European Enlightenment championed rational 

philosophy and scientific methodology, rather than any form of 

traditional theology, as the way to understand the objective truth. In 

their quest for the fundamental truth, France’s philosophes, the 

rational and anticlerical intellectuals of the Age of Reason, were 

forced to brave official censorship, persecution, and imprisonment as 

they disentangled themselves from their Christian heritage. Thus, the 

French Enlightenment was informed by a dualistic view of history— 

an ongoing contest between reason and faith. […] [A]ccording to the 

philosophes […] religion and science had once again joined battle in 

the 18 th century, this time with science and reason poised to overcome 

religious irrationality. 503 

Consciously or not, Joubin here partly conflates her own narrative with that 

of the participants, embracing the dualistic view of history as a contest between 

reason and faith that she attributes to the philosophes and that we recognize from 

Voltaire’s own historical meta-narrative. This is not in any way surprising as it has 

been the standard account of the struggles of the 17 th and 18 th centuries ever since the 

classic two-volume work on the Enlightenment by Peter Gay 504 (whom Joubin cites 

three times in the footnotes to this introductory paragraph of her article). However, 

our acceptance of this received account has consequences for our reading of 17 th and 

18 th -century writings on Islam. 

The traditional account of the Enlightenment philosophes emphasizes the 

hostile and repressive religious climate in which the encyclopedists wrote. This in 

503 Joubin, "Islam through the Eyes," p. 197. 

504 Gay, The Rise.

turn presents Joubin with a solution to an otherwise rather puzzling discrepancy 

286 

between what one would expect from an “enlightened” description of Islam and the 

descriptions we find when reading European writings on Islam from the 17 th and 18 th 

centuries. The puzzle is that if we accept the traditional account of the Enlightenment 

and its depiction of the anti-Christian philosophes, we might ask why Voltaire, if he 

felt nothing but “contempt for Christianity”, relied on Christian depictions of 

Mohammed when writing his play Mahomet ou le Fanatisme? 505 Or: How should we 

explain that the philosophes, as Joubin points out, in this manner far from rejecting 

earlier authorities instead “appropriated much of the vocabulary of a previously 

established discourse and manipulated historical data to invent an Orient that suited 

their own purposes”? 506 

The most general answer to this puzzle – which we should emphasize only 

emerges as a real problem if we embrace the traditional account of the 

Enlightenment and expect a radical rejection of the medieval legacy – is that 

Enlightenment thinkers often used their observations on Islam and the Ottoman 

Empire for purposes other than mere description. These descriptions were thus in a 

sense instrumental, as many authors have noted. 507 A more challenging and to us 

more relevant question is for what purposes they were put to use. Joubin’s answer is 

that “the philosophes’ use of the Oriental motif emerge[d] as one of the leading 



507 Asli Çirakman, From the "Terror of the World" to the "Sick Man of Europe": European Images of 

Ottoman Empire and Society from the Sixteenth Century to the Nineteenth, ed. Frank J Coppa, vol. 43, 

Studies in Modern European History (NY: Peter Lang Publishing, 2002); Daniel, Islam and the West; 

Joubin, "Islam through the Eyes."

methods of subterfuge by which they tried to avoid the heavy hand of 

287 

censorship.” By using “Muhammad as a surrogate for Christ […] Voltaire was able 

to escape censorship and chip away at the foundation of Christianity” without 

attracting the fury of the Church. 508 As we shall see, however, a slightly more 

nuanced view emerges once we look closer at the context in which Voltaire as well 

as Bayle and Prideaux worked. Let us do so in chronological order, beginning with 

the author of the earliest treatment of Mohammed of the three: Humphrey 

Prideaux. 509 

Prideaux’ Context 

Like both Voltaire and Bayle, Humphrey Prideaux (1648-1724) was actively 

involved in many of the great political and religious debates of his time, and intended 

his Life to be a contribution to them. In fact, the full title of the book, which was 

published in 1697, tells us that The True Nature of Imposture Fully Display'd in the 

Life of Mahomet actually came With a Discourse annex'd, for the Vindicating of 

Christianity from this Charge; Offered to the Consideration of the Deists of the 

present Age. Prideaux aimed to refute the charge allegedly made by Deists that 

Christianity was an imposture, by showing them what a real imposture looked like. 

At first glance, this may seem to lend support to Joubin’s and Hentsch’s depiction of 

the 17 th and 18 th centuries as polarized between the conservative devout and the 

progressive irreligious. However, among the “Deists” Prideaux was directing the 


509 Prideaux and Bayle actually published their respective works the same year (1697). However, 

Bayle had clearly read Prideaux’ Life because he cites it extensively, whereas the latter contains no 

references to Bayle’s Dictionary. In terms of their mutual relationship we may thus order them 

chronologically with Prideaux’ Life first.

ook to, who supposedly charged Christianity with being an imposture, we find 

288 

neither the “Atheist, who denies the Being of a God” nor the “Epicurean Deists, who 

allowing his Being, denies his Providence”. 510 Instead, Prideaux emphasized that he 

directed it only to those Deists, who according to Mr. Blunt’s 

Description of them, hold a Providence, and future Rewards and 

Punishments. For such seeming to retain the Common Principles of 

Natural Religion and Reason, allow a sufficient Foundation whereon 

to be discoursed with (Prideaux, 1698, p. xvii). 

Indeed, a careful reading of both his Letter to the Reader and the appended 

Discourse suggests that he was actually taking aim at Protestant Dissenters who 

attacked the Anglican Church, not what we commonly understand by the notoriously 

difficult to define term Deists. 511 His targets were those who denied the ancient 

government of the Church, called established Anglican practices of worship 

“crimes”, introduced “new Schemes of their own invention”, 512 refused the 

Eucharist, and created schisms in the Church over “niceties” by criticizing doctrines 

like the Holy Trinity or the Hypostatical Union. 513 These matters were in fact all 

common sources of disagreement between supporters of the Anglican Church or 

High Churchmen and the Non-Conformist Protestants – not Deists – in 17 th -century 

Britain. 

510 Prideaux, Life, pp. xvii, xix. 

511 Barnett, Ellis, and Haakonsen are among those who agree on the difficulty in defining this term. S 

J Barnett, The Enlightenment and Religion: The Myths of Modernity (NY: Manchester University 

Press, 2003); Harold A Ellis, Boulainvilliers and the French Monarchy: Aristocratic Politics in Early 

Eighteenth-Century France (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988); Knud Haakonsen, 

Enlightenment and Religion: Rational Dissent in eighteenth-century Britain, ed. Quentin Skinner, 

Ideas in Context (NY: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 

512 Prideaux, Life, pp. xi-xii. 

513 Prideaux, Life, p. xvii.

Lest we be accused of splitting hairs – Why fuss over the difference 

289 

between “Deists” and “Dissenters”? – it must be emphasized that British Unitarians 

or French Huguenots, for example, were neither atheists nor Deists but Protestants, 

and that we therefore radically misconstrue French or English Dissenters when 

describing them as irreligious. With respect to our understanding of 17 th and 18 th - 

century European images of Islam, this seemingly trivial clarification of terminology 

does in fact make a great deal of difference since it now becomes apparent that these 

Dissenters wrote within an established Christian discourse and were therefore 

inclined to draw upon the rich literature of earlier Christian anti-Islamic polemics or 

apologetics. What has been depicted in retrospect as a debate between progressive 

and enlightened atheists or Deists on one side and the reactionary Christian 

establishment in Europe on the other, both using Islam as a weapon against the other, 

seems instead to have been a multi-faceted and complex phenomenon that could 

often more aptly be described as an inter-denominational Christian debate. We may 

here have an better answer than that of Joubin and Hentsch to the puzzling 

discrepancy between what we would expect of “enlightened” images of Islam and 

what we actually find in most 17 th and 18 th -century writings: A more nuanced view 

of the role of religion during the Enlightenment, which rejects the traditional account 

and its depiction of a massive polarized battle between religion (medieval, 

oppressive) and irreligion (modern, progressive), would be less confounded by the 

survival of traditional, even medieval, Christian narratives in 17 th and 18 th -century 

European conceptions of Islam.

290 

Pierre Bayle’s Context 

As with Prideaux’ Life, to better understand that other important source of 

Voltaire’s view of Mohammed – Pierre Bayle’s Dictionnaire Critique et Historique 

(first published in 1697 and in an extended second edition in 1702) – it is essential to 

consider the context in which the latter was written. 514 

Most importantly, we must 

not forget that Bayle (1647-1706) was a Huguenot refugee in the Low Lands, having 

fled from the brutal persecution of Huguenots in 17th and early 18th-century France. 

After a brief stint as Catholic during his time at a Jesuit school, he had converted 

back to Protestantism and such a relapse from Catholicism would have earned him a 

life-sentence as a slave on the galleys where several thousand Huguenots languished, 

had he stayed in France. During this exile, a bitter conflict developed between Bayle 

and a Huguenot friend – the very Pierre Jurieu mentioned in Voltaire’s letter to 

Frederick II of Prussia that prefaced the printed play – over Bayle’s advocacy of 

religious tolerance and Jurieu’s abandonment of the theory of the “divine right” to 

rule. Jurieu wanted not lukewarm tolerance but to whip up his fellow Huguenot 

refugees’ hatred of Roman Catholicism and thus secure their support for William of 

Orange, in whose imagined victory over France Jurieu saw the Huguenots’ only 

hope. Bayle, on the other hand, believed that to add to the list of Huguenot heresies 

the rejection of the very principle upon which the legitimacy of the French king 

rested, would eliminate the possibility of a return by invitation from the king, an 

514 The account presented here relies primarily on the exposition of the conflict and its consequences 

in Elisabeth Labrousse, "Reading Pierre Bayle in Paris," in Anticipations of the Enlightenment in 

England, France, and Germany, ed. Alan Charles Kors and Paul J Korshin (Philadelphia: University 

of Pennsylvania Press, 1987). See also Ruth Whelan, "Bayle, Pierre," in Encyclopedia of the 

Enlightenment, ed. Alan Charles Kors (NY: Oxford University Press, 2003).

option that he preferred over war. Besides, the principled man he was, Bayle 

291 

could not forgive what he saw as his friend’s opportunistic rejection of a doctrine 

with scriptural basis (Romans 13). 

We may thus point to a possible alternative to Voltaire’s overly simplified 

characterization of this conflict as the archetypical battle between secular progress 

(Bayle) and religious tradition (Jurieu). While Bayle certainly was an early advocate 

of religious tolerance and even more liberal in this respect than most of the 

Enlightenment thinkers that would follow him, he also strongly supported the theory 

of divine right against Jurieu’s support for popular sovereignty, and did so on the 

basis of both practical political calculation and the authority of scripture. There was 

during Bayle’s lifetime, and still is, 515 debate about the sincerity and content of his 

religious beliefs, but when reading Bayle on tolerance what shines through to this 

author is the formative experience of having been persecuted for sincerely and 

deeply held religious beliefs, not any attempts of an atheist (or even Deist) to 

undermine the Christian faith as such. This interpretation is supported by, among 

others, Labrousse, Barnett, and Whelan 516 , not to mention Bayle himself who 

defended himself vigorously against what he saw as unfair charges of atheism, 

published in several 'Clarifications' in later editions of his Dictionnaire. 517 

515 See Labrousse but also Jonathan I. Israel, Radical Enlightenment: Philosophy and the Making of 

Modernity 1650-1750 (NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 331-341. 

516 Barnett, The Enlightenment and Religion; Labrousse, "Reading Bayle."; Whelan, "Bayle." 

517 Pierre Bayle, Historical and Critical Dictionary: Selections, trans. Richard H Popkin 

(Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 1991), pp. 395-444. When discussing the 

conversion to Christianity of a Jewish 16 th -century doctor named Paul Weidnerus, his remarks appear 

to be an autobiographical commentary on his own conversion from Catholicism: “To believe firmly

292 

It therefore seems appropriate to say that in Bayle a conservative promonarchy 

stance and religious conviction co-existed with a critical and remarkably 

open mind and an appreciation of the importance of toleration. In the bitterness of 

their struggle, however, Jurieu responded to Bayle in the harshest terms, much as the 

Tory defenders of the Anglican Church in England responded to their “Dissenting” 

opponents: 518 discrediting him by publicly denouncing him in 1691 as a traitor (in 

this case to the United Provinces), as a miscreant and, worse yet, as an atheist. 

Voltaire and Religion 

Even Voltaire’s views on religious toleration defy the traditional 

Enlightenment narrative’s simple dichotomy between oppression and toleration. 

Even his most admirably liberal work, the Traité sur la tolerance, advocates only a 

moderate toleration of religious dissent that he admits can be “dangerous to the 

state.” 519 Voltaire resented the rebellious fanaticism of the Huguenots as much as the 

hypocrisy of the French Church 520 and advised that the former “are easily kept in 

subjection by those just laws which prohibit riotous assemblies, mutual insults, and 

that a religion is true, to resolve to profess it, and to undergo many struggles within one’s soul before 

executing such a resolution are not incompatible attitudes. It must not then be thought that Weidnerus’ 

narration [regarding the sincerity of his new beliefs and the dangers associated with openly embracing 

them] is lacking in fidelity. There are few projects whose execution is more thwarted than that of 

changing religion. For, not to mention other obstacles, does not the prospective convert know that he 

will anger those whom he loves and those whom he respects the most?” Pierre Bayle, "Weidnerus, 

Paul," in Historical and Critical Dictionary: Selections, ed. Pierre Bayle (Indianapolis: Hackett 

Publishing Company, Inc., 1991), pp. 347-348. 

518 Barnett, The Enlightenment and Religion; J. C. D. Clark, English Society 1660-1832: Religion, 

Ideology and Politics During the Ancien Regime, 2nd ed. (NY: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 

519 François Marie Areouet de Voltaire, "A Treatise on Toleration," in The Writings of Voltaire: 

Philosophical Novels, Romances, Short Stories, Dialogues, Poems, with an Outline of his Career, and 

Tributes from Oliver Goldsmith and Victor Hugo, ed. E. R. Dumont (NY: WM. H. Wise & Company, 

1931), p. 136. 

520 David D. Bien, "Religious Persecution in the French Enlightenment," Church History 30, no. 3 

(1961): p. 330.

seditions”. 521 His model of toleration “under proper restrictions” 522 was the 

293 

English treatment of Catholics, who “are excluded from all civil posts, and are even 

double-taxed; but then, in every other respect, they enjoy the prerogatives of 

citizens.” 523 There are in fact also religious (albeit Deist) elements in many of 

Voltaire’s other writings, and as was suggested above, there may be reason to qualify 

Joubin’s claim that Voltaire’s aim in writing the play was to “chip away at the 

foundation of Christianity”. Clearly, Mahomet ou le Fanatisme is a critique of 

religious superstition and fanaticism, violence and intolerance in the name of 

religion, and of the manipulation of naive believers by religious authorities for 

material gain. We may also describe it as anti-clerical. In other words, it is a critique 

of the misuse and abuse of religion or God by fanatics or manipulators. 

Nevertheless, to assert that Mahomet ou le Fanatisme is an attack on 

Christianity, religion, or God as such is a very different claim. It is a claim that does 

not necessarily fit what we think we know about Voltaire’s Deistic beliefs. Consider, 

for example his increasingly forceful critique of the atheism and materialism of 

Diderot and especially d’Holbach, 524 the fact that he would commune and himself 

521 Voltaire, "The Writings of Voltaire," p. 155. 



524 Randall Collins, The Sociology of Philosophies: A Global Theory of Intellectual Change 

(Cambridge, Massachusetts: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1998), p. 606. Cf. 

Nicholas Cronk, "Voltaire," in Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment, ed. Alan Charles Kors (NY: 

Oxford University Press, 2003), p. 237. See also Voltaire’s angry rejection of d'Holbach's 

"pernicious" denial of God's existence in Haskell Block, M, ed., Voltarie: Candide and Other 

Writings (NY: The Modern Library, 1956), p. 546.

address the congregation in his own church at Ferney, 525 or the words he is said 

294 

to have spoken to Benjamin Franklin’s grandson from his sickbed a few months 

before he died: “My child, God and Liberty, remember those two words.” 526 The 

Mahomet of the play was an imposter, but was he an atheist? In the last scene of the 

play, none of the other characters were present and Mahomet thus had no reason to 

continue his charade. Nevertheless, he addressed his laments over the loss of the 

object of his desire to the God he had so misused, admitting that he feared the 

consequences of having done so: “Toi que j’ai blasphémé, mais que je crains 

encore”. 527 This is not far from e.g. the medieval Christian script of the Pagan Duel, 

which inevitably ended with the idolatrous Saracen being punished and ultimately 

coming to fear God. 

However, trying to establish an author’s intentions is a perilous enterprise. 

We have to accept that our interpretation will always remain potentially subject to 

revision, and this is of course equally the case with our analysis of Voltaire’s play. 

Considering the extent to which the play was, as the above analysis has shown, 

saturated with images of Islam and its Prophet which had their origin in Medieval 

Christendom, where they had been constructed in accordance with Biblical 

narratives, it becomes difficult to dismiss this thorough “embedding” as mere cover 

for a subversive critique. A better explanation focuses less on Voltaire’s intentions 

525 See the introductory biography in E. R. Dumont, ed., The Writings of Voltaire: Philosophical 

Novels, Romances, Short Stories, Dialogues, Poems, with an Outline of his Career, and Tributes from 

Oliver Goldsmith and Victor Hugo, IV vols., vol. I-IV (NY: WM. H. Wise & Company, 1931). 

526 Dumont, ed., The Writings of Voltaire, p. 30. 

527 “You, who I have blasphemed, but whom I still fear”. Voltaire, Mahomet, p. 94.

and more on, first, the politico-religious context and discursive structures that 

295 

conditioned his writings on Islam and second on the latter’s performative functions. 

As to the first, a key observation is that at the time of his writing there was 

available to Voltaire a large body of literature on Islam and on Mohammed that 

stretched back centuries, nearly all of which was written by Christians who mostly 

interpreted Muslims as enemies or simply Other, Islam as the antithesis of 

Christianity, and Mohammed as the opposite of Christ or the Anti-Christ. Whether or 

not his intent when constructing the images of Mohammed in the play was 

subversion and irony, not even a radical Parisian philosophe and Deist like Voltaire 

was able to cut loose from a thousand-year old Christian tradition of making sense of 

the Islamic Other in religious terms. This is, admittedly, a slight oversimplification. 

Had Voltaire been intent on balancing mainstream 18 th -century views of Islam with 

sources that presented alternative facts and interpretations, he could have done a 

better job than he actually did in Mahomet ou le fanatisme. There were accounts by 

European travelers to the Ottoman Empire available that presented a more nuanced 

view of the Ottomans, such as lady Mary Wortley Montague’s disarmingly 

enthusiastic Turkish Letters. 528 Voltaire might also have relied on Boulainvilliers’ or 

528 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, The Turkish Embassy Letters. Introduction by Anita Desai. Text 

edited and annotated by Malcolm Jack (London: Virago Press, 2001). Curiously, however, the 

burgeoning travel literature failed to generate as much new “data” as one might have expected. As 

Çırakman notes, “most of the eighteenth-century observers relied on and referred to each other’s ideas 

and analysis rather than their own perceptions and experiences.” Çirakman, "Terror of the World", p. 

106. Shaw notes the contradictory nature and quality of these writings: “The travel literature abounds 

in examples that reflect a general breakdown of European parochial attitudes along with a paradoxical 

persistence of a feeling of Europe versus the Turk, or one culture in contrast to another.” Ezel Kural 

Shaw, "The Double Veil: Travelers' Views of the Ottoman Empire, Sixteenth through Eighteenth

George Sale’s relatively more sympathetic writings on Islam and Mohammed. 

296 

Instead, in the letter to Frederick II that prefaces the play, Voltaire scornfully 

rejected Sale’s and Boulainvilliers’ works as trying to paint overly generous portraits 

of the Prophet of Islam whom he viewed as a devious impostor. In fact, the simple 

Manichean form of the medieval anti-Islamic polemic that pervaded Prideaux’ 

depictions of Islam seem to have served Voltaire better than the limited number of 

more nuanced accounts available. Voltaire’s teleological, Manichean, and highly 

normative historical meta-narrative could more easily adapt images of Muslims and 

Turks that had been framed in the context of an equally teleological, Manichean, and 

normative meta-narrative – the Biblical historical meta-narrative of medieval 

Christendom – than it could the somewhat random and impressionistic observations 

of Lady Montague’s Turkish Letters. 

Second, the genealogical analysis above made clear that even if we, for the 

sake of the argument, accept the interpretation of Mahomet ou le Fanatisme as an 

irreligious or anti-Christian play, Voltaire was none the less perpetuating in it the 

central elements of a traditional Christian depiction of Mohammed. The dynamic at 

play here is not wholly unlike that which we observed in Luther’s rhetorical use of 

comparisons between “papists” and Turks. Voltaire’s play criticized the abuses of 

the French clergy and the Jesuits by comparing them to the abuses of Mohammed, 

but in doing so it reaffirmed the stereotypical view of the latter. Indeed, it would be 

Centuries," in English and Continental Views of the Ottoman Empire, 1500-1800 (University of 

California: William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, 1970), p. 25.

difficult to understand the pope’s decision to give his blessing to the play unless 

297 

it could reasonably also be interpreted as a straightforward critique of Islam and its 

founder. 

The traditional assumption that the “enlightened” 18th-century thinkers were 

embarked on a collective “demolition exercise” of thousand year old Christian values 

aimed at the “intellectual destruction of Christendom” 529 predisposed us to 

emphasize the novel elements in their writings while explaining away the equally 

important remnants of medieval religious anti-Islamic scripts. However, as Aslı 

Çırakman has pointed out, 530 it appears that if we scratch the surface of the writings 

on Islam by many such thinkers we will find both new and old themes. We will also 

find that the dualism of the traditional account of the Enlightenment is too simple to 

adequately capture the complexity and diversity of these writings. What may be an 

appropriate interpretation in the case of Voltaire, Diderot, or Holbach is not 

automatically applicable to the rest of their peers. Perhaps the primary challenge will 

be precisely to extend the analysis beyond the small family of well known 

“enlightened” philosophes. Marie-Louise Dufrenoy lists 687 major French 

publications on the Orient during the 18th century. 531 If we add minor publications 

like pamphlets to that number and expand our search to the rest of Europe, we begin 

to see not only the magnitude of the task ahead, but also the inadequacy of choosing 

the writings of a handful of radical philosophes to represent the general view of 

529 Rich, "Myth of Islam," p. 444. 

530 See especially Chapter 3 in Çirakman, "Terror of the World". 

531 Marie-Louise Dufrenoy, L'Orient Romanesque en France, 1704-1789, II vols., vol. I (Montréal: 

Éditions Beauchemin, 1946), p. 343.

Islam during the 18 th century. However, if even one of the most outspoken of 

298 

those radicals remained as indebted to the old canon of Christian images of Islam as 

this chapter has argued, odds are that most of his less radical peers were so too. 

CONCLUSION 

Michel Foucault sternly warns the genealogist against the search for 

“origins”. 532 “Genealogy,” he insists, 

does not pretend to go back in time to restore an unbroken continuity 

that operates beyond the dispersion of forgotten things; its duty is not 

to demonstrate that the past actively exists in the present ... having 

imposed a predetermined form on all its vicissitudes. 533 

It is likely that Foucault primarily directed the critique in this passage against 

nationalist histories that reach back for an origin of their nation, but can we not be 

accused of having committed a similar crime for different reasons? Considering the 

stubborn persistence of such medieval Christian themes in the depictions of Muslims 

and Islam as have been discussed above, we may be inclined to agree with Norman 

Daniel when he asserts that while the “framework of what Voltaire writes is the 

classic one of the Enlightenment; his assessment of Islam as a religion is, in its 

outline, nearly identical with the medieval one”. 534 To the extent that what we 

observed were unbroken continuities of earlier tropes and topoi: yes, we would have 

to confess to this crime. However, these themes seldom did remain unchanged, and 

532 Michel Foucault, "Nietzsche, Genealogy, History," in The Foucault Reader, ed. Paul Rabinov 

(NY: Pantheon Books, 1984), p. 77. 

533 Foucault, "Genealogy," p. 81. 


299 

even when they did they existed side-by-side with new subject matter in more or 

less revised narratives. 

Voltaire’s contributions to the 18 th -century discourse on Muslims and Turks 

thus displayed both important continuities and significant transformations with 

respect to its predecessors. Like the earlier Biblical historical meta-narratives, 

Voltaire’s histories were teleological narratives that operated on two different levels. 

Whereas the Biblical story promised the transcendent resolution of a Romance on the 

macro level, Voltaire’s macro level narrative was ultimately a Comedy. Like the 

Biblical meta-narrative, Voltaire’s counterpart contained “acts” that were cast in 

different modes, including Tragedy, and like many medieval confessional histories, 

Voltaire employed a four-part periodization schema. Medieval historiography had a 

moralizing purpose and so did Voltaire’s historical writings. Voltaire continued the 

medieval tradition of populating historical accounts with familiar “universal” types 

and borrowed most of the features of his Tragic “Mahomet” character from medieval 

Christian anti-Islamic polemics. Moreover, this character filled much the same 

function in terms of communicating a moral message to the audience as had the 

medieval accounts of Christians punished by the Saracen Scourge of God’s Fury: 

both were illustrations of the danger of sin. For didactic reasons, both types of 

sinners – Christians who lacked religious devotion in the God’s Scourge Script and 

Christians who had too much of it in Voltaire’s version – had to be punished. 

Voltaire, Bayle, and Prideaux all employed older anti-Islamic rhetoric as a 

means of criticizing their Christian contemporaries, even though they did so from

very different points of views and with different intentions. Voltaire took aim at 

300 

the intolerance of the French clergy and the fanaticism of the Jansenists, Bayle at 

intolerant Catholics as well as Protestants, and Prideaux at “schismatic” Protestant 

Dissenters whom he labeled “Deists.” As preceding chapters have argued, this 

practice was not in any way a novel or modern phenomena but harked back to the 

first encounters between Christians and Muslims. We saw in the last chapter that 

Luther made similar use of the Muslim Other in doctrinal struggles with his Catholic 

opponents and that said opponents returned the favor. Indeed, this became a staple 

element of Protestant and Catholic writings on Islam since the Reformation. Norman 

Daniel provides some later examples, such as a French Lutheran at the turn of the 

17th-century who portrayed Islamic practice in critical terms that were likely meant 

to bring the Catholic belief in works as a means of salvation to the minds of his 

readers. After having committed a sin, he wrote, “they go after their own invented 

devotion, to good works, alms, prayers, fasting, redeeming of captives, etc., to make 

satisfaction to God for their committed sins”. And when a late 18th-century Catholic 

derided the Muslims’ “false Religion, which makes them hope for the remission of 

all their sins, provided they believe in Mahomet” he was most likely criticizing 

Protestant belief in justification by faith. 535 Hourani captures the complexity of this 

practice, which is poorly captured by the neat traditional account of the 

Enlightenment: “in refuting Islam, writers might be using it as a symbol of enemies 

535 Febvre, M., 1682 and Rauwolff, L., 1783, quoted in Daniel, Islam and the West, pp. 284-285, 284.

nearer home – Protestants arguing against Catholics, Anglicans against Deists, 

301 

freethinkers against theological tyranny and prejudice”. 536 

There were also important differences between Voltaire’s historical metanarrative 

and its Biblical counterpart with respect to how they framed the 

understanding of history and the role of Muslims and/or Turks in it. Voltaire 

projected the medieval chroniclers’ four Biblical ages onto a secular historical field 

and employed very different criteria in applying this framework: the ages were 

defined by the degree of progress that each exhibited. Most significantly, the target 

of Voltaire’s moralizing tale of Mohammed was the French clergy and their fanatic 

followers as well as their (Jansenist) opponents, and the lesson it told was that man 

should use his reason instead of blindly following his spiritual leaders. 

Our conclusion from the above genealogical sketch must thus not be to deny 

the existence of secular trends during the Enlightenment or to claim that 18 th -century 

images of Islam were in all relevant respects still medieval and Christian. If for no 

other reason, our small selection of sources does not permit us to make any such bold 

generalizations, though as a “hard case”, Voltaire’s Mahomet carries our conclusion 

further than a randomly selected case could. Instead, the analysis in this chapter 

should lead us to question another all-too-simple genealogy of those secular and 

universal values that supposedly constitute “the very basis of the European idea;” the 

genealogy that seeks their origin in the European Enlightenment. We need not 

reduce 17 th and 18 th -century European images of Islam to those of the Middle Ages 

536 Albert Hourani, Islam in European Thought (NY: Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 136.

to observe that they nevertheless carried a significantly weightier debt to the 

302 

latter than many traditional narratives of the emergence of the secular idea of Europe 

allow for. 

We should thus not underestimate the power of anti-Islamic images and 

scripts that have been perpetuated in one version or another for nearly a millennium 

and half, according to which Christianity’s or Europe’s Muslim Other – whether 

signified by the “Saracen,” by “Mahomet,” or by “the Turk” – was imagined to be 

the bearer of all that Europe did not want to see in itself. If not even Voltaire was 

able to break free from the confines of this narrative, it behooves us to consider 

carefully the extent to which we have done what he could not.

303 

CHAPTER 6. “THE CRUEL TURK” AND EUTOPIA 

“Je suis un intellectuel de l’Occident”, proclame l’Italien, pour qui le 

monde est une arène ou s’affrontent deux principes conflictuels: 

“Force et justice, tyrannie et liberté, superstition et science, le principe 

de conservation et le principe de mouvement, le progress. L’un 

pourrait être appelé le principe asiatique, l’autre le principe européen, 

car l’Europe est le pays de la revolte, de la critique et de l’action … 

cependent que le continent oriental incarne le reste.” 537 

INTRODUCTION 

Chapter five argued that even Voltaire – the philosophe who personified the 

Enlightenment and devoted his life to a critique of religious superstition, fanaticism, 

and the church – remained heavily in debt to medieval Christian imagery for his 

portrayals of Muslims and Islam. This chapter looks at contemporary images of 

Turkey and associated expressions of the “European idea”, which claims the secular 

values of the Enlightenment as its source and foundation. The distance in time 

between the members of the late 20 th and early 21 st -century European Parliament 

examined here and Voltaire is undoubtedly significant: this period saw the creation 

of the secular Turkish Republic and the European Union as well as unprecedented 

transformations in all sectors of state and society. The pressing question for us is if 

the profound changes associated with the modernization and secularization of 

537 “I am an Occidental intellectual”, exclaims the Italian, for whom the world is an arena where two 

conflictual principles battle each other: “Force and justice, tyranny and liberty, superstition and 

science, the principle of conservatism and the principle of movement, of progress. One could be 

called the Asiatic principle, the other the European principle since Europe is the land of revolt, of 

critique, and of action … whilst the Oriental continent represents the incarnation of immobility.” (The 

quote continues: “There was no doubt as to which of the two forces victory would fall – it was to the 

enlightenment, rationalism perfected.”) The character Settembrini in Thomas Mann’s novel Der 

Zauberberg, quoted in Elie Barnavi and Paul Goossens, eds., Les Frontieres de l'Europe (Brussels: 

De Boeck and Musee Europe, 2001), p. 30.

Europe have finally made the medieval legacy of anti-Islamic images irrelevant. 

304 

Of the major institutional actors in the European Union, the European Parliament 

(EP) has been the most vocal and consistent advocate of exactly that progressive and 

secular view of Europe that seems most removed from Europe’s dogmatic, 

confessional, and reactionary medieval past. This last chapter therefore seeks a 

tentative answer to the question of the contemporary relevance of that past by 

looking closely at how “Turkey” and “Europe” are portrayed in a number of debates 

in Parliament. The discussion below builds on an earlier predicate analysis of a 2002 

EP debate on the political situation in Turkey, 538 to which it adds a careful analysis 

of a 1996 debate 539 and consideration of a number of further debates on Turkey as 

well as other candidate countries in the years between 1996 and 2002. 540 The 

analysis does not aim to be either exhaustive or conclusive, but the findings are 

suggestive of the constitutive role of Turkey and the continued importance of 

images, scripts, and narratives similar to those discussed in previous chapters, in the 

struggles over Europe’s collective identity at the dawn of the 21 st century. 

538 European Parliament. Debate on Democratic Rights in Turkey, in Particular the Situation of 

HADEP. Sitting of Wednesday, 27 February 2002. This debate was initially analyzed in Paul T. 

Levin, "Conceptualizing Identity: An Interactionist Analysis of Turkey-EU Relations" (paper 

presented at the Annual Conference of the International Studies Association, Portland, OR, 28 

February 2003). 

539 European Parliament. Debate on The Political Situation in Turkey. Sitting of Wednesday, 18 

September 1996. 

540 European Parliament. Debate on Customs Union with Turkey. Sitting of Wednesday, 17 July 1996; 

European Parliament. Debate on Customs Union with Turkey. Sitting of Monday, 17 November 1997; 

European Parliament. Debate on Customs Union with Turkey. Sitting of Wednesday, 16 September 

1998; European Parliament. Debate on Including Turkey in Socrates and Youth for Europe. Sitting of 

Wednesday, 24 February 1999; European Parliament. Topical and Urgent Debate on The Political 

Situation in Slovakia. Sitting of Thursday, 12 March 1998; European Parliament. Debate on State of 

Relations between Turkey and the EU. Sitting of Wednesday, 6 October 1999; European Parliament. 

Debate on Turkey. Sitting of Wednesday, 1 December 1999.

305 

BACKGROUND: THE TURKISH APPLICATION AND MAINSTREAM IR 

Much has been written on the topic of Turkey’s relationship with the West in 

general and the European Community / EU in particular. 541 Most of these writings 

approach the subject matter with a set of epistemological and methodological 

assumptions that place them in what Robert O. Keohane has called the “rationalist” 

tradition. 542 The lens used by the typically policy-oriented rationalist students of 

Turkey – EU relations most clearly refracts material and strategic features of the 

541 See e.g. Ali Çarkoglu and Barry Rubin, eds., Turkey and the European Union: Domestic Politics, 

Economic Integration and International Dynamics (London: Frank Cass and Company Limited, 

2003); Yasemin Çelik, Contemporary Turkish Foreign Policy (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1999); William 

Hale and Gamze Avci, "Turkey and the European Union: The Long Road to Membership," in Turkey 

in World Politics: An Emerging Multiregional Power, ed. Barry Rubin and Kemal Kirisci (Boulder, 

CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2001); Ayse Kadioglu, "The Paradox of Turkish Nationalism and the 

Construction of Official Identity," in Turkey: Identity, Democracy, Politics, ed. Sylvia Kedourie 

(Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 1996); Zalmay Khalilzad, Ian O. Lesser, and F. Stephen Larrabee, "The 

Future of Turkish-Western Relations: Toward a Strategic Plan," (Santa Monica, CA: RAND, Center 

for Middle East Public Policy, National Security Research Division, Prepared for the Smith 

Richardson Foundation, 2000); Heinz Kramer, "Turkey and the European Union: A Multi- 

Dimensional Relationship with Hazy Perspectives," in Turkey Between East and West: New 

Challenges for a Rising Regional Power, ed. Vojtech Mastny and R. Craig (Boulder, CO: Westview 

Press, 1996); Ian O. Lesser, "Bridge or Barrier? Turkey and the West After the Cold War," in Turkey's 

New Geopolitics: From the Balkans to Western China, ed. Graham E. Fuller, et al. (Boulder, CO: 

Westview Press, 1993); Andrew Mango, Turkey: The Challenge of a New Role (Westport, CT: 

Praeger, published with the Center for Strategic and International Studies, Washington, D.C., 1994), 

pp. 86-93; Bill Park, "Turkey's European Union Candidacy: From Luxembourg to Helsinki - to 

Ankara?" (paper presented at the Annual Convention of the International Studies Association, Los 

Angeles, CA, March 14-18 2000); John Redmond, The Next Mediterranean Enlargement of the 

European Community: Turkey, Cyprus and Malta? (Brookfield, Vermont: Dartmouth Publishing 

Company, 1993), pp. 17-61; Mehmet Türkay, "Turkey's Integration with the European Union: 

Modalities and Limitations," in The Politics of Permanent Crisis: Class, Ideology and State in Turkey, 

ed. Nesecan Balkan and Süngür Savran (NY: Nova Science Publishers, Inc., 2002); Garip Turunç, La 

Turquie aux Marches de L'Union Européene, ed. Jean-Paul Chagnollaud, Collection Histoire et 

Perspectives Méditerranées (Paris: L'Harmattan, 2001); Birol Yesilada, "The Mediterranean 

Challenge," in The Expanding European Union: Past, Present, Future, ed. John Redmond and Glenda 

G. Rosenthal (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1998), pp. 179-183. 

542 Robert O. Keohane, "International Institutions: Two Approaches," in International Theory: 

Critical Investigations, ed. James Der Derian (NY: New York University Press, 1995). However, for a 

broader view of rationalist and reflectivist approaches, see esp. chapter 6 in Alker, Rediscoveries.

elationship. These studies frequently attempt to answer such questions as why 

306 

Turkey wants to join the EU and why the latter on the one hand is so reluctant to 

accept Turkey as a full member but on the other hand has never outright rejected the 

application. Answers typically include references to three main issues. First, the 

discrepancy in levels of economic development between the two actors 543 is used to 

explain both why Turkey wants to join the more affluent EU and share its prosperity, 

and why the latter might be reluctant to open its markets and redistributive systems 

to the poorer Turkey. Second, the geo-strategic dimensions of Turco – Greek 

maritime border disputes, the conflict over Cyprus, and Turkey’s role in the broader 

late- and post-Cold War “security architecture” 544 can be used to explain both why 

the Turkish application has not been accepted (since Greece like every member state 

has a veto on new members) and why it has never simply been rejected (as an 

important member of NATO that used to border the USSR, it was important not to 

alienate Turkey). Finally, references are often made to Turkish human rights abuses 

and its treatment of its Kurdish minority, which would only explain EU’s reluctance 

to accept Turkey (though it is not clear how this argument fits within a strictly 

rationalist and Realist framework). 545 Rationalist scholars generally see these three 

matters – in different combinations and to varying extents – as necessary and 

sufficient to explain Turkey’s desire to join the EU and the latter’s ambivalent 

attitude toward the Turkish application. 

543 See e.g. Çelik, Contemporary Turkish Foreign Policy. 

544 See e.g. Hale and Avci, "The Long Road to Membership," p. 36. 

545 Redmond, The Next Mediterranean Enlargement, pp. 42-44.

Works in this camp rely on rationalist and often Realist assumptions 

307 

about the motivation behind state action, and the influence of the IR tradition called 

Realism and its preoccupation with balance-of-power politics is indicated by titles 

such as Turkey’s New Geopolitics, 546 Turkey in World Politics: An Emerging 

Multiregional Power, 547 and subtitles such as New Challenges for a Rising Regional 

Power. 548 Redmond and Rosenthal put these assumptions clearly: 

The rationale for countries seeking EU membership is varied, but only 

in the degree of importance given to the different elements. The 

fundamental factors are essentially the pursuit of political, strategic, 

and, in particular, economic advantage. 549 

The Standard History of the Turkish Application 

From a reading of the mainstream literature on the relations between Turkey 

and the EU emerges a recognizable breakdown of the history of interactions into 

discrete periods or – to use the terminology of interactionist sociology – distinct 

“rounds”. Despite some variation between authors in the exact delineations of these 

periods, the latter are relatively consistently structured around a set of shared 

understandings of what constitutes key events in the interaction history. Similarly 

delineated periods can also be found in the way that the Turkish and EU actors 

themselves talk about the relationship. The following brief outline of this standard 

narrative will provide a useful background against which we can then set the in- 

546 Graham E. Fuller et al., eds., Turkey's New Geopolitics: From the Balkans to Western China 

(Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1993). See esp. pp. 104-115 in chapter 3: Lesser, "Bridge or Barrier?." 

547 Barry Rubin and Kemal Kirisci, eds., Turkey in World Politics: An Emerging Multiregional Power 

(Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2001). 

548 Mango, Turkey. 

549 Redmond, John and Glenda G. Rosenthal. (1998). “Introduction,” in John Redmond and Glenda G. 

Rosenthal, eds., The Expanding European Union: Past, Present, Future (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner 

Publishers, 1998).

depth textual analysis that follows. It will also introduce some of the questions 

308 

that occupy most of the mainstream academic treatments of the Turkey-EU 

relationship. 

Round I: Application and initial rejection (1987-1990). The decision by 

Turkish Prime Minister Turgut Özal to apply for Accession to the then European 

Community (EC) on April 14, 1987 550 is usually presented as the opening move in 

the history of interaction. 551 This first round concludes with the response from the 

European Commission in the form of its negative evaluation of the Turkish 

application in 1989, which stated that membership was unlikely in the near future 

and which was affirmed by the Council of the Community on 5 February 1990. 552 

Interestingly, the Commission stopped short of an outright dismissal of the Turkish 

application. Özal’s decision is often described as “premature,” 553 and one author 

claims that it “astonished both Turks and Europeans.” 554 Some suggest that Özal’s 

reason for applying for membership were essentially economic 555 while others argue 

that it clearly was “mainly political.” 556 

550 Çelik, Contemporary Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 103-106. European Commission, Summaries of 

Legislation: "Enlargement" (February 25, 2002 2002 [cited November 14 2003]); available from 

http://europa.eu.int/scadplus/leg/en/lvb/e40001.htm#CRITPO. “Turkey Submits Formal Application 

To Join EC.” (14 April, 1987). FBIS, European Communities, p. B1. Other studies go back to the 

Turkish application for membership in the European Economic Community and its subsequent 

admission as an associate member with the Association Agreement that was signed in 1963. Meltem 

Müftüler-Bac, "Through the Looking Glass: Turkey in Europe," Turkish Studies 1, no. 1 (2000). 

551 Mango, Turkey, p. 86; Redmond, The Next Mediterranean Enlargement, p. 17; Yesilada, "The 

Mediterranean Challenge," pp. 179-183. 

552 Mango, Turkey, p. 86; Yesilada, "The Mediterranean Challenge," p. 178. 

553 Kramer, "Turkey and the European Union," p. 208. 

554 Çelik, Contemporary Turkish Foreign Policy, p. 106. 

555 Çelik, Contemporary Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 106-108. Mehmet Türkay makes a similar 

economistic argument from a Marxist point of view: “The EU is perceived, in Turkey, both as a

309 

Round II: The Customs Union (1991-1996). After the negative opinion of 

the Commission, the relationship “staggered along for years without any definite 

direction” 557 The next key date is usually construed as the 1995 decision to complete 

the “much anticipated” 558 Customs Union (CU), which had been envisaged in the 

1963 Association Agreement between Turkey and the EU but had never been 

implemented. 559 The CU is extensive and covers the trade of manufactured goods 

and agricultural products, the free movement of workers, services and capital, as well 

as “stipulations about the harmonization of tax systems, rules of competition, and 

other economic legal regulations.” 560 After the CU entered into force on 1 January, 

1996 the “prospects for further improvement in political relations between both sides 

looked good”. 561 

Round III: Luxembourg (1996 – 1998). However, these prospects “did not 

materialize” 562 since “the Luxembourg summit failed to deliver a favorable outcome 

from the Turkish point of view.” 563 This Luxembourg European Council in 

December 1997 constitutes another central event in studies of the interaction history. 

Most observers point out that Turkey was “kept outside the list of countries admitted 

prototype of globalization and as the channel through which the country will be the globalizing 

world,” where “globalization is capitalism”. Türkay, "Turkey's Integration with the EU," p. 217. 

556 Redmond, The Next Mediterranean Enlargement, p. 25. 

557 Heinz Kramer, A Changing Turkey: The Challenge to Europe and the United States (Washington 

D.C.: Brookings Institution Press, 2000), p. 186. 


559 Redmond, The Next Mediterranean Enlargement, pp. 27-31. Kramer, "Turkey and the European 

Union," pp. 204-209. 

560 Kramer, "Turkey and the European Union," p. 204. 

561 Kramer, A Changing Turkey, pp. 187, 192. 

562 Kramer, A Changing Turkey, p. 192. 

563 Ziya Önis, "Turkey, Europe, and Paradoxes of Identity: Perspectives on the International Context 

of Democratization," Mediterranean Quarterly 10, no. 3 (1999): p. 114.

for candidacy for accession” 564 and describe it as a “low point” which “marked 

310 

the beginning of another strained period.” 565 The Commission of the European 

Union, in one description of the summit, instead emphasizes that the latter 

“confirmed Turkey's eligibility for membership of the Union.” 566 (Nevertheless, it 

does acknowledge that when “Turkey was invited to the European Conference in 

London on 12 March 1998 [it] declined to attend, considering itself not to have been 

treated as fairly as the other applicant countries.” 567 ) 

Round IV: From Helsinki to Copenhagen (1999 – 2002). However, as one 

Turkish author puts it, “Turkey tolerated a constant barrage of criticism and various 

rejections from the Europeans,” 568 and this paid off in the Helsinki summit in 

December 1999 where Turkey was granted status as “full candidate for 

membership.” 569 On 8 November 2000 the European Commission adopted an 

Accession Partnership document for Turkey. 570 Despite these positive developments, 

“Turkey remained the only candidate country with which the EU did not open 

accession negotiations.” 571 And at the December 2002 Summit in Copenhagen, the 

EU announced the conclusion of the accession negotiations with ten of the applicant 

564 Türkay, "Turkey's Integration with the EU." 

565 Hale and Avci, "The Long Road to Membership," p. 31. 

566 European Commission, Enlargement. 

567 European Commission, Making a Success of Enlargement: Strategy Paper and Report of the 

European Commission on the Progress Toward Accession of Each of the Candidate Countries (2001 

[cited May 23 2001]); available from http://europa.EU.int/comm./enlargement/report2001. European 

Commission. (2001). 


569 European Commission, Making a Success of Enlargement. 

570 Meltem Müftüler-Bac, "Turkey in the EU's Enlargement Process: Obstacles and Challenges," 

Mediterranean Politics 7, no. 3 (2002). 

571 Gülnür Aybet and Meltem Müftüler-Bac, "Transformations in Security and Identity after the Cold 

War: Turkey's Problematic Relationship with Europe," International Journal, no. Autumn (2000).

states and Cyprus, the Czech Republic, Estonia, Hungary, Latvia, Lithuania, 

311 

Malta, Poland, the Slovak Republic and Slovenia all joined the EU in 2004. While 

Bulgaria and Romania in turn became members in 2007, the future of Turkey’s 

accession negotiations look uncertain. 

This overview of the standard academic narrative of the Turkey-EC/EU 

relationship, like the standard narrative itself, provides a helpful background context 

for the discussion of the current status of negotiations but it also reveals some 

limitations of this story. From our point of view, the most obvious weakness is its 

omission of the long history before 1987 or, at best, 1963. The ahistoricism of many 

IR commentaries on the Turkish application (which is partly a function of standard 

publication requirements of brevity and policy relevance etc.) may understandably 

but problematically predispose them to unduly emphasize current power political 

machinations, spectacular international crises, or contemporary economic 

developments like GDP growth or hyperinflation. In contrast, deep-seated and 

enduring structures of meaning whose significance can only be grasped when viewed 

over the course of centuries or even millennia are likely to be overlooked or 

downplayed. It is of course the position advanced in this dissertation that this is a 

mistake. 

“Reflectivist” or Interpretivist Views 

Many of the studies in the rationalist tradition do acknowledge that there are 

other things than economic and strategic questions at play in this relationship, things

312 

which are “harder to defuse.” 572 These are, in the words of some of the rationalist 

scholars, “identity issues,” questions about “Turkey’s European vocation,” 573 and 

“the awkward cultural questions of how Europe should be defined.” 574 

But the 

rationalist camp does little to develop this point and address the question of how 

“identity issues” interplay with the rationalist calculations which are at the center of 

their analyses. For their part, the studies of Turkey – EU relations which would fall 

under Keohane’s reflectivist label use a lens that allows them to focus squarely on 

identity questions. This dissertation undoubtedly falls in this interpretivist camp, and 

like many similar studies in this tradition we are not primarily concerned with either 

of the two “Why?” questions that occupied many of the studies cited above. Our aim 

is not to determine Why Turkey (or Özal’s government) applied for membership or 

Why the EU has been reluctant to approve its application. We are interested in how 

the discourse on the Turkish application plays into the construction of a European 

identity. A core insight of reflectivist studies concerning the role of an Other for the 

European project is stated by van Ham: 

For ‘Europe’ to know its Self, it must look into the rather shadowy 

mirror of all that does not belong to Europe. … The Other therefore 

plays a central role in fostering the senses of cultural homogeneity 

and collective identity that forms the somewhat crude building blocs 

of international society. Since identity is inconceivable without 

alterity, contrasting the sense of community with difference is 

unavoidable... 575 

572 Hale and Avci, "The Long Road to Membership," p. 42. 

573 Redmond, The Next Mediterranean Enlargement, pp. 19-23. 

574 Lesser, "Bridge or Barrier?," p. 105. 

575 Peter van Ham, European Integration and the Postmodern Condition: Governance, Democracy, 

Identity (NY: Routledge, 2001), p. 191.

313 

van Ham is writing about contemporary Europe but he might as well have 

been addressing any of the previous periods examined in this dissertation. It appears 

that the need for a common Other against which to define a collective European Self 

is as pressing now as it ever was. Moreover, the traditional Others seem to retain 

their hold on the modern European imagination. According to Iver B. Neumann, a 

“variety of others have been and are instrumental in the process of forging European 

identity. … Nonetheless, the dominant other in the history of the European state 

system remains ‘the Turk…’” 576 We shall see that Turkey still occupies a prominent 

position in this respect. 

Defining Europe: Assessing Compliance with the Copenhagen Criteria 

Shortly before the February 2002 debate in the European Parliament that will 

be examined below, the Commission of the European Union presented a report on 

the progress of the candidate countries that illustrates the typical justifications by EU 

officials for keeping Turkey waiting at the door. 577 These primarily concern Turkey’s 

lack of progress on meeting some of the so-called “Copenhagen criteria” and it may 

be instructive to outline their reasoning briefly as an introduction to the relevant EP 

debates. 

576 Iver B. Neumann and Jennifer Welsh’s work on the construction of a European identity in relation 

to the Turkish and Ottoman Other is among the most important work on this case in the reflectivist 

camp, and much of the later work builds on theirs. Iver B. Neumann and Jennifer M. Welsh, "The 

'Other' in European Self-Definition: An Addendum to the Literature in International Society," Review 

of International Studies 17 (1991). Neumann, Uses of the Other. Iver B. Neumann, "European 

Identity, EU Expansion and the Integration/Exclusion Nexus," Alternatives: Global, Local, Political 

23, no. 3 (1998). 

577 European Commission, Making a Success of Enlargement.

314 

At the June 1993 meeting of the European Council 578 in Copenhagen, the 

EU determined three sets of criteria that had to be fulfilled by any state wishing to 

become a member of the Union. These “Copenhagen criteria,” include a) political, b) 

economic, and c) “other” criteria. The Commission explains the political criteria a) 

as follows: 

The Copenhagen European Council stated that “membership requires 

that the candidate country has achieved stability of institutions 

guaranteeing democracy, the rule of law, human rights, and the 

respect of and protection of minorities.” Article 6 of the Treaty of the 

European Union indicates that “The Union is founded on the 

principles of liberty, democracy, respect for human rights and 

fundamental freedoms and the rule of law.” 579 

The economic criteria b) require the “existence of a functioning market 

economy” and the “capacity to withstand competitive pressure and market forces 

within the Union”. 580 The third set of criteria c) concern matters such as “the ability 

to take on the obligations of membership, including adherence to the aims of 

political, economic and monetary union.” 581 

The Commission’s 2001 report on the progress toward membership pointed 

out that all applicant countries need to work on living up to the criteria under c): 

adopting and implementing the Community “Aquis,” or body of legislation, but that 

all seemed to be making progress in this respect. Compared to the other applicant 

states Turkey did not stand out here. 

578 This is the name given to the regular summit meetings of EU heads of state. 

579 European Commission, Making a Success of Enlargement, p. 10. 

580 European Commission, Making a Success of Enlargement, p. 16. 

581 European Commission, Making a Success of Enlargement, p. 16.

Regarding the economic criteria under b), the Commission judged that 

315 

Turkey, Bulgaria and Romania did not satisfy either the criterion of having a 

functioning market economy or that of being able to withstand the competitive 

market pressures within the Community. Only Malta and Cyprus fully complied with 

both economic criteria, while the rest of the countries complied with one but not the 

other. Again, Turkey did not fully meet the criteria but also did not stand out 

compared to the other applicant states. Neither lack of progress toward meeting b) 

the economic nor c) the “other” criteria thus seem to adequately account for Turkeys’ 

not being included in either the “Luxembourg group” or the “Helsinki round” of 

applicant states that began accession negotiations in 1998 and 2000, respectively, 

instead having to wait until late 2005 for this important step. 582 

However, the assessment of compliance with the political criteria under point 

a) is quite different. The Commission pointed out clearly that this was where Turkey 

differed: “The Copenhagen political criteria continue to be met by all presently 

negotiating candidate countries. Turkey still does not meet these criteria.” 583 A solid 

majority in the European Parliament, which has long been an avid critic of Turkish 

human rights violations and mistreatment of its Kurdish minority, shared this 

assessment. Parliament has occasionally refused to approve implementation of the 

Association Agreement’s various instruments with the aim of forcing the 

582 The “Luxembourg group”, which consisted of Cyprus, the Czech Republic, Estonia, Hungary, 

Poland, and Slovenia, began membership negotiations in 1998. The “Helsinki group,” which began 

negotiations in 2000, was made up of Romania, Slovakia, Latvia, Lithuania, Bulgaria, and Malta. 

583 European Commission, Making a Success of Enlargement, p. 12. Turkey was at the time not a 

negotiating candidate country; ergo the formulation.

Commission and the Council of Ministers to pressure Turkey to engage in 

316 

democratic reforms or risk endangering its relationship with the Union. In short, if 

we are to believe the official explanations by the EU institutions and their 

representatives of why they have let Turkey march so far behind other applicant 

states, it is because Turkey has failed to live up to the Copenhagen political criteria. 

Whether or not this is the “real” reason for the EU’s ambivalence toward 

Turkey, the question of Turkey’s fulfillment or lack or fulfillment of the Copenhagen 

criteria occupies so much space in the discourse on Turkish membership – and is 

loaded with so much emotion on both sides – that it merits study in its own right. 

The performative view of language that informs this dissertation implies that our 

primary focus should be on the constitutive function of the discourse on Turkish 

accession, not on whether the facts and arguments presented as part of the debates 

correspond to the true nature of things (though the empirical validity of some 

statements may be significant to the analysis of their constitutive function). Consider 

the observation made by a Member of the European Parliament (MEP) during a 1996 

debate about the political situation in Turkey, that 

today's debate is turning more and more into a debate about the way 

the European Union sees itself. Is this Union a common organization 

for gaining new markets in third countries? If that is the case we 

obviously have a pretty successful Turkish policy. Or is it also and 

above all the endeavour to create a more deep-reaching common 

European system of values, not only in the Member States of the

Union but outside too? If that is the yardstick then … we are standing 

before the ruins of a totally failed Turkish policy. 584 

317 

This unusually reflexive observation makes it clear that the ongoing 

discourse on whether the applicant states – and Turkey in particular – live up to the 

political criteria is a key part of the process of constructing a shared European 

identity. We can therefore “get at” this identity by examining how different actors in 

the EU talk about “Europe” and the various applicant states when evaluating the 

whether these states fulfill the criteria for membership in the Union. Turkey’s 

application provides us with an opportunity to study the boundaries of European 

identity since it stands out in the group of 13 recent applicant states both as the oldest 

and as the only one not yet accepted. 

IMAGES OF EUROPE AND TURKEY IN THE EUROPEAN PARLIAMENT 

What kind of actor or place is the EU? And what kind of actor or place is 

Turkey? How do they relate to one another? This section describes the main 

categories of typification or the main types of images identified in the debates. The 

quotes are illustrative of the content of each category of typification, not exhaustive. 

It will be helpful to divide the images of Turkey and the EU that emerge from the 

debate into two broad classes according to whether they emphasize Turkey’s 

essential Otherness or the inclusive nature of the European project. As the following 

analysis will demonstrate, however, the difference between these two classes is a 

matter of degree or emphasis, and several of the more inclusive images come very 

584 Konecny (PSE) – (AU), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. The Appendix 

contains a list of all party groups in the EP and their achronyms.

close to the exclusionary position. Each quote is cited in a footnote with the last 

318 

name, affiliation, and nationality of the speaker in question. A complete list of party 

groups in the Parliament and their achronyms is found in the Appendix after the list 

of Works Cited. 

Imagining an Exclusive European Identity 

(a) Turkey is not European. Explicit admissions of an exclusive European 

identity are surprisingly uncommon in the EP debates examined here, which 

provides a clue to an understanding of why the EC/EU never officially rejected the 

Turkish application. Only a limited number of Members of the European Parliament 

(MEPs) – typically on the far right – acknowledge that they would deny Turkey 

membership on the grounds of fundamentally cultural, geographic, or religious 

differences as opposed to Turkey’s failure to satisfy the Copenhagen Criteria. For 

example, one member of the eurosceptic EDN political group of right-wing and 

religious parties calls for greater clarity toward Turkey so as not to give the latter 

“illusory hopes … of achieving a status to which it cannot lay claim”, 585 while one of 

his colleagues in another debate points out what he sees as “the fact that Turkey, 

however hard it might try, could not become part of the European Union.” 586 There 

are occasional statements of an unmistakably exclusive definition of Europe’s 

“essence”: 

Europe should be European and Turkey is not European. Whatever 

the advantages, respect or friendship we can offer to this large 

country, the truth is that it does not share our common European 

585 Souchet (I-EDN) – (FR), European Parliament. Customs Union with Turkey, 111797. 

586 Fabre-Aubrespy (EDN) – (FR), European Parliament. Customs Union with Turkey, 071796.

civilisation. Turkey is not similar to Europe, neither geographically, 

historically, culturally nor religiously. 587 

319 

Another non-attached MEP justifies Turkey’s exclusion in similar terms – 

asserting that it “is distinct from the nations of Europe in terms of its origin, its 

language, its history, its culture, its religion and its institutions. The main part of its 

territory and population is in Asia.” 588 These statements emphasize the spatial 

dimension of Europe’s collective identity and a self-consciously territorial 

understanding of that space. Unlike the topophilic emphasis on symbolic places that 

the universalism of the Early Medieval Church demanded, modern proponents of an 

exclusive definition of Europe tend to understand the spatial dimension in terms of 

continuous territory with clearly defined (or at least definable) boundaries. 

Most often, however, this position remains unarticulated and we have to read 

between the lines in order to determine whether a particular speaker is painting an 

image of Turkey as essentially different and per definition ineligible for membership 

in a European Union with fixed cultural, religious, and/or geographic boundaries, or 

whether he/she is criticizing Turkey so that it can correct its flaws and continue on 

the path toward membership in a Union defined in universal terms. We will attempt 

to discern among these different points of view when considering the negative 

images of Turkey that emerge in the EP debates, such as the image that associates 

Turkey with violence and oppression. 

587 Mégret (NI) – (FR), European Parliament. Customs Union with Turkey, 091698. 

588 Gollnisch (NI) – (FR), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699.

320 

(b) Turkey is a dangerous place. Since the purpose of some of the debates 

analyzed here was to evaluate the political situation in Turkey, we should not be 

surprised to see critical assessments of Turkish shortcomings, and many such 

judgments may have impeccable factual basis. Nevertheless, the aim of this chapter, 

indeed of this dissertation, is not to determine the degree of accuracy of specific 

criticisms, so the reader will not find any attempts to refute or corroborate specific 

accusations below. Our objective is to study the images of Self and Other that 

emerge out of these processes, and the image painted of Turkey is rather dark. 

In the 2002 debate on democratic rights in Turkey, the latter is described as a 

“unitary state … based more upon power, threats, compulsion and authoritarian 

demands for loyalty than upon winning over people’s hearts and inspiring an inner 

loyalty, healthy affection and patriotism in relation to their own country”. 589 This 

state is not “opening itself to the outside world”. 590 Political activity there is fraught 

with danger because the government is “criminalizing and shutting down … political 

parties”. 591 Officials in Turkey run the risk of being “arrested or abducted without it 

being known whether this is the work of the security forces or of private 

organisations and without any real attempt being made to find the people who have 

been abducted or those responsible for the abductions”. 592 

589 Sacrédeus (PPE-DE) – (SV), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 


591 de Miguel, Council – (ES), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 

592 Swoboda, (PSE) - (AU), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

It is a country which “has yet to sign up to the Council of Europe’s 

321 

framework convention on the protection of national minorities”, 593 and which is not 

committed “to safeguard the cultural rights of Turkish minorities”. 594 The Turkish 

Government “threaten[s] … many linguistic communities with extinction”, 595 “over 

10,000 students … face criminal proceedings” after merely legally petitioning the 

government, 596 thousands of Kurdish party members have “been arrested”, 597 “over 

fifty-five offices were searched and shut down”, 598 and “one person was even 

killed”. 599 It is also common to see “villages destroyed” in Turkey. 600 

While “the Turkish Government has improvised some cosmetic measures to 

hide its awful human rights record… new repressive actions give us more serious 

grounds for concern”. 601 MEP’s stand for the majority of the contributions to the 

image of Turkey as a dangerous place. 

If we broaden our sample to include other debates we see that MEPs 

predicating violent attributes to “Turks”, “Turkey”, or “the Turkish authorities” is 

commonplace. In the 1996 debate on the political situation in Turkey, 602 most MEPs 

describe Turkey and its actions with words that invoke the old image of the cruel or 



595 Gorostiaga Atxalandabaso (NI) – (EL), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 

022702. 

596 Uca (GUE/NGL) – (DE), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 






022702. 

602 European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896.

322 

the barbarian Turk. The emotions probably ran especially high at the time of this 

debate due to a recent incident in which two young Greek Cypriots participating in 

an anti-Turkish motorcycle rally at the border crossed into northern Cyprus, climbed 

a flagpole and attempted to attach a Greek flag at the top only to be shot dead by 

Turkish soldiers, all on camera. It later turned out that one of the shooters was a 

member of a right-wing Turkish nationalist organization known as the Grey Wolves, 

who may have been sent to Cyprus with the aim of fuelling the conflict. However, 

the critical remarks are not limited to this incident. Leaving out some of the harsher 

speeches by Greek MEPs, the descriptions of Turkey and its actions are still laden 

with words and expressions of the kind listed below: 

“ever more violent and brutal”; “war is escalating”; 603 “occupying”; 

“killing”; 604 “shamelessness in violating human rights”; “dark 

methods – including murder”; “multi-faceted aggressiveness”; “the 

troublemaker of the international community”; “bestial”; 605 

“aggressive”; “bloody consequences”; 606 “destabilizing, provocative, 

and can create problems and even threaten peace in the Balkans, the 

Mediterranean, the Aegean and beyond”; “militaristic”; 607 

“appalling”; “suspected torture”; 608 “In Turkey they continue to 

torture, murder, close down newspapers, raze Kurdish villages to the 

ground”; 609 “rising fundamentalism”; “a pack of grey wolves was 

released that committed murder”; 610 “terrible events justify our 

concerns about political developments in Turkey”; 611 “people 

disappear”; “police brutality”; “armed operations in the south-east”; 

“villages have been … burned”; “Political prisoners”; “young 

unarmed Cypriots were murdered by Turkish soldiers and 

603 Roth (V) – (DE), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

604 Stirbois (NI) – (FR), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

605 Lambrias (PPE) – (EL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

606 Bertens (ELDR) – (NL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

607 Ephremidis (GUE/NGL) – (EL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

608 Sandbæk (EDN) – (DA), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

609 Konecny (PSE) – (AU), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

610 Chanterie (PPE) – (NL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

611 de Melo (ELDR) – (PT), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896.

paramilitary troops”; “violations of human rights”; “serious infringement 

of international law”; 612 “I also know the other side of Turkey, the 

side of torture and contempt and violations of human rights”; 613 

“Political repression within Turkey is more severe than ever”; 

“murderous provocation”; 614 “systematic torture”; “disappearances 

and extrajudicial killings” 615 etc. 

The net result of these colorful depictions is the construction of an image of 

Turkey that resonates quite strongly with the many images of the cruel and violent 

Saracen or Turkish Other that we identified in previous chapters. On the other hand, 

only one statement in this 1996 debate hints at the old image of the cruel and lustful 

Turk. This is the conservative MEP Moorhouse’s disturbing account of an 

undoubtedly “horrific episode” involving a “16-year old Turkish girl” who was 

allegedly detained for 19 days and “suffered electric shock treatment to her body and 

genitals, beating and hanging by the arms for long periods.” 616 Such powerful 

imagery of sexually loaded violence is reminiscent of the Script of Conquest 

(military and sexual) that was used to describe alleged Selcuk Turkish atrocities in 

11 th -century Jerusalem and Ottoman Turkish atrocities during the 1453 sack of 

Constantinople (and also of more recent popular representations of Turkish sexual 

violence in films like Lawrence of Arabia and Midnight Express), minus the 

component of sodomy. The relative scarcity of such imagery in the parliamentary 

debates is somewhat surprising given the preoccupation in many European news 

outlets with the mistreatment of women in Turkey and among Turkish immigrants in 

323 

612 Theorin (PSE) – (SV), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

613 Schulz (PSE) – (DE), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

614 Caudron (PSE) – (FR), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

615 Dankert (PSE) – (NL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

616 Moorhouse (PPE) – (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896.

the EU, especially to the practice of “honor killing”. Indeed, a brief survey of 

324 

written and oral questions by MEPs to representatives of the Council and 

Commission suggests that the EP may be more concerned with women’s rights in 

Turkey than the debates in our sample would have us believe. 617 

We have presented these images as emphasizing the essential Otherness of 

Turkey and as constitutive of an exclusive European identity, but all or most of the 

above quoted predications could also be associated with a more inclusive European 

Self-image. Harsh criticism of Turkish human rights abuse, for example, is in theory 

fully compatible with the official position of most MEPs that the EU may accept 

Turkey once the country improves its human rights record and fulfills all the 

Copenhagen Criteria. However, this position can hide a range of more skeptical 

views. For one thing, the ubiquitous use of words like “deteriorated” and “worsened” 

to describe the situation in Turkey indicates the common sentiment that Turkey – 

already “far from Europe” – is moving in the wrong direction. One MEP laments 

that the newly elected Turkish prime minister’s “first visits were not to the European 

Union or to the United States, traditional colleagues and friends of Turkey, but to 

countries far away, countries of Islamic tradition understandably, but none of them 

617 See e.g. Emine Bozkurt, "Opinion of the Committee on Women's Rights and Gender Equality for 

the Committee on Foreign Affairs on Turkey's Progress towards Accession," (European Parliament, 

2006); European Parliament. Written Question on Honour Killings in Turkey. 2007, E-0588/07; 

European Parliament. Question on Women's Associations in Turkey. Sitting of Thursday, 11 April 

2002, H-0163/02; European Parliament. Question on Women's Rights in Turkey. Sitting of Thursday, 

11 April 2002, H-0162/02.

were democracies.” 618 Similarly: “Though Turkey may be near us, this 

325 

government is very far away”. 619 The conclusion by one MEP that “the capacity of 

the Union … to promote changes in a country in which Western democratic values 

have barely taken root must not be overestimated” 620 is seconded by many of the 

speakers. Another MEP goes further still, arguing that the “customs union, far from 

resulting in a reduction of Islamic influence, is going to help increase it.” 621 

Drawing on his “personal knowledge of Turkey” as a five-year member of 

the “joint Europe-Turkey committee” (observe the subtle and possibly subconscious 

nomination strategy 622 of substituting “Europe” for the proper “EC” or “EU” in the 

name of this committee), the French Socialist MEP Caudron reports that he was able 

to personally 

618 McMillan-Scott (PPE) – (UK), my italics, European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 

091896. In their analysis of 16 EP debates about relations with Turkey, Giannakopoulos and Maras 

misrepresent the next statement (not quoted here) in this speech by McMillan-Scott. They claim that 

he describes Turkey as a ”tyranny run by religious extremists”. In actual fact, he was referring to Iran, 

which he criticized Erbakan for having chosen as the destination of his first foreign travel upon 

election. It would be legitimate to criticize McMillan-Scott for painting a rhetorical picture that 

closely associates Turkey with such tyrannies, but it is incorrect to say that he directly predicated 

those attributes to Turkey. They also get the date wrong for the debate in question, listing it as having 

taken place in October instead of September. The mistaken predication (Turkey instead of Iran) may 

be a function of their methodology: a large scale computational text-analysis (using the software 

Atlas-ti). Text analysis software brings the power of automation (partial automation, in the case of 

Atlas-ti) and thus scale, but even much more sophisticated software than Atlas often miss important 

context-sensitive meanings and should thus be used with caution. See Angelos Giannakopoulos and 

Konstadinos Maras, "Party Perspectives in the European Parliament on Turkey's EU Accession: An 

Empirical Study of Session Protocols of the European Parliament 1996-2004," (South East European 

Studies at Oxford, European Studies Centre, 2005), pp. 4-5. 

619 Caligaris (UPE) – (IT), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

620 Van der Waal (EDN) – (NL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 


622 See Chapter 1 above for a discussion of this and other discursive strategies. For an explanation see 

Wodak, "The Discourse-Historical Approach." For an implementation see Wodak et al., The 

Discursive Construction.

measure the change in the state of mind of our opposite numbers. At the 

start, they were asking for only one thing, membership, whereas at the 

end they were responding to our questions and queries with verbal 

aggression and harsh accusations. 623 

326 

His explanation for this growing Turkish insolence? “Islam had progressed in 

the meantime, and … the USSR had disintegrated, giving Turkey dreams of a 

dominant position in that region.” The whole of Caudron’s speech suggests an 

ambivalent attitude toward the nature of the differences between Turkey and EU 

member states that is also evident elsewhere in the debate, though it is possible that 

Cauldron is not so much indecisive as purposefully unclear. He opens his speech 

with the observation that “Turkey is a great country, of special importance on the 

world chessboard, a powerful country, a country which is allied to Europe. It must 

remain so, and we must do everything we can to ensure that it remains so.” Note that 

he is careful not to describe Turkey as a European country, only as Europe’s ally. 

While he had reluctantly voted in favor of the Customs Union with Turkey, Cauldron 

now believes that the EU should freeze all financial support to Turkey and even 

consider abolishing the Customs Union altogether. In light of the changed “state of 

mind” Cauldron had witnessed, he believes that such a drastic move is “our one and 

only way of helping Turkey to remain a great, secular, democratic, peaceful and 

allied country on the borders of Europe.” Again, the objective seems to be to keep an 

important geopolitical chess-piece from turning to far away from Europe, but not 

necessarily to embrace it as fully European. 

623 Caudron (PSE) – (FR), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896.

327 

Similarly, a German MEP from the conservative European People’s Party 

(PPE) cautions that “Our NATO partner Turkey is moving in a new direction” and 

that the new prime minister, Mr. Erbakan appears to be less interested in Europe and 

“would prefer to be a leading power in the Islamic world.” 624 However, he adds that 

no one wants to see “Turkey as a factor of instability in an Islamic world, facing 

away from Europe.” Thus, his conclusions are different from Cauldron’s. Should we 

[c]onstantly and emphatically call for an improvement in human 

rights and exert pressure: yes! Put the customs union in question: no! 

… We must do our utmost to ensure that even with an Islamic 

government Turkey keeps the European option open and does not turn 

away from us. 

Other speakers disagree, arguing that the differences may be too fundamental 

or that Turkey is already too far from Europe. In the words of one MEP, 

“Oppression, murder, intimidation are not European values.” 625 Many MEPs express 

long-standing doubts that Turkey ever would be able to change: “I did not believe 

that a customs union would begin a process of democracy and respect for human 

rights in Turkey,” admits a Danish MEP in a statement echoed by many, “and time 

has unfortunately proved that I was correct.” 626 Kranidiodis, a Greek member of the 

Socialist group, is more explicit than most of his colleagues when asserting the 

fundamental nature of the differences between Turkey on one hand and Europe on 

the other: 

624 Langen (PPE) – (DE), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

625 Green (PSE) – (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

626 Sandbæk (EDN) – (DA), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896.

328 

We must grasp the fact that we are dealing with a country which operates 

outside the law, a country whose ruling class sets no store by the 

concepts of justice, respect for human rights and democracy. So 

principles which are for us fundamental values of our civilization, 

have no such content in Turkey. 627 

This passage again reveals the broader significance of debating the political 

situation in Turkey and monitoring its progress toward fulfilling the political 

Copenhagen criteria. In a manner of speaking, those criteria operationalize the 

fundamental values that define “our civilization”, or Europe. They also define 

Europe as a civilized place in which (we understand) there is no room for people like 

the Turks, whose actions Kranidiotis describes as “barbaric”. 628 We will discuss this 

further below, but we see here how the mere act of publicly debating and criticizing 

Turkish human rights abuse in the European Parliament is a way of reaffirming 

certain supposedly fundamental European values, and thus of constructing a 

collective European identity. This constitutive function is of course precisely the 

same as that which we observed in our earlier analyses of medieval Christian anti- 

Islamic polemics, Luther’s Reformation-era disputations on the demonic sins of the 

Mahometan Turks, and Voltaire’s moralizing tale of Mahomet the imposter. 

While many statements in the 1996 debate lend themselves to the 

interpretation that they reproduce an exclusive European identity (though this is 

seldom explicitly acknowledged), only a small number of these are unquestionably 

defensive. Considering the revival of Greek-Turkish territorial disputes over Cyprus 

and a number of smaller islands, it is hardly surprising to find warnings of Turkish 

627 My italics, Kranidiotis (PSE) – (EL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

628 My italics, Kranidiotis (PSE) – (EL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896.

expansionism in the speeches by Greek MEPs, but apart from this, the image of 

329 

Turkey as a dangerous place is not often defensive. Turkey may be dangerous to 

anyone who lives there and maybe to neighboring Greece, but it is seldom presented 

as a direct threat to the rest of the EU. One notable exception is the warning by a 

French MEP of “a more serious implication” of the Customs Union, namely that “it 

represents a decisive step towards the integration of 65 million Turks into Europe, 65 

million more to add to the millions that are already here.” 629 The implied threat here 

is that of immigration, and we understand that it is a cultural or even religious threat 

since the warning follows immediately after an account of the rise of Islamic 

influence in Turkey. This is symptomatic of the changed broader dynamics in late 

20 th and early 21 st -century relations between many West European EU member 

states and Turkey. Even the most exclusive and defensive of Self-images in the 

former areas are typically justified by reference to cultural or economic threats 

associated with immigration, not to any threat of actual Turkish military or political 

aggression. The recent statement by outgoing EU Commissioner Fritz Bolkenstein, 

that the “deliverance of Vienna in 1863 will have been in vain” if Turkey is allowed 

to join the Union, suggests how the old threat of Ottoman military invasion has been 

recontextualized 630 to evoke a more worrying prospect to many in the EU today: the 

“Islamization” of Europe. 631 


630 See the special issue of Discourse and Society devoted to the notion of recontextualization: Ruth 

Wodak and Rick Iedema, "Introduction," Discourse and Society 10, no. 5 (1999). 

631 Ford, "Wariness over Turkey's EU Bid."

330 

Imagining Inclusive European Identities 

As we have noted above, open statements of exclusive European self-images 

do occur in the EP debates analyzed here, but they are the exception. More often, 

parochial definitions of Europe’s borders and essentialist cultural reasons for 

excluding Turkey are explicitly rejected, as in the following clarification of one 

MEP’s negative stance on the Turkish application: 

We do not accept religious or cultural reasons as an obstacle to 

Turkey's accession to the European Union. However Turkey must be 

judged on the same basis as any other country. It must adhere to the 

Copenhagen criteria and the Commission's report makes it very clear 

that it does not. 632 

This statement, and the European Self-image it reproduces, once more brings 

up the question of why the EC/EU never simply rejected Turkey’s application for 

membership. The pervasive images of Turkish cruelty and violence discussed above 

raise the stakes on this issue for if Turkey’s reputation is as negative among EU 

politicians as we have shown it to be, one wonders why the option of full 

membership is seriously contemplated at all. 633 As stated earlier, most mainstream 

studies of Turkey-EU relations answer this question by pointing to Turkey’s 

important role as a neighbor of the former Soviet Union and as an important member 

of NATO that must not be antagonized. Such considerations are undeniably 

important but this chapter argues that they should be seen in the context of the 

broader struggle over a common European identity, keeping in mind the constitutive 

632 Titley (PSE) – (UK), European Parliament. Verbatim Report of Proceedings on EU/Turkey 

Relations. Sitting of Wednesday, 2 December 1998. 

633 I thank Prof. Laurie Brand for underlining this important question.

function of the discourse on enlargement in this struggle. This argument will be 

331 

easier to understand if we first complete the analysis of the main typifications of 

Turkey and the EU found in the debates of the Parliament, so we shall return to it in 

the conclusion to this chapter. The rest of this section considers images of Turkey 

and Europe that construct a more inclusive European self-image (and thereby begin 

to shed light on the representation of Turkey as a potential candidate for accession to 

the European Union). 

(c) Turkey is a formal candidate for membership (Club/Applicant). Among 

the images of Turkey as an Other whose differences are potentially amenable to 

change, the most obvious example is the portrayal of Turkey in the role of applicant 

for EU membership. In the 2002 debate, a formal applicant/club-members 

relationship between the EU and Turkey is acknowledged by the representatives 

from the Council and the Commission (and once by a MEP) in statements such as 

these: “Turkey is a candidate country”. 634 The “Helsinki European Council formally 

acknowledged Turkey’s application to join the Union”. 635 “The background to our 

debate is the decision taken in Helsinki in 1999 to accord Turkey candidate 

status”. 636 The significance of these obvious and seemingly redundant assertions of 

Turkey’s official status is twofold. First, this formal role-relationship invokes a set of 

highly formalized and explicit expectancy rules for all parties involved as well as 

legal and procedural scripts that frame and constrain the interaction. While none of 



636 Verheugen, Commission – (DE), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

the speakers in this debate have the formal power to grant candidacy status by 

332 

simply asserting it in this context (this had already been done at the Helsinki 

summit), the repeated invocations of this role-relationship and associated script serve 

to confirm their significance and frame the subsequent discussion. Second, the 

reiteration of Turkey’s candidacy status and statements to the effect that “Turkey is 

participating on an equal footing with the other candidates”, 637 should likely be seen 

as responses to allegations that the EU was discriminating against Turkey. Turkish 

officials had leveled strong criticism of this kind and imposed a partial freezing of 

the relationship after it perceived itself as having been treated unfairly at the 

December 1997 Luxembourg European Council. 

In contrast to the 2002 debate, few speakers in the EP debates before the 

1999 decision in Helsinki to award Turkey formal candidate status explicitly 

mentioned the possibility of eventual membership. Only in the December 1999 

debate that was held weeks before the Helsinki Summit, when there were already 

clear indications of the decision that was about to be taken there, did any number of 

MEPs openly discuss the prospect of eventual full membership for Turkey (typically 

with great many caveats). 638 This image is thus present in some of the later debates, 

where it is mostly invoked by representatives of the Commission and the Council, 

seldom by parliamentarians, and it is by no means a dominant or even common 

image. 


638 European Parliament. Turkey, 120199.

(d) EU is an attractive place Turkey wants to get closer to the EU. 

333 

This image can be seen in observations during the 2002 debate that there are those 

who, like Turkey, have an “interest in establishing closer relations with” 639 or have 

an “objective of rapprochement with the European Union”. 640 One speaker in the 

1996 debate equates the “dialogue with Europe” that the Customs Union enables 

with “the opportunity [for Turkey] to look optimistically to the future.” 641 

Considering the other options, it is no wonder “Europe” looks attractive: “Turkey has 

no alternative, other than to revert back to its sorry past.” Implicitly, this theme runs 

through all the debates and is implied in the “logic” of the formal role-relationship 

between Turkey as an applicant for membership in the EU. By necessity, the initial 

degree of intimacy is limited by Turkey’s status as a non-member of the EU, but this 

degree of intimacy is precisely what is at stake in the question of membership. 

Further, the applicant/club-members role-relationship normally entails some process 

of evaluation and decision by the club-members as to the final intimacy status of the 

applicant. However, the stringency of membership criteria is variable, as is the extent 

to which evaluation implies inequality in the relationship in favor of the members. If 

the latter perceive the applicant as an asset and as having much to contribute to the 

club, the inequities of the relationship may be in favor of the applicant instead. 

However, this debate makes it abundantly clear that this particular relationship is 

tilted in favor of the members and not the applicant state. 


640 Verheugen, Commission – (DE), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 

641 Garosci (UPE) – (IT), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896.

In the 2002 debate, there is some recognition of increasing intimacy 

334 

between the two actors in the form of acknowledgements that by making some 

progress on fulfilling the political criteria, “Turkey has thereby come a step closer” 

to the “prospect of opening up accession negotiations”. 642 Yet, this is often presented 

with caveats and simultaneous distancing rhetorical maneuvers. It is only the 

“prospect of opening up accession negotiations” that has come a step closer, not 

actual membership, for example. Such acknowledgements also do not seem to come 

easy even to the least critical speaker in the debate, the President-in-Office of the 

Council, de Miguel: “Mr. President, it cannot be denied that Turkey has made 

progress…”. 643 The future seems distant and unclear to de Miguel: “This gives us 

hope today that we will see a new step in Turkey’s process of democratisation, which 

will open the way to a more fluid relationship and to negotiations, perhaps in the 

future, on its future incorporation into the Union”. 644 Notice the redundant repetition 

of the word “future” and the use of the modifier “perhaps” in this quote. In the 2002 

debate, no MEP points to an increasing intimacy between Turkey and the EU, only 

de Miguel and the Commissioner for Enlargement, Günter Verheugen, do so. 

It might be illuminating to compare this with some of the similar comments 

about the degree of intimacy between the EU and Slovakia, taken from an EP debate 

on the political situation in Slovakia on March 12 1998. 645 Like the debates on 

Turkey analyzed here, this debate takes place in the context of the country’s 


643 My italics, de Miguel, Council – (ES), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 


645 European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298.

335 

membership application and also in the aftermath of a political crisis in Slovakia, 

which presents obstacles for its fulfilling the political criteria for membership in the 

EU. Like the debate on the political situation in Turkey, harsh criticism is levied 

against the actions of the perpetrators of the offenses under scrutiny, but there are 

also frequent statements toning down the critique – “I had hoped … that we would 

be able to temper some of the toughness of the strictures directed by the EU towards 

Slovakia” 646 – and emphasizing that while there may be a setback or a rift in the 

relationship at the moment, the EU-Slovak relationship is still an intimate one and 

should continue to become more intimate as soon as possible: “[It] is necessary that 

we do not turn away from Slovakia”. 647 Unlike in the debates on Turkey, many 

MEPs emphasize that “yes, Slovakia is a European nation. We do want them to come 

into the European Union, we do want them to do everything possible to come and 

join us eventually in this House and in the European Union of the future”. 648 “We 

passionately wish the recommendations to be effectively followed up so that the 

Slovak Republic may join the European Union as quickly as possible”. 649 “I am 

happy to repeat today that I still look forward to Slovakia joining the EU at the 

earliest possible opportunity”. 650 This intimacy is underlined by speakers’ 

descriptions of themselves as “friend of Slovakia and the Slovak people” 651 and of 

646 Perry (PPE) – (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298. 

647 Blokland (I-EDN) – (NL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298. 

648 Macartney (ARE) – (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298. 

649 Pasty (UPE) – (FR), European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298. 

650 Perry (PPE) – (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298. 

651 Perry (PPE), (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298.

Slovakia as “our Slovak friends”. 652 All the statements above are by MEPs, and 

336 

the Commissioner present was more critical of Slovakia than were most MEPs. This 

means that the harsh rhetoric of many MEPs toward Turkey is probably not simply 

indicative of a more critical attitude in the EP toward candidate countries in general. 

At least as far as Slovakia is concerned, the positions of the institutions toward future 

accession are reversed compared to how they come out on the question of Turkish 

membership. 

(e) Turkey as backwards /has a long way to go. This image is reminiscent of 

some of those discussed in the section on exclusive images above, which reminds us 

how these nominally inclusive European Self-images often are de facto exclusive. 

One of the participants in the 2002 debate notes with disapproval that Turkey 

“proceeds ultimately on the basis of Kemal Ataturk’s constitution harking back to 

the 1920s and 1930s”. 653 In light of this backwardness, Turkey has a long way to go: 

“Whilst the human rights organisations welcome every advance that is made, the 

sheer number of specific cases they deal with demonstrate how much work still 

needs to be done before we see the democratic Turkey that we all hope and pray 

for”. 654 As we have noted above, it is not even clear that Turkey is moving in the 

right direction: “Banning HADEP will be a backward step for democracy, and will 

set Turkey off on a march in the wrong direction on the road that leads to Europe”. 655 

Ultimately, such judgments often lead to a de facto position on the Turkish 

652 Pasty (UPE) – (FR), European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298. 


654 Wurtz (GUE/NGL) – (FR), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 

655 Uca (GUE/NGL) – (DE), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

application for membership that is hard to distinguish from a rejection based on 

337 

an exclusive conception of Europe: “There is little point in our trying … to draw 

closer to Turkey if she is going to drift faster in the opposite direction towards an 

uncharted and risky future.” 656 

(f) The EU stands for indispensable European enlightenment principles – for 

civilization, or the EU as EUtopia We can get a good glimpse into what type of place 

EU officials imagine the EU to be if we look both at what they criticize Turkey for 

doing/being, and at the demands they make on Turkey before the latter can join the 

Union. Some of the criticism levied against Turkey was discussed above, and we saw 

that Turkey was presented as a dangerous, authoritarian, and unenlightened place. By 

virtue of the opposition implicit in this role-relationship, we are led to the 

assumption that the EU is not those things. The above quoted analogy of a road 

illustrates this logic of the role-relationship: A “backward step for democracy, … 

will set Turkey off on a march in the wrong direction on the road that leads to 

Europe.” This metaphor equates taking steps forward with democratization and with 

coming closer to Europe, and since the road leads to Europe, the latter must already 

have taken the necessary democratic steps to journey to the end of the road. Europe 

is democratic (and all the other things Turkey is criticized by the EU for not being). 

The metaphor of the road, or at least of a journey, takes us further still. It 

leads us to the Copenhagen criteria, for Turco-EU “relations have had a long 

journey, which has not always been easy, characterised by mutual interest, 

656 Sakellariou (PSE) – (DE), European Parliament. Customs Union with Turkey, 091698.

approchement and, at the same time, by the clear European requirement for 

338 

certain indispensable conditions that apply to every candidate for accession to the 

Union to be met”. 657 These political criteria are, of course: “achieving institutional 

stability that guarantees democracy, the Rule of Law, the defence of human rights 

and respect for minorities and their protection”. 658 The road metaphor allows creative 

variations in the depiction of these criteria, such as the imagery in which “the 

Copenhagen criteria will be an important path for Turkey to follow for its 

development, and they will be an ideal vehicle to take that development in the right 

direction: towards the values that we advocate here.” 659 

While these criteria in their capacity of membership requirements denote who 

is a member of the EU and who cannot be, they also connote what it means to be a 

European country in a deeper sense: 660 “The Copenhagen political criteria are ethical 

criteria which represent the real identity of Parliament and the European Union.” 661 

The full significance of the discourse on Turkey’s progress toward fulfilling the 

political criteria can only be grasped if viewed in light of the constitutive function 

that they fill in the debate over Europe’s “true” identity. Specific Turkish policies are 

therefore to be evaluated in terms of their deeper symbolic meaning, as steps in 

either the right or wrong direction at some decisive fork in the road, not on their 



659 My italics, Sasi, Council – (FI), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

660 We noted in the introduction to this thesis that William Wallace makes a similar point. 

Specifically, he writes that “Agenda 2000 thus provides for some purposes the most precise definition 

of European values outside the European Convention of Human Rights” and “’Europe’ is identified 

with the EU; denial of accession to the EU is thus seen as a denial of the claim to share a European 

identity.” Wallace, "Where does Europe...?," p. 81. 

661 Fava (PSE) – (IT), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699.

prima facie validity or effects. Thus, for example “the case against HADEP 

339 

epitomises the choice which Turkey is facing: either the country opts for pluralism, 

democracy and freedom of expression, or these basic European principles remain 

subordinate to a dogmatic view of state security”. 662 These are not mere membership 

criteria, but “basic European principles.” 

To underscore this important point, we can quote from an interview with a 

liberal Swedish MEP who emphasized the democratic criteria with the explanation 

that the EU is something more than merely another international organization. To 

this MEP, “there has to be a shared value-ground (värdegrund). The EU is not the 

Council of Europe.” 663 The implication is that the EU is a community of values but 

also that the members of this community are much closer or more thoroughly 

integrated than in any other international organization. In another interview, a highlevel 

bureaucrat at the Turkey desk in the Directorate for Enlargement echoed this 

position, arguing that the political criteria are important precisely because they make 

up “our shared value-ground.” 664 These principles of “pluralism, democracy, and 

freedom” are clearly imbued with positive connotations, and since they are “basic 

European principles”, this implies as positive an evaluation of the EU as this rolerelationship 

implies a negative evaluation of Turkey. The normative imbalance in 

this mutually constitutive relationship is easily detected in statements to the effect 

that, “Yes, Turkey should become a member of the Union but it should leave 

662 My italics, Lagendijk (Verts/ALE) – (NL), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 

022702. 

663 Anonymous, interview with author, Brussels, 5 June 2002. 

664 Anonymous, interview with author, Brussels, summer 2002.

violence, unlawfulness and autocracy outside Europe’s door and enter in peace 

340 

and democracy.” 665 This quote illustrates a nearly universal discursive move in the 

EP debates examined here: that of equating the EU with Europe. Moreover, this 

entity is metaphorically imagined as a house of peace and democracy (perhaps the 

home of the frequently mentioned “family of European democracies”), 666 with its 

doors open to any stranger that is willing to abandon its barbaric ways. Inside, there 

is light. Outside, darkness. 

A consequence of the almost existential significance of the political criteria to 

a majority of MEPs is that when the “Turkish government” violates them it is 

contradicting more than a set of technical requirements: “a ban on the HADEP party 

in Turkey would offend against our political principles”. 667 Such actions become 

challenges of what the EU is, and playing the part of the defender of democracy and 

civilization requires forceful and emotional responses: “We must show here and now 

that this House does not accept undemocratic actions! (Applause)”. 668 By responding 

in such fashion, the EU shows Turkey, its constituents, and the rest of the world what 

it is. 

There is an interesting inter-institutional political dynamic associated with 

this image as it relates to the question of Turkish accession. Many MEPs depict their 

institution as the chief guardian of the democratic and progressive values upon which 

665 Efthymiou (PSE) – (EL), European Parliament. Turkey, 120199. 

666 Verheugen, Commission – (DE), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

667 My italics, Verheugen, Commission – (DE), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 

022702. 


the Union is based, whereas especially the Council of Ministers is criticized for 

341 

all too often sacrificing those values on the altar of realpolitik. We saw a hint of this 

in the observation by a German Socialist MEP quoted earlier in this chapter, which 

claimed that the debate about Turkey had become a debate over two European selfimages: 

one in which the EU was essentially a pursuit of new markets and the other 

of the Union as a quest “to create a more deep-reaching common European system of 

values.” 669 It is possible to quote many more statements to that effect. A Greek 

member of the United European Left group affirms in a 1999 debate the view “that 

we, the European Union, must be a community of principles” and – clearly 

criticizing the advertised decision to award Turkey official candidacy status at the 

Helsinki Summit – “not a cynical political entity pursuing geo-strategic policies 

which, to a large extent, come from Washington.” 670 The same argument is made on 

the right as well: “we cannot compromise the character of the European Union on 

geopolitical grounds”, argues a Dutch Conservative MEP. “We cannot allow a State 

that is not a constitutional State to determine our common future; there cannot even 

be negotiations on that point. We must give the character of the Union due 

consideration.” 671 

In the words of one Greek member of the Socialist group, the fact that the 

Council clearly “lacks the political will to exert pressure on Turkey” places a special 

onus on the Parliament: “That duty has therefore fallen on the shoulders of the 

669 Konecny (PSE) – (DE), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

670 Alavanos (GUE/NGL) – (EL), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

671 Oostlander (PPE) – (NL), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699.

European Parliament, which has become the real custodian of the principles of 

342 

democracy, human rights and the protection of law and order.” 672 The different 

political groups within the Parliament also use the question of the relationship with 

Turkey to level similar accusations against each other. 673 Groups on the right charge 

those on the left with selling out Europe’s identity and heritage, while political 

groups on the left denounce their opponents on the other side for falsely defining the 

EU as an exclusive “Christian club”. Interestingly, this disagreement is often de facto 

limited to the reasons for keeping Turkey out since, in the debates examined here, 

even those MEPs who defend a more inclusive conception of Europe are of the view 

that Turkey at that particular time does not qualify for membership. 

I was perturbed to hear how Mr Poettering, on behalf of the European 

People' s Party, added a so-called cultural criterion to our relations 

with Turkey. What was he referring to? To the fact that there are 

unavoidable cultural differences between Europeans and Turks, which 

prevent Ankara from having the chance that their country might join 

the European Union? I am radically against this unacceptable view. 

We can require that there be political principles, democracy, respect 

for human rights, and fair treatment of minorities and of the Kurdish 

people, and that international law be respected. But to add other 

criteria would certainly not be European in the best sense of the 

word. 674 

According to this speaker, the problem with Mr Poettering’s position is that it 

leaves the EU without leverage to push for those “democratic values which today are 

still not being fulfilled”. We can infer from this judgment that while this speaker may 

672 Kranidiotis (PSE) – (EL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

673 This is well covered in Giannakopoulos and Maras, "Party Perspectives in the EP on Turkey's EU 

Accession." 

674 Carnero González (PSE) – (ES), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699.

disagree with his conservative opponent over the best sense of the word 

343 

European, neither is prepared to embrace Turkey as such at the present time. To 

conclude our discussion of this image, we can reiterate the constitutive function of 

responding to and evaluating Turkish actions that we have observed in these debates 

and underline the importance of seeing the EU as an inclusive, principled actor. The 

first observation also helps explain the significance of the next set of images. 

(g) EU monitors / evaluates / reprimands Turkey Turkey needs to be 

monitored / evaluated / reprimanded (or Turkey as a troublesome child and EU as the 

strict parent). The very purpose of the 2002 debate indicates this role relationship: 

“the Commission welcomes today's debate, which gives us the opportunity to draw 

up an interim balance sheet of democratic rights in Turkey and on the progress made 

in the area of political reforms”. 675 Turkey is thus a place or an actor that should be 

monitored, measured, and judged, and it is the role of the EU to do this: “At the end 

of the day, we must not measure the human rights situation in Turkey according to 

what is written down, but have to judge it by what actually happens in practice from 

day to day”. 676 The “European Parliament will show no lack of vigour, energy and 

persistence in monitoring this judicial process in Turkey”. 677 

If Turkey behaves, it should be encouraged: “The Laeken European Council 

paid tribute to Turkey's efforts and noted that Turkey had moved closer to its 



677 Sacrédeus (PPE-DE) – (SV), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

objective of joining the European Union.” 678 And: “Turkey has, this month, 

344 

enacted a first mini-package, the provisions of which the Commission welcomes in 

so far as they deal with pre-trial detention. 679 Sometimes Turkey needs to be 

pressured to go in certain directions: “The European Council urged Turkey to 

continue making progress on fulfilling the Copenhagen criteria”. 680 “During my brief 

visit to Turkey, I therefore underlined our expectation that further steps would be 

taken in such areas as …” 681 “The Commission therefore calls on the Turkish 

government to make further efforts to comply with these standards”, and so on. 682 

Usually, however, Turkey is a country that misbehaves and needs to be 

reprimanded: “the Council, the Commission and Parliament, too, should denounce 

this charge unequivocally”. 683 “I also welcome the fact that we decided, by means of 

a resolution which all the groups support, to send a clear message to the Turkish 

authorities, and the following statement, in particular: ‘The European Parliament 

calls for the case against HADEP to be dropped’”. 684 “It is the very least that we can 

demand of a country that will tomorrow be taking part in the Convention on the 


022702. 


022702. 



022702. 


022702. 

683 My italics, Lagendijk (Verts/ALE) – (NL), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 

022702. 

684 My italics, Wurtz (GUE/NGL) – (FR), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 

022702.

future of Europe”. 685 “We ought to have the courage to denounce all 

345 

governments – like the Turkish one – that threaten so many linguistic communities 

with extinction”. 686 

Given the features of the situation, in particular the fact that Turkey wants 

something that the EU can grant or deny, these demands can be made quite 

effectively: “Turkey must take still further action, or else it will not be able to join 

the EU”. 687 This is one further indicator that this role-relationship is rather 

inequitably structured in favor of the EU, and this regardless of whether the EU is 

encouraging or reprimanding Turkey. 

(h) EU as the defender of people, democracy, and minorities in Turkey. An 

ambitious juxtaposed Self-image emerges from the last image of Turkey, where the 

EU is cast in the role of defender of the Turkish people, Turkey’s democracy and its 

minorities: “we intend to act in such a way as to protect democratic rights, the 

multiparty system and, of course, the rights of the Kurdish minority too in 

Turkey”. 688 “What Parliament stands by is this: We campaign for the cultural rights 

of the Kurds”. 689 Given Turkey’s actions, the EU might have to emphasize that 

“respect for the cultural rights of the Turkish people of Kurdish origin is one of the 

685 My italics, Wurtz (GUE/NGL) – (FR), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 

022702. 

686 My italics, Gorostiaga Atxalandabaso (NI) – (EL), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in 

Turkey, 022702. 



689 Swoboda (PSE) – (AU), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

objectives set out in the Association Agreement for accession”. 690 This is a 

346 

complex relationship in that on one hand, it positions the EU toward the Kurdish 

minority and/or the Turkish people as their protector and the former to the EU as a 

victim in need of protection. On the other hand, it places the EU in opposition to the 

Turkish authorities since it is protecting the Kurds against these authorities. This 

indicates a strongly subordinate role for the Kurds in relation to the EU but a positive 

value assigned to them and perhaps also a rather intimate relationship, while it 

indicates a clearly negative value assigned to the Turkish authorities in this context 

and perhaps a less intimate relationship between Turkey and the EU. 

(i) Turkey is weak / in need of help EU is strong / the helper of Turkey. 

These images stem from both normative and descriptive statements regarding 

Turkey-EU relations. Descriptively, these reciprocal images of need and capability 

emerge through mention of how the EU has helped / is helping / or will help Turkey: 

“the Commission offers Turkey a range of training programmes, which are eagerly 

taken up”. 691 It is repeatedly emphasized that the EU is at least partly to thank for 

any progress that has been made in Turkey: “These reforms have undoubtedly 

benefited from the fact that Turkey’s candidature has been acknowledged and from 

the prospect of its joining the Union in the future”. 692 In short, “we have managed to 

set in motion a process of reform in Turkey”. 693 These descriptions of how the EU is 

helping Turkey assume a relationship where the EU has the dominant role and 




693 Swoboda (PSE) – (AU), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

Turkey the subordinate one. The image of the EU in this relationship is also 

347 

highly positive, in the sense that according to the image presented here one would 

expect Turkey to look favorably upon the EU. It is less clear what this implies for the 

EU’s evaluation of Turkey, but one can presume that there should be at least some 

positive evaluation if the EU is to have any incentive to help Turkey. 

The prescriptive variation of this image is illustrated in the statement by one 

MEP that “the European Union must do everything in its power to enable Turkey to 

acquire membership.” 694 This unusually firm statement of support for the goal of 

Turkish membership indicates a degree of acceptance of future intimacy and a 

somewhat positive evaluation of Turkey in spite of a critique of its actions. More 

often, however, affirmations of the EU’s presumed duty to help Turkey fall short of 

defining it as the obligation to help Turkey reach the goal of accession. The objective 

is typically “democratization” or further movement down the metaphorical road that 

leads there, or reference is made to some general obligation to help: “I believe that 

the European Union has a duty to offer a helping hand to Turkey.” 695 This duty is 

also expressed as a negative; in critiques of failures to live up to an obligation: 

This rich and opulent Europe, this pacifist Europe – which is as 

strongly critical in words as the sternest public prosecutor, but timid 

as a rabbit when it comes to action – already bears the responsibility 

for not having intervened to prevent the Öcalan case from 

degenerating. It must not now make itself similarly responsible for 

preventing Turkish youth from acquiring – by means of cultural 

exchanges – those values of democracy, freedom, tolerance and 

694 Lagendijk (Verts/ALE) – (NL), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 

695 Giansily (UPE), draftsman of the opinion of the Committee on Budgets – (FR), European 

Parliament. Customs Union with Turkey, 091698.

justice through which Turkey will soon become a new reference point in 

the policy of enlarging Europe in the Mediterranean area. 696 

348 

The combination of a highly idealized Self-image of an inclusive Europe 

based on universally applicable values and the corresponding image of a weak and 

backwards Turkey that has fallen behind on its road to Europe and Enlightenment is 

rather potent. It may explain the enthusiastic tone of certain statements, which reveal 

an almost missionary desire – albeit of a secular kind – to spread European values 

and practices. Consider the following statements from a 1999 debate about whether 

to include Turkey in cultural and educational exchange programs for youths, which 

are described as “a way of imparting the values of a community based on democracy 

and tolerance of other people and other cultures.” 697 The Conservative German 

rapporteur from the responsible EP committee can barely contain his zeal when 

describing the prospects of including Turkey in these programs: “Turkey seems 

almost predestined to take part in the exchange programmes. Europe must be brought 

into the field of vision of young people in Turkey”. 698 In particular, the large number 

of Turkish youths offers “a huge opportunity!” 

just think of the enormous amplifying effect produced by young 

people who gain positive personal experience from these 

programmes. That is why we must offer young Turks a chance to get 

to know our western European culture and the way we treat 

fundamental rights and human rights for themselves. 699 

The representative from the Commission concurs: 

696 Musumeci (NI) – (IT), European Parliament. Including Turkey in Socrates, 022499. 

697 Guinebertière (UPE) – (FR), European Parliament. Including Turkey in Socrates, 022499. 

698 Heinisch (PPE), rapporteur – (DE), European Parliament. Including Turkey in Socrates, 022499. 

699 Heinisch (PPE), rapporteur – (DE), European Parliament. Including Turkey in Socrates, 022499.

349 

we have to make an effort – precisely towards Turkey's young people – to 

develop and strengthen our mutual understanding further and seize the 

opportunity through these exchange programmes to exchange and 

share our views on democracy, tolerance and citizenship. Catch them 

young, as the saying goes… 700 

Other MEPs are not far behind, including Johannes Swoboda – one of the 

most influential mainstream advocates for closer relations with Turkey in the EP. As 

this Austrian member of the PSE declares, “we have one goal as Socialists and 

Social Democrats and that is to change things and relationships in Turkey in such as 

way as to be able to speak of real democracy, freedom and respect for human rights 

there.” 701 

In a few instances, the missionary tendencies are not even shrouded in secular 

terms. These cases are not typical but they are interesting nonetheless: 

both as a Catholic first and as a politician second, I must stress the 

need in Turkey for more genuine respect for civil rights and 

fundamental values, especially as regards human rights… If we 

continue with the goal of enlarging the Community and, at the same 

time, of ensuring it complies with fundamental principles and values, 

this institution will assume its true role once more, which is 

fundamental in terms of foreign policy and international credibility. 702 

This statement shows that at least in the mental world of some MEPs, the 

EU’s role as a beacon of Enlightenment and civilization is fully compatible with the 

Christian obligation to spread the Word. Commenting on the earthquake of 17 

August in Turkey, another MEP volunteers a similar view: “Who in Europe could 

not feel pity for the victims of this disaster? There is no doubt that a helping hand 

700 van den Broek, Commission – (NL), European Parliament. Including Turkey in Socrates, 022499. 

701 Swoboda (PSE) – (AU), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

702 Turchi (UEN) – (IT), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699.

was and continues to be provided. Indeed this is our moral duty from a Biblical 

350 

point of view.” 703 The earthquake revealed the “great shortcomings of the ostensibly 

powerful state machinery in Turkey” as the latter sought to suppress criticism in the 

wake of the disaster. “What attitude should the European Union adopt towards 

Turkey, a country at odds with itself? Certainly one that bears witness to genuine 

good neighbourliness, which includes providing political and economic support.” 704 

The EU’s obligation to help Turkey is here stated as the duty of Christian charity. 

Such explicit statements of faith as these are atypical, but even a moderate social 

democrat like Swoboda occasionally resorts to the use of secular language that is still 

curiously charged with religious connotations: 

What Parliament stands by is this: We campaign for the cultural rights 

of the Kurds – rights that are inalienable, that do not amount to 

separatism or terrorism, that do not create difficulties for Turkey, but 

which could be the salvation of Turkey as a European country. 705 

(j) Turkey is moving forward, but it is not enough. This is an image or 

typification and evaluation of Turkish actions and lack thereof. More accurately, it is 

a complex of images whose component units follow what appears to be a partially 

standardized sequential pattern. We may thus, with caution, call this a script, and it is 

possible to discern within it two distinct components. 

1. One step forward... One interesting thing about this imagery is that 

whether the speaker is from the EP or from either COM or the Commission is a very 

703 Belder (EDD) – (NL), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

704 Belder (EDD) – (NL), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

705 Swoboda (PSE)- (AU), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

strong “predictor” of it. While there are 12 occurrences of predication of 

351 

attributes of this type made by the two speakers from the Council and the 

Commission in the 2002 debate, there are only three not-so-clear positive evaluations 

or acknowledgements of the progress made by Turkey from MEPs. These are the 

following three: “Since then, the PKK has declared a ceasefire and Turkey has 

started its long programme of political reform”. 706 “In particular the revision of 

Article 69 seems to be designed to expand the scope of party political activity within 

the political system”. 707 Finally, it is acknowledged in passing that “Turkey 

embarked upon a constitutional review process last autumn…” 708 

Both de Miguel of the Council and Verheugen of the Commission are less 

restricted in their positive evaluations of Turkish progress. de Miguel points out that 

the 

Progress 2000 report stated that Turkey had initiated a very positive 

debate on the political reforms necessary for its accession, one of the 

most important of which is the fact that it has signed up to various 

international instruments in the field of human rights… 709 

Yet, their praise is often circumscribed or toned down in a number of ways. 

At times, this is done by giving praise in the form of merely repeating a previous 

official acknowledgement, as in the above example. At other times, a speaker can the 

same effect by downplaying some positive developments just mentioned with 

clarifications like “I do not want to exaggerate matters, I do not wish to paint a 

706 Duff (ELDR) – (UK), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 

707 Duff (ELDR) – (UK), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 

708 Wurtz (GUE/NGL) – (FR), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 

709 de Miguel, Council – (ES), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

352 

totally rosy picture, but there are changes which we must respond to.” 710 Another 

common alternative is the use of such discursive strategies as agent deletion: 711 

“Two-thousand-and-one saw one of the most important changes in Turkey’s process 

of democratisation: the adoption of a package of 34 amendments to the constitution, 

which is the most profound change that this fundamental legislation has undergone 

since its entry into force in 1982”. 712 Simply put, instead of portraying Turkey as the 

agent that adopted this important package, the grammatical subject of the sentence is 

“2001” and this non-entity simply “saw” the “adoption of” said package. The uses of 

agent deletion and the opposite linguistic device of scapegoating 713 are pervasive in 

passages that describe Turkish policies: The MEPs tend to use passive voice more 

often when predicating positive attributes/actions; active voice when assigning blame 

for wrongdoings. 

Another related strategy is to report Turkish progress as mere removals of 

negatives: “at the end of January 2002, another major step forwards was taken when 

the Turkish government decided to remove its opposition to Article 5 of the 

European Convention on Human Rights”. 714 Here, the Turkish government is the 

subject of the dependent clause and is granted the power of agency, but instead of 

being construed as having accepted or embraced the Article, it only “removed its 

710 Swoboda (PSE) – (AU), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

711 Wodak et al., The Discursive Construction, p. 36. 


713 According to Wodak et al. agent deletion is a linguistic device that can be used to shift the blame 

for something bad by grammatically eliminating the agent. (As the guilty-looking child may say: “It 

fell!”) Scapegoating is the reverse linguistic tactic of emphasizing agency and thus guilt. (As his 

brother may counter: “HE did it!) 

714 de Miguel, Council – (ES), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702.

opposition”. We may surmise that they did so only reluctantly. This is also the 

353 

implication of Verheugen’s remark that Turkey has, “in order to meet the priorities 

of the Accession Partnership, accepted a national programme for the adoption of the 

acquis communautaire, thus at last setting in motion a reform process”. 715 Turkey is 

the grammatical subject and the agent of the sentence, but the real agent of change is 

clearly the European Union. 

2) … and two steps back. The second component of this script typically 

follows sequentially after the first. While the two representatives of the Commission 

and the Council in the 2002 debate recognize that Turkey has made some progress, 

they consistently follow any such praise with descriptions of the lack of progress, or 

even of regression, and a conclusion that there has not been enough progress. The 

general form seems to be –Yes, but…: “Turkey could be said to have the basic 

characteristics of a democratic system, but the implementation of the reforms 

necessary to guarantee democracy and the Rule of Law is taking place extremely 

slowly”. 716 Changes in the legal system are appreciated but are not seen as going far 

enough or as addressing all the problems: “The amendment of the status of legal 

persons does not solve the problem of the legal obstacles to the right of association 

or to ...” 717 “Positive steps, for example the constitutional reform, can be set against 

other areas, in which we continue to observe deficits”. 718 “Although these provisions 





022702.

comply with EU standards, we take the view that they do not go far enough as 

354 

regards freedom of opinion”. 719 Despite the steps taken and progress made, then, the 

conclusions are clear: “In this process of reform and progress, in the recognition of 

the cultural rights of minorities, Turkey is still falling short”. 720 

Statements by MEPs in this debate follow the same –Yes, but… pattern: 

“Whilst I welcome the amendments to the constitution, they fall far short of my 

expectations”. 721 “The death penalty has not been abolished, but only restricted”. 722 

Or: “Turkish politicians show little zeal when it comes to putting the changes to the 

constitution into practice”. 723 

Many of the MEPs are more critical than the 

representatives of the Council and the Commission, and some suggest that the onestep-forward, 

two-steps-back is akin to a dance where the Turkish government leads: 

“I sometimes rather feel that we are being led a dance when the constitution is 

amended, but not the implementing legislation …” 724 Similarly, to repeat a statement 

already quoted above: “Mr President, certainly the Turkish Government has 

improvised some cosmetic measures to hide its awful human rights record, but new 

repressive actions give us more serious grounds for concern, as the President-in- 

Office has said”. 725 Cautiously positive evaluations of Turkey’s progress are 

followed not only by statements to the effect that the progress is not enough, but also 


022702. 


721 My italics, Uca (GUE/NGL) – (DE), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 



724 Swoboda (PSE) – (AU), European Parliament. Democratic Rights in Turkey, 022702. 


022702.

y statements criticizing Turkey for taking steps in the wrong direction. Since 

355 

many of these have been quoted above – under the sub-heading of Turkey as a 

dangerous place – suffice it to say here that on the aggregate, negative evaluations 

outweigh positive evaluations of Turkey and its actions. 

A note on the strategic uses of coordinating conjunctions (“but”) is in place. 

The word order in sentences with coordinating conjunctions can be crucial for the 

meaning: Compare “I like you but you may be a little too tall for my taste” (likely to 

be a dismissal) with “You may be a little too tall for my taste but I like you” (a sign 

of interest despite obstacles). The same goes for evaluations in our context. When 

discussing Slovakia the political criteria become a “barrier” to be overcome rather 

than the “indispensable conditions” 726 for membership that it is usually portrayed as 

with respect to Turkey. For example: “An appeal is made to the country [Slovakia] to 

ensure that the political criteria will no longer be a barrier to the start of the 

accession negotiations”. 727 Compare this with the typical statement about Turkey that 

“I am in favour of Turkey's admittance to the EU, but the Copenhagen criteria must 

be met”. 728 Generally, positive evaluations of Turkey’s progress are stated rather 

early in many of the speeches in this debate, to be “eclipsed” by more negative 

concluding evaluations. This is most clearly seen in de Miguel’s speech, where the 

negative evaluations come in paragraph nine and on. All in all, the speakers in the 


727 Blokland (I-EDN) – (NL), European Parliament. Political Situation in Slovakia, 031298. 


2002 debate explicitly or implicitly agree with Verheugen’s assessment that 

356 

“Turkey does not at present meet the political Copenhagen criteria”. 729 

Needless to say, these observations regarding the use of the particular 

syntactic or narrative structure associated with the –Yes, but… script should not be 

taken as statements of inviolable laws but of general tendencies. The same effect (of 

e.g. admitting positive developments while maintaining the overall negative 

appraisal) can be achieved with the exact reverse sentence structure. Consider the 

following evaluation of Turkish reforms: “progress has not been good enough in the 

areas of democratic reform and human rights, though I am happy to agree with Mr 

Schulz that there are signs of improvement here and there.” 730 Here, instead of using 

the –Yes, but… formula to convey the negative final tally, the latter is stated 

explicitly in the first clause of the sentence, while the disparaging “here and there” in 

the last clause tempers the effect of concluding with a positive concession. 

Nevertheless, we can observe the frequent use of the –Yes, but… script in 

many of the other debates examined here, not just the 2002 debate that we used to 

illustrate it. Consider the following brief sample (emphasis added): In the September 

1996 debate, Swedish MEP Theorin makes such good use of the script that she 

almost wears it out: “Despite some promising statements from the new prime 

minister there has been no follow-up with regard to the Kurdish question.” 

Moreover, “Certain changes were made as regards anti-terrorism legislation but these 


730 van den Broek, Commission – (NL), European Parliament. Customs Union with Turkey, 091698.

have not been followed up with other legislation.” Finally, “Some writers may 

357 

have been released but others have been prosecuted.” 731 This precise script is not 

invoked in the February 1999 debate on including Turkey in the Socrates and Youth 

for Europe programs, but a parallel sequence (in which an expression of support is 

immediately followed by a caveat) is. One MEP declares that his group is “in favour 

of extending the Youth for Europe programme to Turkey,” but adds hastily that “this 

decision has nothing to do with our everyday political relations with Turkey or with 

our serious reservations about certain domestic conditions in Turkey.” 732 General 

Morillon states in the October 1999 debate that, “even though we must acknowledge 

the progress that Turkey has made towards rapprochement, doubts remain as to its 

ability and even its intention to meet all the Copenhagen criteria.” 733 Similarly, 

during the debate in December of the same year an Italian MEP offers the following 

evaluation of Turkey’s moratorium on the death penalty: “Of course, this is not 

without importance, but is it enough to convince us that Turkey has its house in order 

so it can join the Union? No.” 734 

(k) Turkey has something to offer the EU can benefit from Turkey’s 

accession. This chapter has attempted to relate the dominant images of Turkey as 

this country is portrayed in debates of the European Parliament, and has admittedly 

painted a rather dark picture so far. Some readers may wonder if this analysis does 

not exaggerate the animosity toward Turkey and gives too short shrift to its 

731 Theorin (PSE) – (SV), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. 

732 Elchlepp (PSE) – (DE), European Parliament. Including Turkey in Socrates, 022499. 

733 Morillon (PPE) – (FR), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

734 Morgantini (GUE/NGL) – (IT), European Parliament. Turkey, 120199.

358 

supporters. The short and honest answer is “no”. Most MEPs on both the left and 

the right are highly skeptical of the Turkish application for membership, albeit for 

different reasons, and many of those in the center – including members of the 

Council and the Commission – preempt criticism from the flanks by being equally 

tough on Turkey, thereby demonstrating their devotion to the Copenhagen criteria 

and to Europe’s identity. We have noted the most common positive images, but also 

that they were typically circumscribed by caveats or other discursive strategies aimed 

at maintaining the negative overall impression. However, lest we dig ourselves too 

far down this dark hole, it may be useful to highlight some noteworthy if partial 

exceptions to the dominant types identified above. 

The typical portrayal of Turkey’s “strengths” emphasizes its strategic 

significance as a “bridge between Europe and Asia”. 735 However, this is hardly the 

positive image that we are looking for here, as it more often than not is used to 

justify Turkey’s exclusion or some kind of “special partnership” in lieu of full 

membership. Turkey can be that bridge even if it remains on the “edge of Europe.” 736 

In fact, the logic of the bridge metaphor may work against Turkey’s inclusion: While 

a bridge between two territories can provide a means of traveling from one to the 

other, it must ultimately remain in-between them. Let us instead quote two rather 

atypical but interesting speeches that express a degree of support for Turkey’s 

membership bid, and do so at length to reassure the reader that they are not taken out 

735 Gollnisch (NI) – (FR), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699. 

736 Langen (PPE) – (DE), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699.

of context. The first passage comes from a speech by a Spanish member of the 

359 

Socialist group in a 1999 debate about the state of relations with Turkey, which took 

place two months before the Helsinki Summit where Turkey’s official candidacy 

would be acknowledged: 

I am convinced that we need Turkey not just for reasons of security 

but also to regain the credibility and universality of the project of 

European construction. A large secular State with a majority Muslim 

population will prove that the Europe we are building is not a Europe 

with a Christian outlook, but is rather one based on universal values 

relevant to every citizen of Europe, of any faith or of none at all. This 

Europe that we are committed to is capable of sharing values with 

other great groups of humanity from whom a project based on a 

religious outlook would separate us. 

If we state emphatically that Turkey' s place is ready for them, that we 

are waiting for our fellow European Turks to come and join us at the 

Union' s table, we must state, just as firmly that there will be no 

weakening of the conditions set out in Copenhagen. We must do this 

because we acknowledge that Turkey has a long way to go, basically 

in the area of human rights and of the rights of their various peoples 

and minorities, whether they are recognised as such or not, who make 

up the population of that country. Turkey also has a long way to go in 

terms of the way it acts towards Cyprus. We must make Turkey aware 

of this firmly but without exaggerating or caricaturing things, by 

describing their shortcomings and the obstacles they must overcome 

without shying away from them, but neither must we portray these 

difficulties as insurmountable. The European Union must see their 

shortcomings, even the most serious ones, as problems, and we will 

be committed to helping Turkey to find solutions to them, always 

bearing in mind the fact that our shared objective is to achieve the 

integration of Turkey into the European Union. 737 

This passage contains many of the usual characteristics that we have 

discussed at length above: the explicit rejection of a parochially defined Europe in 

favor of a definition based on universal values, the added caveat that Turkey must 

737 Martínez Martínez (PSE) – (ES), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699.

eform before it can join the Union, and the rather paternalistic view of the EU’s 

360 

role as Turkey’s educator and helper. However, the speaker’s “emphatic” (and rather 

convincing) reassurance that the EU’s door will remain open if Turkey does reform 

distinguishes this statement from most others. One does not get the usual feeling that 

the speaker is merely rationalizing his or her opposition to Turkey’s membership. 

Moreover, the European edifice metaphorically projected by the speaker as being 

under construction seems like it would be a dwelling with a genuinely high ceiling. 

In this, it is reminiscent of COM President Mitchell’s statement that “The Union … 

as a community of democratic states founded on the principle of unity and diversity, 

has the capacity to accommodate different identities.” 738 However, Mitchell made 

that statement in the context of discussing the potential accession of the bi-lingual 

and bi-cultural island of Cyprus, not in a direct reference to the possibility of Turkish 

membership. To this speaker, by contrast, the eventual accession of Turkey would 

strengthen the EU’s identity, which is that of a multicultural project. British support 

for Turkish membership is often derided by proponents of deeper integration from 

one of the “original six” as a back-door attempt to dilute the EU into a loose 

“multicultural” confederation. To be fair, however, the Spanish MEP quoted here 

seems to advocate a non-watered down yet multicultural EU. 

The second quote is interesting because it addresses head on a matter with 

which we are concerned: that of Islam and the identity of Europe. We should perhaps 

738 Mitchell, President-in-Office of the Council – (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in 

Turkey, 091896.

avoid making too much of it, but it is also interesting to note that the President 

361 

intervenes to cut the speaker off for some reason that is not revealed in the transcript. 

I appreciate the fears of those who worry about Turkey's Islamic 

population. The reality is that there are large numbers of Turks living 

in Germany and France, large numbers of Muslims – including 

Turkish Cypriots – who live in Britain. The populations of Kosovo 

and Albania are predominantly Muslim. The religious complexion of 

Turkey is a matter of historical accident, like Spain under the Moors 

for a few hundred years. Turkey's culture is distinctly European and 

its religious complexion should not devalue its European identity. 

Let us look ahead over the next 10, 15 or 25 years and examine what 

is in Europe' s best interest: what will contribute to the prosperity and 

peace of this family of nations that we call the Europe of today. Let us 

not be hypocritical, and let us ask ourselves what is the intellectual 

basis for excluding Turkey. Young Europeans, socially mobile and far 

less religious than us, expect us to develop a Europe of opportunities 

for work and prosperity that we can all enjoy. 

Turkey cannot join the EU today; but geography, culture, history, 

security and common sense . . . 

(The President cut the speaker off) 739 

This unfinished statement by Bashir Khanbhai, a British member of the 

conservative PPE political group, poses several challenges to the interpreter. 

Extrapolating from what Khanabhai did say, one assumes that the last sentence 

would have developed a position that embraced Turkey “as a future responsible 

member of the EU”, and a copy of the complete speech from the MEP’s personal 

webpage confirms this interpretation. 740 It is harder to say with certainty why the 

739 Italics in original, Khanbhai (PPE) – (UK), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 

100699. 

740 According to the version of the speech that is posted on the webpage, it was supposed to have 

ended with “[common sense] … require us to prepare & support Turkey for eventual membership of 

the EU.” Bhashir Khanbhai, Turkey in the EU (1999 [cited 21 May 2007]); available from 

http://www.bashirkhanbhai.co.uk.

President interrupted the speech, which was significantly shorter than many 

362 

uninterrupted speeches in the same debate. The only other speaker that was similarly 

cut off was a Greek PPE member who was emphatically arguing against giving 

Turkey any “preferential treatment” that might set an “unpleasant precedent” for 

future enlargements. 741 Khanbhai’s speech undoubtedly stirs up issues that are 

sensitive in official European circles: explicit references to “geography, culture, 

history,” and differences in “religious complexion” can evoke disturbing memories 

of the precise fascist European past that the EU’s parent institutions were meant to 

transcend. It is thus conceivable that Khanbhai was cut off because he overstepped 

the unwritten boundaries of argumentative space deemed appropriate in official EU 

discourse. However, it is equally – if not more – likely that the President (James 

Provan, a colleague of Khanbhai’s in the British PPE delegation) simply intervened 

for entirely unrelated reasons of protocol or timing, so we would do best to suspend 

our interpretation of his actions in the absence of further evidence. 

This passage is nevertheless interesting in that it simultaneously both 

underlines Turkey’s different “religious complexion” and affirms its “distinctively 

European” culture. The above-mentioned accusation typically leveled against British 

supporters of Turkish membership may perhaps be invoked here with some 

justification. In a passage immediately preceding that quoted above, the conservative 

MEP describes the criteria that he believes should be evaluated when determining 

Turkey’s status and they are exclusively framed in strategic terms. Yet, Khanbhai’s 

741 Giannakou-Koutsikou (PPE) – (EL), European Parliament. State of Turkey/EU Relations, 100699.

opinions on Muslims in Europe as stated elsewhere 742 display a consistent 

363 

interest in the integration of Muslim immigrants into European societies along with 

an equally consistent demand on these societies to reciprocate with tolerance and 

understanding of the different yet legitimate practices and beliefs of the various 

Muslim immigrant communities in the EU. This at least suggest an alternative 

European Self-image to the prevailing view in the EP of an Enlightened EUtopia 

whose mission is to defend the weak, rescue Turks from themselves, and ensure the 

spread of civilization to the dark corners of the world, if the hint of sarcasm may be 

excused. This alternative European Union faces its own problems, not the least of 

which is the challenge to embrace its Muslim immigrant communities without 

demanding that they sacrifice their distinct identities, and this Union can perhaps 

even benefit from the accession of a stable, Muslim, and European democracy like 

Turkey. 

The 21 st -Century European Historical Meta-Narrative of Progress 

A thorough analysis of the historical meta-narrative(s) framing the debates 

over the future of the “European project” – or of the debates over these narratives – 

would require another chapter, perhaps another book. However, if we simply look 

back at the typology of images and scripts identified in this chapter we can begin to 

discern the outlines of a story. Most striking is the relative insignificance of the 

Tragic mode of emplotment and the almost complete victory of the Comic historical 

meta-narrative of progress that we first encountered in Voltaire’s historical writings, 

742 See Bhashir Khanbhai, Muslims in Europe (2002 [cited 21 May 2007]); available from 


though we also noted its confessional origins. This is consistent with Northrop 

364 

Frye’s observation that “the modern world may accept comic mythologies, such as 

the progress myth in the democracies”. 743 The pervasive use of “journey-metaphors” 

to describe the Turkish bid for membership as well as European integration in 

general, is a good clue to the basic plotline. The protagonist of the story – the 

European Union, a.k.a. Europe or, as we have called it, EUtopia – is either marching 

along on the road of progress toward a brighter future or it has already reached its 

destination at the end of this road and has there built a common home in which the 

European family lives in peace and prosperity. Turkey is a laggard who walks down 

this same road some distance behind Europe. 

In versions of the story where Europe too is traveling on this road toward 

progress, it sometimes takes Turkey by the hand and leads it along the road, but 

Turkey is typically stubborn or slow and it is not always clear that it even wants to 

go down the same road. Occasionally, Turkey leads Europe astray or even takes it 

for a dance. Quite frequently, it walks in the entirely wrong direction or takes one 

step forward only to then take two steps back. As any commuter on European public 

transportation knows, there are timetables and schedules that must be kept so at some 

point Turkey risks missing the train altogether if it does not hurry up and get on. The 

EU cannot wait forever. Europe is not only traveling toward something, it is also 

traveling away from its own violent, backwards, nationalist, and unenlightened 

743 Frye, Stubborn Scripture, pp. 135-136.

365 

past. 744 In fact, when Europe looks back at Turkey it sometimes finds the latter in 

the very place where Europe itself once was and thus sees in Turkey all that which it 

has managed to leave behind. 

An alternative take on this meta-narrative (which we have obviously only 

sketched in a rudimentary and naïve fashion, admittedly also with a trace of sarcasm) 

conceives of the European project more in terms of an architectural undertaking than 

as a journey. Here, the road leads to a house in which the European family of 

democracies dwells in a state of harmony that suggests that Romantic Comedy is the 

correct mode of emplotment. To borrow the German sociologist Georg Simmel’s 

terrific metaphor, Turkey is in this context a stranger in this neighborhood, or at best 

a distant neighbor. 745 The notion of the stranger is particularly apt as a description of 

Turkey’s status in the eyes of many older members of the Union, because it 

highlights the paradoxical representation of Turkey as both near and distant. Simmel 

describes the stranger in the following terms: “The stranger is an element of the 

group itself, not unlike the poor and sundry ‘inner enemies’ – an element whose 

membership within the group involves both being outside it and confronting it”. 746 

Keep this description in mind when considering the paradox with which Thomas 

Naff opens his chapter in Bull and Watson’s Expansion of International Society: 

744 Thomas Risse argues that Europe’s own past is one of its primary others, at least in German 

constructions of European identity. Thomas Risse, "Nationalism and Collective Identities: Europe 

versus the Nation-State?," in Developments in West European Politics, ed. Paul Heywood, Eric Jones, 

and Martin Rhodes (NY: Palgrave, 2002). 

745 Georg Simmel, "The Stranger," in Georg Simmel: On Individuality and Social Forms, ed. Donald 

N. Levine (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1971). 

746 Simmel, "The Stranger," p. 144.

Despite the fact that the Ottoman Empire “for half a millennium … occupied, 

366 

controlled, and administered one-quarter to one-third of the European continent … 

Even though a significant portion of the Empire was based in Europe, it cannot be 

said to have been of Europe”. 747 In fact, as a rather backwards stranger in Europe’s 

neighborhood, it is sometimes suggested that Turkey’s entry into the European home 

threatens to disturb the peace and tranquility that hitherto characterized that home. 

Only in such suggestions is the possibility introduced that the Romantic Comedy or 

one of its acts might turn into a Tragedy. 

CONCLUSION 

To summarize the main findings of the analysis above, the main images of 

Turkey and of the European Union that emerge out of the European Parliament 

debates on Turkey between 1996 and 2002 examined here are the following: 

Imagining Exclusive European Identities: 

a. Turkey is not European 

b. Turkey is a dangerous place. 

Imagining Inclusive European Identities: 

c. Turkey is a formal candidate for membership (Club/Applicant). 

d. EU is an attractive place Turkey wants to get closer to the EU. 

747 Thomas Naff, "The Ottoman Empire and the European States System," in The Expansion of 

International Society, ed. Hedley Bull and Adam Watson (NY: Oxford University Press, 1985), p. 

143.

e. Turkey as backwards /has a long way to go. 

367 

f. The EU stands for indispensable European enlightenment principles – 

for civilization, or EU as EUtopia. 

g. EU monitors / evaluates / reprimands Turkey Turkey needs to be 

monitored / evaluated / reprimanded (or Turkey as a troublesome 

child and EU as the strict parent). 

h. EU as the defender of the Turkish people, democracy, and minorities. 

i. Turkey is weak / in need of help EU is strong / the helper of 

Turkey. 

j. Turkey is moving forward, but it is not enough. 

i. One step forward... 

ii. … and two steps back. 

k. Turkey has something to offer the EU can benefit from Turkey’s 

accession. 

Many of these findings are supported by work done elsewhere. The general 

enlightened and democratic/backwards and repressive dichotomy is also observed in 

the work by Iver B. Neumann on the role of the Turkish Other in the construction of 

a European identity. He quotes, among others, nineteenth century natural law theorist 

James Lorimer as stating that: 

In the case of the Turks, we have had bitter experience of the 

consequences of extending the rights of civilization to barbarians who

368 

have proved to be incapable of performing its duties, and who possibly do 

not even belong to the progressive races of mankind. 748 

None of the participants in the debates studied above expressed themselves so 

crudely and we would expect most or all of them to denounce any such racist 

remarks. However, if we look past the dated language to what Lorimer was actually 

saying, we find a position that is not all that different from that of the many MEPs at 

the turn of the 20 th century who express serious doubts about Turkey’s willingness or 

ability to enact the democratic reforms necessary for EU membership. As we noted 

in Chapter 4, the image of the barbarian Turk has roots in the Ancient Greek 

distinction between civilized Athens on one hand and the barbarian hordes on the 

other, which refugees from the shrinking Byzantine Empire brought to Renaissance 

Europe. We saw in Chapter 5 that the basic dichotomy between a civilized and 

progressive Europe on one hand, and a stagnant or declining autocratic Ottoman 

Turkey retained its hold during the Enlightenment. A recent anthology entitled The 

Image of the Turk in Europe from the Declaration of the Republic in 1923 to the 

1990s 749 suggests that that this heritage continued to influence perceptions of Turkey 

and Turks in Europe long into the 20 th century. It contains contributions by 25 

authors covering images of Turkey in 11 European countries, and is replete with 

rather unflattering images from historical and contemporary European literature and 

748 Neumann, Uses of the Other, p. 57. 

749 Nedret Kuran-Borçoglu, ed., The Image of the Turk in Europe from the Declaration of the 

Republic in 1923 to the 1990s (Istanbul: The ISIS Press, 2000).

369 

public discourse portraying Turks as barbarians: as “little better than animals,” or 

as “hordes” of “cowardly heathen[s]” etc. 750 

In the same volume, Roumen Yanovski reports recent findings from an 

extensive study of over 3,288 articles discussing Turkey (and another 6,000 articles 

on Greece, Macedonia, and Serbia) in a sample of Bulgarian newspapers. 751 Many of 

the images Yanovski reports overlap with the ones that emerge from the analysis in 

this chapter. According to Yanovski, the Bulgarian press typically frames its 

discussion of Turkey by invoking one or more of four standard topoi: 1) internal 

instability (with respect to economics, politics, human rights, and the Kurdish 

conflict), 2) external instability, 3) a struggle between the secular and religious order, 

and 4) unpredictability. Interestingly, while Yanovski finds that on the whole, much 

of the contemporary image can be described with the words “Islamic-backwardundemocratic,” 

which fits images (b) and (e) found in the analysis in this chapter, 

Bulgarian press also presents an opposing image not present in our material, of 

Turkey as “secular-advanced-democratic”. 752 

Yanovski’s findings also support the script (j) in our analysis of Turkey as 

having taken one step forward but two steps back, and reports that this was a form 

750 Charles Sabatos, "Views of Turkey and 'The Turk' in 20th-Century Czech and Slovak Literature," 

in The Image of the Turk in Europe from the Declaration of the Republic in 1923 to the 1990s, ed. 

Nedret Kuran-Borçoglu (Istanbul: The ISIS Press, 2000), pp. 264-265. 

751 Roumen Yanovski, "The Image of the Turks in the Bulgarian Press," in The Image of the Turk in 

Europe from the Declaration of the Republic in 1923 to the 1990s, ed. Nedret Kuran-Borçoglu 

(Istanbul: The ISIS Press, 2000). 

752 Yanovski, "The Image of the Turks in the Bulgarian Press," p. 310.

not found in reports of the other Balkan countries. Yanovski describes this 

370 

Turkey-specific image as: 

the model of “Yes, but what if…” in reports and commentaries: 

“Turkey is making its Constitution more democratic but…; the 

cabinet crisis has been resolved, but…”. The “but” is inevitably 

followed by corrective statements: “Turkish Court Releases Two 

Parliamentarians from Prison But Detains Four.” 753 

Clearly, our nearly identical findings suggest a broader phenomenon. 

However, it did not extend to the 1998 debate on the political situation in Slovakia, 

where we found an inverse version of the –Yes, but… script. This variant emphasized 

that while any lack of progress on the part of the Slovaks was reprehensible and 

would delay their accession timetable, such setbacks were understood to be 

temporary and Slovakia to be destined for eventual membership. Our abbreviated 

comparison to the debate on Slovakia lends further support to Yanovski’s claim that 

this image is at least partly specific to Turkey. This in turn hints at deeper European 

assumptions à la Lorimer about Turkey’s inability to reform, which might not be 

susceptible to change in light of “facts” or “evidence” to the contrary. 

If this is so, it may not matter how much progress Turkey makes toward the 

Copenhagen Criteria; EU officials will always maintain that Turkey “falls short.” 

Indeed, the general lack of (and lack of desire for) intimacy in the EU’s relationship 

with Turkey and the generally negative image of Turkey in the EU suggest that the 

prospects for Turkish membership are poor. Yet, there is cause to temper this 

conclusion. The role/identity implicit in image (a) would seem to be susceptible to 

753 Yanovski, "The Image of the Turks in the Bulgarian Press," p. 314.

371 

role transformation due to the rather high potential for role strain within this role. 

The notion of role strain refers to the discomfort that comes from having conflicting 

recommendations for behavior from either several distinct roles or from the same 

role. 754 The Self-images of the EU as embodying Enlightenment principles may 

impose expectancy rules contrary to those associated with the more “primordial” 

Othering of Turkey implied in images (a) and (b). Christopher Brewin plays on this 

latent contradiction when he writes that it “is not possible to condemn Hitler’s anti- 

Semitism, and at the same time to say that the Muslims in EU countries cannot 

participate in the secular successor states of Catholic Christendom”. 755 This 

particular version of the argument would hardly withstand any more serious 

interrogation, but it focuses our attention on a potential problem. Namely, the 

assertion of the idealized Self-image invoked in (f), (h), and (i) – which defines 

Europe in terms of certain universal political ideals – and the simultaneous but 

contradictory denial of membership to Turkey on the basis of the essentialist and 

exclusive definition of Europe implied by (a) or (b). This is more than just an 

abstract theoretical point, for this inherent contradiction in European Self-images 

provides rhetorical leverage to supporters of Turkish membership and a potentially 

serious challenge for any opponent that attaches some importance to such Selfimages. 

As one MEP points out, “We cannot combat nationalist attitudes while at the 

754 For a more detailed discussion of role strain and role transformation see Stephen Walker, 

"Symbolic Interactionism and International Relations: Role Theory's Contribution to International 

Organization," in Contending Dramas: A Cognitive Approach to International Organizations, ed. 

Martha L. Cottam and Chih-yu Shih (NY: Praeger, 1992), pp. 27-34. 

755 Christopher Brewin, "The Image of the Turk in Europe," in The Image of the Turk in Europe from 

the Declaration of the Republic in 1923 to the 1990s, ed. Nedret Kuran-Borçoglu (Istanbul: The ISIS 

Press, 2000), p. 97.

same time saying no to a cross-frontier dialogue with young people in 

372 

Turkey.” 756 Echoing our conclusion from the comparison between debates on Turkey 

and Slovakia in this chapter, another MEP complains that “the argument of nondiscrimination” 

(i.e. the assurance that Turkey is being treated like all the other 

applicant states) “would have carried greater weight if the European Union had taken 

a tougher line on Slovakia, since the Commission document clearly states that 

Slovakia does not meet the political criteria either.” 757 

In other words, we should not automatically conclude from the 

predominantly negative image of Turkey identified in this chapter that Turkish 

membership is practically impossible. The caveats to such a conclusion stem from 

the symbolic interactionist understanding of role/identity (which we discussed in 

Chapter 1) and the importance it places on the notions of role strain, salience, and 

commitment to role/identities. From this perspective, the impossible task of trying to 

predict EU’s future policy toward the Turkish candidacy is in part an exercise in 

determining which of the elements of these role/identities are most likely to be 

invoked when it comes to the question of membership; i.e. a question of which of the 

roles identified in this chapter are most salient. In turn, salience is a function of 

commitment, which means that a crucial question is the level of commitment held by 

various actors on the European political “stage” to the different role-relationships 

that we identified above. Those roles have very different implications as far as the 

756 Elchlepp (PSE) – (DE), European Parliament. Including Turkey in Socrates, 022499. 

757 Aelvoet (V) – (NL), European Parliament. Customs Union with Turkey, 091698.

desire for increased intimacy with Turkey is concerned. In other words, the 

373 

question is whether the relevant actors will in the end succeed in defining the EU in 

terms of the exclusive role/identity implied by images (a) and (b) – of standing in 

opposition and flattering contrast to an uncivilized/authoritarian Turkish Other – or 

along the lines of the inclusive role/identity suggested by (h) and (i): helping Turkey 

along the road to enlightenment, in which case full membership remains a possible 

outcome. 

Here, finally, is our rejoinder to the rationalist explanations of why the EU on 

the one hand has refused to say “yes” to the Turkish application for membership 

while it on the other hand never said “no”. In one respect, we shamelessly sidestep 

the issue: there are probably many valid explanations for why various EU officials 

have taken the positions that they have, including geo-strategic fears of alienating an 

important NATO member like Turkey by formally rejecting its application for EU 

membership, or the veto power of a member state like Greece on the accession of 

new states to the Union. From our point of view, however, these answers to the 

“why?” questions miss the important points. With respect to opposition to the 

Turkish candidacy the above discourse analysis has hopefully made clear that it is 

not limited to Greeks, that it is often tied to issues of greater concern to MEPs than 

narrow geo-strategic considerations, and that the various more limited arguments 

against Turkish accession gain their emotional significance as part of a broader and 

more potent concern for the shared community of values that is being created in the 

European Union. Our analysis of one of the 1996 parliamentary debates

demonstrated how a narrowly geo-strategic concern (the Cyprus issue) can be 

374 

interpreted as a matter that puts nothing less than Europe’s identity at stake. 

With respect to why Turkey was never simply rejected offhand, the many 

explicit renunciations of religious or cultural arguments against Turkey’s accession 

noted throughout the above analysis, like the frequent assertions of the “European 

principles” of human rights, “pluralism, democracy, and freedom” that supposedly 

define the “family of European democracies”, reveal the importance of the broader 

meaning-structures within which arguments over e.g. strategy (such as the 

importance of not angering an ally) occur. Tactical or strategic calculations in 

defense of the common security of the community are made possible by a set of 

understandings as to who the members of the community are in the first place, what 

they have in common that is worth defending, and against whom defense is needed. 

Turkey’s NATO membership has given it some leverage (at least during the Cold 

War) but this cannot explain the near ubiquitous affirmation of the Copenhagen 

Criteria as the only legitimate basis for rejecting the country’s application for EU 

membership, certainly not by the many MEPs that explicitly and forcefully denounce 

geo-strategic imperatives as illegitimate grounds for making a decision on this issue. 

The response of the President-in-Office of the Council of Ministers to a question 

from an MEP during a question and answer session of the EP on May 13 1987, less 

than a month after Turkey’s initial application for accession to the then European 

Economic Community, is indicative of the importance of the Community’s Selfimage 

as it addresses this issue. During this debate, a Spanish Socialist MEP asked

for the President’s reaction to the fact that “a number of respected personalities” 

375 

and MEPs had “questioned not only the democratic character of the Turkish regime, 

but also the European nature of the country itself.” 758 The Council’s President-in- 

Office responded firmly that his institution would in no way “deal with the Turkish 

application differently from any previous application for accession” for the simple 

reason that the “Community is a constitutional community. We have applied Article 

237 of the Treaty [of Rome].” 759 This article states that any European country may 

apply for membership in the Community. In response to a related question, he later 

reaffirmed this view: “let me repeat that the European Economic Community is a 

constitutional community. We cannot react to an application for accession on the 

basis of the ‘outlook’ of the applicant. This matter is covered by Article 237…” 

Later, again: 

I have already stated the position adopted by the Twelve [ministers of 

the then 12 member states] on the General Affairs Council when they 

examined Turkey’s application to accede to the European Economic 

Community, which is a de jure Community, based on a Treaty. We 

have applied the Treaty as it stands; we have no right to size up the 

customer, so to speak, before deciding how we apply it. The 

procedure to be followed is laid down in Article 237. 

These assertions of the Community’s status as a “constitutional” entity that is 

required to abide by its own rules and treaties represent more than just narrow 

legalism, they reveal the existence of what Susannah Verney calls the Acquis of 

Entitlement. By this she refers to an emerging “practice of regarding accession … as 

758 Arbeloa Muru (S) – (ES), European Parliament. Question and Debate on EEC-Turkey Association 

Council. Sitting of Wednesday, 13 May 1987, Doc. B 2-296/87. 

759 Tindemans, Council – (NL), European Parliament. EEC-Turkey Association Council, 051387.

a right of the candidate…” 760 Verney identifies an overriding moral purpose 

376 

associated with the enlargement of the European Community, which had its origins 

in the initial motive of ensuring peace between long-standing enemies and was later 

expanded to include the promotion of democracy and freedom with the 

Mediterranean Expansion to the former dictatorships Greece, Spain, and Portugal. 

With respect to this Second Enlargement, she quotes the Commission’s 1978 

“Fresco” on Enlargement, which argued that the “three countries have entrusted the 

Community with a political responsibility which it cannot refuse, except at the price 

of denying the principles on which it is itself grounded”. 761 She uses this concept to 

explain the EU’s (from a geo-strategic point of view rather clumsy) admission of a 

divided Republic of Cyprus as full member in 2004. Rejecting Cyprus’ application 

would have seriously undermined the credibility of the EU’s 

collective identity as a value-based community. The latter in turn 

served as the legitimating discursive cement on which the European 

integration project was based. Thus, while the admission of the RoC 

held risks for EU interests, … the alternative option held a different 

kind of danger for the moral standing of the EU. 762 

It is clear from the analysis of EP debates in this chapter that a similar 

dynamic is at work in the discourse on the Turkish application. To reject it without 

following the procedures specified in the treaties that define the EU as a 

“constitutional community”, or without justifying a rejection in terms of the 

supposedly universal European values on which the community is based, would be to 

760 Susannah Verney, "EU Enlargement as a Moral Mission: Debating Cyprus' Accession in the 

European Parliament" (paper presented at the Third Paneuropean Conference of the ECPR Standing 

Group on European Union Politics, Bilgi University, Istanbul Turkey, September 20-23 2006), p. 11. 

761 Verney, "EU Enlargement as a Moral Mission", p. 10. (Emphasis added.) 

762 Verney, "EU Enlargement as a Moral Mission", p. 18.

eject the shared understanding of what the “European project” is all about. 

377 

Unlike the Republic of Cyprus, however, this logic of inclusiveness pulls in the 

opposite direction of a formidable logic of exclusion: the legacy of more than a 

millennium of Europe and its self-appointed predecessor, (Latin) Christendom, 

having been defined in opposition to the Ottoman Turks and earlier Islamic Others. 

The differences between the exclusive conceptions of the European Self on 

the far right and the more inclusive version embraced by a majority in the center and 

on the left are real and should not be dismissed. Neither should we overstate these 

differences, however. Apart from the fact that they both generate positions on the 

question of Turkish accession that are often de facto identical and a lingering doubt 

that many supposed defenders of a fully inclusive Union are less than sincere, the 

two perspectives share a more fundamental assumption that we could describe as 

Eurocentric. Proponents of an exclusive European identity reject Turkey’s 

application with the argument that it would destroy the unique European civilization 

that they value and view as superior. Most MEPs instead embrace an inclusive 

European Self-image and claim to deny Turkey entry only until it has proven that it 

fully embraces the European values that they cherish and view as superior. In both 

cases, Europe and some idealized quality of “Europeanness” is the standard by which 

the Other is measured (and his or her exclusion from the collective European Self 

reaffirms the superiority and shared uniqueness of those who are already members). 

In this way, even many purportedly inclusive conceptions of Europe and the 

European Union reproduce essentialist notions of Europe and its Others.

The consequences can be seen in the declaration by a member of the 

378 

Socialist group that “The European Union is not going to change for Turkey's sake, 

but Turkey is going to battle to become a European country. Europe is not going to 

become Turkish; Turkey is going to become European.” 763 This statement and others 

like it is probably intended as a message to decision makers in Ankara that the ball is 

in their court, but the problem with this common view is that the demand on Ankara 

may well be impossible given the essentialist definitions of the two actors involved. 

Moreover, even if Turkey were to meet all the Copenhagen criteria, the additional 

condition that Turkey’s accession must leave the European Union entirely 

unchanged hardly seems realistic. And in light of the long and troubled history of 

attempts to affirm some version of a collective Christian identity by denigrating 

Muslims, and to define “Europe” by passing judgment on “Turkey”, change might 

not be such a bad thing after all. 

Before concluding this chapter, we must address an issue that has remained in 

the background throughout much of the above discussion: the nature and importance 

of the spatial dimension in the inclusive conceptions of a common European identity. 

We noted that most speakers in the debates that we examined rejected any exclusive 

definitions of Europe based on essentialist religious and/or cultural criteria. Turkey 

should be judged on whether it lives up to the Copenhagen Criteria, nothing else, and 

the Community was bound by Article 237 in the Treaty of Rome to treat its 

application like any other. However, like Article 237, the Copenhagen Criteria 

763 Efthymiou (PSE) – (EL), European Parliament. Turkey, 120199.

contain references to a further condition in the passing statement that any 

379 

European state that applies for membership and abides by the three sets of 

Copenhagen Criteria will be accepted as a member in the EU. Unlike the three 

criteria that follow, this pre-condition is not further specified, but it is clearly a 

reference to a geographic area. The problem for the many EU politicians who 

espouse an inclusive conception of Europe defined by the universal values it upholds 

is how to reconcile this inclusive idea with a prior definition of the same entity in 

geographic terms, as a territory with fixed and absolute borders. Thus, when the 

(physical) spatial dimension is brought up, it is usually in the context of trying to 

establish that Turkey is not properly European: “Turkey is not part of the continent 

of Europe – or at least only 3 % of it is.” 764 However, this quote also reveals the 

possibility of an alternative interpretation of Europe’s geographical boundaries. Part 

of Turkey is conventionally defined as in Europe and it is not unreasonable to argue 

that the Ottoman Empire was in many ways a European power as its “center of 

gravity” for centuries can be said to have been in Eastern Europe and Trace (west of 

the Bosporus). The clear geographic demarcations of the European continent become 

increasingly muddled once one considers that Turkey is a member of the Council of 

Europe and numerous other European organizations, or if one takes into account the 

placement of Cyprus – whose status as a “European” country is seldom questioned – 

on a map, almost entirely southeast of the Turkish mainland. Our objective is not to 

764 Vanhecke (NI) – (NL), European Parliament. Including Turkey in Socrates, 022499.

determine which of these views is correct, merely to note the ambiguities and 

380 

paradoxes inherent in the various attempts to define Europe’s borders.

381 

CHAPTER 7. CONCLUSION 

INTRODUCTION 

This concluding chapter reflects on the findings of the preceding historical 

investigations, focusing on identifying recurring patterns, continuities, and 

similarities as well as transformations, differences, and exceptions. We will review 

the contributions of the three content dimensions of collective identity constructs 

outlined in Chapter 1 – physical space, social space, and time – to the historical 

analysis in later chapters. We will consider whether our analysis of the discourse on 

the Turkish application in the European Parliament is significantly enhanced by our 

knowledge of the legacy of earlier periods. Finally, we shall turn to the question of 

alternative possibilities. 

IDENTIFYING CONTINUITIES AND TRANSFORMATIONS 

A potential weakness of an approach to discourse anchored in the concepts of 

types – or roles, scripts, and narratives – is related to the problem of archetypes noted 

by the structuralist school of linguistics. 765 The weakness in question is that many 

typifications are highly context-dependent, potentially making it difficult or fruitless 

to compare the content of types across dissimilar contexts. For example, the 

formulaic depiction of some events in terms of a familiar chronological typification 

we have described as making use of a script. One example is the Pagan Duel Script, 

765 Levi-Strauss, "Structural Study." See also the discussion of narrative analysis in Chapter 1 above.

which gained popularity during the High Middle Ages because it combined 

382 

elements from Biblical mythology, native Germanic mythology, and the chivalric 

mythology of feudal knighthood. However, we are not likely to encounter the Pagan 

Duel Script in any society significantly removed from feudal Europe in either time or 

space because the necessary cultural frames of reference would there be missing. It is 

easy to see how this makes comparisons of scripts in different cultures or historical 

periods difficult. However, the analysis in the next section will hopefully illustrate 

that it is possible to engage in such historical comparisons of typifications once we 

look at their component attributes (such as the individual characteristics or indices 

that a certain image predicates to an actor), their form (such as the directionality of 

any given narrative), and their function (such as the plot function of a certain script). 

It is consequently possible to identify similarities in function, component 

characteristics, and form between typifications that are separated by oceans or by 

centuries. 

The Synchronic Dimension I: Overview of Images and Role-Relationships 

The first column in Table 7.1 lists the names of each major Image identified 

in this dissertation and the other columns contain important related items that can be 

divided into four broad categories. The first of these categories identifies the Author 

or Period with which the image in question is most strongly associated, according to 

the historical overviews and case studies in the preceding chapters. The second 

category contains a number of items pertaining to the characteristics attributed to the 

Other by the relevant image, such as Valence (whether its implicit or explicit

evaluation of the Other is predominantly negative or positive), Nature of 

383 

Difference (whether the Other is construed as fundamentally and unchangeably 

Other or if the differences are seen as contingent and mutable), and Power (whether 

the Other is perceived as weak or strong). 

The third category is a collection of significant items that concern the 

collective Self. These include the relational Context in which the authors of the 

image found themselves (more specifically whether their 

military/political/economical position vis-à-vis the Other is best described as 

predominantly offensive or defensive), the “internal” Rhetorical Target of the image 

(whether it was aimed at the allies of the author or at some opponents who were 

nevertheless construed as members of the author’s collective Self), and the 

Rhetorical Instruments by which the image performed its Moral Function (whether 

the latter was to chastise or laud the rhetorical target, and whether this was achieved 

with the rhetorical instrument of contrasting the internal target with the external 

Other in order to emphasize the differences between the two, that of comparing them 

to emphasize their similarities, or of associating the two as when an internal 

opponent was blamed for causing the arrival of the Other). The fourth and final 

category names the type of historical Meta-Narrative within which the image was 

typically embedded, and has been simplified to distinguish between narratives in 

which the Tragic plot elements dominate and those that instead lean toward the 

Comic mode of emplotment. The Images in Table 7.1 are listed in a rough 

chronological order, sorted according to the Author/Period item.

This chronologically ordered list of the 25 main images named in the 

384 

preceding chapters is rich on information, but we will limit ourselves to three 

observations concerning broader trends. First, we should note the almost complete 

dominance of negative evaluations of the Other in all periods. Only two images 

assign a predominantly positive value to the Other: the medieval image of the 

Chivalrous Saracen and that of Turkey as a potential Contributor of something 

valuable to the EU, which was the very last image discussed in Chapter 6. These two 

images display a number of atypical characteristics and are for this reason of 

particular importance to us. However, we shall postpone consideration of them until 

later in this chapter and because of their many unusual qualities, we shall here treat 

them as outliers and remove them from the analysis in the remainder of this section. 

Their removal makes existing dominant patterns easier to identify and describe, and 

can be justified as long as we eventually return to these two exceptions. Second, the 

18 th century appears to have seen the beginning of a trend toward images associated 

with a Comic meta-narrative, which are developed from a position of relative 

strength (Context: offensive) and consequently represent the Other as weak. Third, 

since the table groups images by author/period, we can easily consider these groups 

separately. Doing so, it is possible to discern strings or patterns of characteristics that 

unite several images in each period.

Table 7.1, Continued. 

Table 7.1. Chronological List of Images and Certain Related Features 

Image Author / 

Period 

Valence 

Other 

Nature of 

Difference 

Power Context Rhetorical 

Target 

Self 

Rhetorical 

Instrument 

Moral 

Function 

Meta- 

Narrative 

God's 

Scourge 

Antichrist 

Heretic 

Chivalrous 

Pagan 

Lustful 

Early 

Medieval 

Early 

Medieval 

High 

Medieval 

High 

Medieval 

High 

Medieval 

High 

Medieval 

Negative Fundamental Strong Defensive Opponents Associate Chastise Tragic 

Negative Fundamental Strong Defensive Opponents Associate Chastise Tragic 

Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Opponents Compare Chastise Comic 

Positive - Strong Offensive Opponents Contrast Chastise Comic 

Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

Negative Fundamental Strong Defensive Allies Contrast Laud Tragic 

Barbarian Renaissance Negative Fundamental Strong Defensive Allies Contrast Laud Tragic 

God's 

Scourge 

Luther Negative Fundamental Strong Defensive Opponents Associate Chastise Tragic 

Antichrist Luther Negative Fundamental Strong Defensive Opponents Associate Chastise Tragic 

Papists Luther Negative Contingent Strong Defensive Opponents Compare Chastise Tragic 

385



Period 

Valence 

Other 


Difference 


Target 

Self 


Instrument 

Moral 

Function 

Meta- 

Narrative 

Cruel Luther Negative Fundamental Strong Defensive Allies Contrast Laud Tragic 

Lustful Luther Negative Fundamental Strong Defensive Allies Contrast Laud Tragic 

Imposter Voltaire Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Opponents Compare Chastise Comic 

Lustful Voltaire Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Opponents Compare Chastise Comic 

Ambitious Voltaire Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Opponents Compare Chastise Comic 

Cruel Voltaire Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Opponents Compare Chastise Comic 

Contributor EU Positive Contingent Weak Offensive Allies Compare Laud Comic 

Dangerous EU Negative Fundamental Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

Not 

European 

EU Negative Fundamental Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

Applicant EU Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

Suitor EU Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

Backwards EU Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

Troublesome 

Child 

EU Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

386



Period 

Valence 

Other 


Difference 


Target 

Self 


Instrument 

Moral 

Function 

Meta- 

Narrative 

Weak Needs 

Help 

EU Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

Yes but EU Negative Contingent Weak Offensive Allies Contrast Laud Comic 

387

388 

Individual Periods and Authors 

For example, the images of the Early Medieval period were all framed within 

an essentially Tragic narrative structure and in a defensive context, they emphasized 

the fundamental nature of differences between Self and Other, portrayed the latter as 

strong, assigned him a negative value, and one of their main functions was to 

chastise internal Christian opponents by associating them with the Other. Thus, we 

may represent the standard characteristics of the Early Medieval images in the 

following way: 

Early Medieval: Tragic-Defensive-Fundamental-Strong-Negative- 

Associate-Chastise-Opponents. 

Using the same technique, we can identify the standard components of the 

images for each period. (As we did in Chapter 4, we here combine the Renaissance 

image of the Barbarian Turk with Luther’s images in light of their proximity in time 

and kind.) The results are presented in Table 7.2. 

Each slot in the table marked with a “-“ indicates that nature of the relevant 

feature varied between the images associated with the relevant author/period and that 

no clear trend is discernable. The other slots contain entries that each describes a 

feature present in all or nearly all images during that period. To illustrate, nearly all 

High Medieval images can be described in terms of their shared Comic Meta- 

Narrative, Context of offensive expansion (think Crusades), and emphasis on the 

contingent Nature of Differences etc.

Table 7.2. Features Typical of Images for Each Author/Period 766 

Author 

Period 

Meta- 

Narrative 

Context 


Difference 

Power Valence Rhetorical 

Instrument 

Moral 

Function 


Target 

Early 

Medieval 

High 

Medieval 

Tragic Defensive Fundamental Strong Negative Associate Chastise Opponents 

(Comic) (Offensive) (Contingent) - - - - - 

Renaissance 

& Luther 

Tragic Defensive (Fundamental) Strong Negative 

Contrast Laud Allies 

Associate 

Compare 

Chastise 

Opponents 

Voltaire Comic Offensive Contingent Weak Negative Compare Chastise Opponents 

EU Comic Offensive - Weak Negative Contrast Laud Allies 

766 Parentheses indicate the existence of isolated exceptions to the stated rule. 

389

390 

The images associated with either the Renaissance or with Martin Luther 

display two standard patterns, both of which can be characterized by the labels 

Tragic, defensive, fundamental, strong, and negative but then follow either a 

contrast-laud-allies route or an associate/compare-chastise-opponents pattern. We 

can interpret this in the following way: our analysis of Martin Luther’s writings on 

“the Turk” revealed that his numerous portrayals of them can be reduced to a limited 

number of typified images of this Other (we identified 5, to be exact). Luther 

embedded all these images in the Tragic historical meta-narrative that he embraced 

as a way of interpreting the calamitous events of his day, among which we observed 

the context of a defensive posture toward the Ottoman Turks, whose armies were 

reaching far into Central Europe. The Tragic mode of emplotment and the defensive 

context of Latin Christendom therefore defined all the images of the Turk that we 

identified in Luther’s writings as did (with exceptions) an emphasis of their 

fundamental Otherness, their strength and a decidedly negative evaluation. Among 

those images we then can discern two distinct groups according to their intended 

target and purpose. The first set of images served primarily to laud those Christians 

who were Luther’s allies by contrasting them with the reprehensible practices of the 

Turks, whereas the second kind primarily functioned to chastise Luther’s Christian 

opponents – the ‘papists’ – by comparing them to (often the very same) 

reprehensible Turkish customs and traits.

391 

Mode of Emplotment 

Perhaps the most interesting observation that Table 7.2 points us toward is 

that each author or period examined in previous chapters assumed a dominant type of 

meta-narrative and that the choice between the Comic or Tragic versions was 

strongly correlated with the relative power dynamics between the collective Self and 

Muslim Other of that time. In other words, our earlier hypothesized association 

between a Tragic historical meta-narrative and a defensive posture toward the 

Muslim Other on the one hand, and between the Comic mode of emplotment and an 

offensive, assertive posture toward him on the other, is confirmed. In light of the 

apparent significance of the mode of emplotment suggested by Table 7.2 we may 

wish to identify all characteristics typically associated with each of the two types of 

narrative. Table 7.3 summarizes the shared features of all images framed by either 

the Comic or Tragic type of historical meta-narrative and lists the number of images 

for each Author/Period that match the relevant pattern. 

Table 7. 3. Features Typical of Images Associated with Each Type of Meta-Narrative 

Meta- 

Narrative 

Context 

(Self) 

Power 

(Other) 

Valence 

(Other) 

Author/Period (number of Author’s 

Images that Fit Pattern) = Total Number 

Tragic: Defensive Strong Negative 

Early Medieval (2), High Medieval (1), 

Luther (5+1) 767 = 9 

Comic: Offensive Weak Negative High Medieval (2), Voltaire (4), EU (8) = 14 

This table tells us that there are a total of nine images that fit the standard 

pattern of images emplotted within a Tragic meta-narrative. All of the Early 

Medieval images and all of Luther’s images (including the Renaissance image of the 

767 The added image is the Renaissance image of the Barbarian Turk.

Barbarian Turk) were produced in a defensive context, the resulting siege 

392 

mentality making the Tragic mode of emplotment a reasonable option, and the 

combined perception of a powerful (strong) and frightening (Valence: negative) 

Other being conditioned by the same context of military defeat. With respect to 

images that further the plot of a Comic meta-narrative, a total of 14 such images fit 

the standard pattern of Comic images: offensive-weak-negative. We have observed 

these Comic images as having thrived during three periods in particular – Latin 

Christendom of the High Middle Ages, Voltaire’s 18 th -century France, and the 

present-day European Union – all of which were periods of relative confidence and 

expansion. The authors of these images viewed the Muslim Other more or less from 

the secure position of perceived superiority, portraying him as weak and in a 

negative light. A sign of the importance of the items listed in this table is that the two 

patterns identified in it account for recognizable patterns in 23 of the 25 images, or 

all of the images if we exclude the two outliers (though they do not account for every 

single item). 

Function and Target 

The last in this series of tables focuses on patterns that appear if we arrange 

the various images according to the intended Rhetorical Target instead of e.g. Period 

or associated type of Meta-Narrative. In Table 7.4, the images are divided into two 

main groups depending on whether their intended internal target was an opponent of 

the author or an ally. The latter is perhaps an unfortunate choice of word, since 

“Ally” here refers not only to internal allies in struggles over the identity of the

collective Self, but in some cases the entire collective Self. In these cases, the 

393 

image in question does not primarily serve to further the Author’s own position in a 

his/her battle against certain internal opponents over the identity of his or her 

community but rather to e.g. strengthen the solidarity of all its members by 

contrasting them with an Other cast in a clearly negative light. 

Table 7. 4. Features Typical of Images Aimed at Internal Opponents or Allies 


Target 

Moral 

Function 


Instrument 

Valence 

(Other) 

Meta- 

Narrative 

Context 

(Self) 

Power 

(Other) 

Number 

of Images 

Opponents: 

Chastise 

Associate 

or Compare 

Negative 

Comic Offensive Weak 5 

Tragic Defensive Strong 5 

Allies: Laud Contrast Negative 

Comic Offensive Weak 9 

Tragic Defensive Strong 4 

The table should be read as follows: All ten images of the Muslim Other that 

were aimed at the author’s internal opponents functioned to chastise the latter by 

linking (associating or comparing) them with a negatively evaluated Muslim Other. 

Five of the ten images had been framed in an offensive context, were emplotted 

within a Comic meta-narrative, and portrayed the Muslim Other as weak. Each of the 

remaining five images was instead part of a Tragic meta-narrative that prevailed in a 

defensive military context, and presented the Other as strong. All of the thirteen 

images that targeted the author’s allies served to laud them by contrasting them with 

a negatively portrayed Muslim Other. Nine of them exhibited the same Comicoffensive-weak 

pattern that we noted above (this pattern might almost be called the 

EU or EP pattern in light of the fact that eight of the nine images in it were found in 

debates of the EP), while four of the thirteen images instead followed the Tragic-

defensive-strong pattern. The most important message in this table is the story 

394 

told in the four leftmost columns. They tell us that most representations of Muslims 

and Turks throughout history have served to define the collective Christian or 

European Self, and that the authors of these images have done so by either linking 

their opponents or contrasting themselves and their allies to a loathed Muslim Other. 

This practice was a staple of images in both Comic and Tragic meta-narratives and in 

both defensive and offensive contexts. 

To conclude the discussion of the four tables above, we should point out that 

they revealed significant continuities over time, such as the just observed reflexive 

function of the images of the Other or the persistently negative view of the same. On 

the other hand, they also demonstrated that the representations of Muslims in each 

period had its own characteristic “syntax” or particular combination of content, form, 

and function that made it unique, indicating that the historical context is highly 

significant. Similarly, Table 7.1 clearly displayed the signs of a historical 

transformation in the balance between Tragic and Comic meta-narratives, which has 

led to the near-complete triumph of the latter mode of emplotment in the shape of the 

European meta-narrative of progress. 

The Synchronic Dimension: Physical Space 

What can we say about the nature and significance of the dimension of 

physical space over the course of the centuries that we have analyzed? Chapter 1 

noted that the importance of this properly spatial dimension varied and this 

observation has been affirmed by the analysis in subsequent chapters. We saw in

chapters 2 and 3 that the High Medieval Latin Church emphasized its universal 

395 

mission and if it accorded any special significance to a piece of land, it was usually 

in the form of what Chapter 1 described as the topophilic attachment to e.g. a small 

number of holy places. This is a far cry from the territorial identification of a 

collective actor with the continuous, exclusive, and clearly defined area occupied by 

its members that would become the ideal and the norm with the arrival of modern 

nationalisms. In general, the spatial dimension contributed little to the ongoing 

discursive constructions and reproductions of the collective identity of medieval 

Christendom. Granted, metaphorical or allegorical spatial references based on 

Biblical passages – such as the story of Gog and Magog who would come from the 

lands beyond the gates in the North – were relatively common, but these do not 

accurately belong to the dimension of physical space. Literal notions of physical 

space occupied little discursive space in the dominant images and scripts of this 

period, as well as in the Biblical historical meta-narrative that came as close to a 

hegemonic macro-level structure of meanings in medieval Christian lands as perhaps 

anything since. 

As noted in Chapter 4, the Late Middle Ages and the early Renaissance saw a 

number of geopolitical and religious transformations across western Eurasia (from 

the present-day UK in the northwest, Scandinavia and Lithuania in the north that 

encouraged a habit of equating Christendom with the territory occupied by 

likeminded (Latin) Christians. The practice which emerged of using “Europe” as 

practically synonymous with “Christendom” served to cement the semantic links

etween the two ideas. The dominant construction of Turkey, despite the 

396 

Ottoman Empire arguably being at least partly a European power, was that of the 

enemy of both civilized Europe and orthodox Christendom, of Plato as well as Jesus. 

Martin Luther, the great theologian of the European Reformation, showed little real 

interest in the spatial dimension of his Christendom, the relative geographic 

proximity of the expanding Ottoman Empire to his Wittenberg notwithstanding. 

The physical spatial dimension is more clearly visible in Voltaire’s narrative 

history of Europe, which we examined in Chapter 5, though its actual function was 

less clear. According to Voltaire, Europe’s geography and mild climate explained 

why it developed later than the warmer regions of the world that were more easily 

farmed, but also why Europeans were forced to become more industrious and 

technically savvy in the process of overcoming nature’s obstacles. More important to 

the definition of Voltaire’s Europe than its territory, however, were its contributions 

to the perfection of the arts, laws, and general spirit. It was these achievements that 

distinguished Europe and elevated it above the rest of the world. The spatial 

dimension became symbolically linked to the temporal dimension in such a way that 

Europe’s spatial/territorial Others (including the Ottoman Turks) became identified 

with the past. To Voltaire, Europe represented the future; the Ottoman Empire 

symbolized the past. 

Voltaire’s historical narrative of progress became in essential parts the 

historical meta-narrative of late 20 th and early 21 st -century Europe. As the analysis in 

Chapter 6 (of the ongoing discourse in the European Parliament on the Turkish

application for EU accession) indicated, the ambiguous role of the territorial 

397 

dimension in Voltaire’s definition of Europe appears to have been inherited by 21 st - 

century EU politicians along with the rest of his narrative of progress. The territorial 

element is ever present, coexisting uneasily with the widely professed universal, 

cosmopolitan, and anti-parochial ideals of the European project. We discussed a 

telling illustration of this contradictory state of affairs in the seldom justified premise 

to the Copenhagen Criteria, and in the parallel phrasing of Article 237 that “any 

European state” may apply. This casual and underspecified criterion determines who 

is entitled to even apply for membership in the European Union and thus determines 

on a parochial territorial basis who is entitled to be judged by the supposedly 

universal and anti-parochial principles codified in the Copenhagen Criteria. 

As we observed already in the introduction to this thesis and then elaborated 

further in Chapter 6, the persistent ambiguities in the territorial demarcation of 

Europe have significant consequences for the discourse on Turkey’s application. It is 

occasionally remarked that Turkey’s precise geographic location, the Ottoman 

Empire’s long history of political, military, and economic participation in European 

inter-state relations and actual sustained presence in areas uniformly described as 

European, and the consciously pro-European orientation of successive Turkish 

governments since Kemal Atatürk, among other things, combine to make a 

convincing case in favor of viewing Turkey as part of Europe. We saw several 

examples of the opposite argument in the preceding chapter, and the lingering 

ambiguities of the spatial dimension in most constructions of a shared European

identity ensure that questions like where “Europe ends” and whether “Turkey is 

398 

in Europe” remain open and symbolically charged questions. 

The Diachronic Dimension: Scripts 

We have already noted the particular challenges confronting any attempt at 

comparing scripts from significantly different times and places. Most of the scripts 

identified in the preceding chapters are closely associated with a specific role, with a 

certain context, and a given narrative. The Eschatological or Apocalyptic Script, for 

example, is tied to the Biblical historical meta-narrative and especially to the Tragic 

variation thereof. If this narrative is abandoned, the related script will likely be 

discarded along with it. Similarly, the God’s Scourge Script is useless if no Other is 

ever cast in the role of the Scourge of God’s Fury. Nevertheless, it is by no means 

inconceivable for a script to acquire a standing on its own, quite apart from either the 

type of situation that it first addressed, the specific roles with which it was originally 

associated, or the narrative in which it was first embedded. We might describe such 

developments as institutional or conceptual inertia, as the emergence of patterns of 

interaction and thus structure, 768 or as “sedimentation”. 769 Alternatively, we could 

understand such developments with reference to Georg Simmel’s previously 

mentioned analogous discussion of how some instrumental behavior that is repeated 

often enough first becomes habit and later ritual, until it finally removes itself 

entirely from its original instrumental function and takes on the form of play, which 

768 This is a standard depiction of (the emergence of) structure in symbolic interactionist writings. See 

e.g. Blumer, Symbolic Interactionism; Stryker, Symbolic Interactionism. 

769 Berger and Luckmann, Social Construction.

is an activity performed for its own sake. 770 However we choose to describe it, 

399 

such a development would be fully consonant with the theoretical framework of this 

dissertation. 

Indeed, Chapter 4 discussed a script that seemed to display some such ability 

to outlast its initial purpose and context: the Script of (military and sexual) Conquest. 

We have observed the repetition of variations on this script in e.g. 10 th -century poetic 

depictions of Muslim sexual violence against captive minors in Spain, 771 11 th -century 

tales of Turkish sexual violence against Christians under Turkish rule in 

Jerusalem, 772 15 th -century accounts of Turkish sexual violence against captive 

Christian minors in Constantinople, 773 16 th -century reports of Turkish sexual 

violence against captive Christians in Austria, 774 and 21 st -century allegations of 

Turkish sexual violence against captive minors in Turkey. 775 In addition, Chapter 5 

suggested that the fictional plot of Voltaire’s 18 th -century play Mahomet, which 

revolved around the Prophet’s lust toward his young slave held captive by the ruler 

of Mecca set against the backdrop of Mohammed’s conquest of the same town, could 

be interpreted as but a particularly creative variation on the Script of Conquest. 

770 Simmel uses the example of the development of the English fox hunt into leisurely activity for the 

British upper class. See Kurt H. Wolff, ed., The Sociology of Georg Simmel (NY: The Free Press, 

1950). 


772 Brundage, A Documentary, p. 18. 

773 Bisaha, Creating, p. 63. 


775 Moorhouse (PPE) – (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896. See 

Chapter 6 above.

However, apart from these observations and from discussions of 

400 

developments in scripts that we attributed to changes in the meta-narratives or roles 

with which the scripts were associated, we have not been able to discern any 

noteworthy trends or continuities with respect to the scripts examined here. This is 

possibly a legitimate methodological artifact of our exclusive focus on scripts that 

contribute to the construction of collective identities, for such scripts tend to be 

intimately linked with the roles and/or narratives that are central to such identity 

constructs. If a given script becomes disassociated from such narratives and/or roles 

and obtains a “life” of its own, odds are that its significance for the construction of 

the relevant collective identity is reduced in direct proportion to the distance added 

between the script and the narrative and/or role in question. If this script is no longer 

relevant to the maintenance of the collective identity that is the subject of our 

investigation, we would gain little by keeping the irrelevant script in our analysis and 

trying to determine whether it has changed from its original form. Nevertheless, an 

analysis of the historical development of the scripts identified in this dissertation and 

a systematic comparative analysis of them are both potentially fruitful subjects for 

future studies. 

The Diachronic Dimension: Meta-Narratives 

What does the analysis in the preceding chapters tell us about the 

contemporary relevance of the earlier meta-narratives? Clearly, the dominant 

historical meta-narrative is no longer the Biblical story and 21 st -century Members of 

the European Parliament (MEPs) do not describe Turks with words from that

narrative, such as “heretics” or “antichrist”. Nevertheless, many of the features 

401 

that Chapter 5 argued were common to both the historical meta-narrative of the 

Enlightenment and its Biblical predecessor can be observed in the contemporary 

European narrative of progress that grew out of the 18 th -century Enlightenment 

narrative: The basic Comic plot structure, the teleological tendency, the notion of an 

epic struggle between forces of progress and those who oppose it, and the 

significance of the normative dimension are all signs of the family resemblance 

between these meta-narratives. One suspects that Thomas Mann’s character, whom 

we quoted in the beginning of Chapter 6, would feel quite at home debating the latest 

progress report on Turkey in today’s European Parliament. 

This has implication for the images of Self and Other since the roles and their 

functions are framed to a large extent by the plot of the meta-narrative in which they 

figure. In light of this fact and of the many similarities between contemporary and 

earlier meta-narratives, the functions of the roles of the contemporary “Turk” are not 

surprisingly also similar to the functions of older roles. Most generally, like “the 

Saracen” in the medieval Christian imagination, Luther’s “Turks”, and Voltaire’s 

“Mahomet”, the “Turkey” that is called forth in the debates of the European 

Parliament is constitutive of the “Europe” that is simultaneously being constructed. 

More specifically, the majority of images in the EP debates define a relationship 

between the European Self and the Turkish Other reminiscent of the Self-Other 

relationships defined by the pagan and heretic roles of the High Middle Ages. Table 

7.3 above illustrates the similarities. Most importantly, they are all embedded in a

402 

Comic meta-narrative and an offensive or expansive context, but they also depict 

the Other in a negative light and as weak. Additionally, the differences between 

Turkey and Europe (we are here purposely employing the dichotomy used by many 

MEPs, which immediately defines Turkey as outside Europe) are construed as 

merely contingent, just like the differences between the medieval Christians and their 

pagan and heretic Others. Turkey is not not European, it is only less European. And 

just like the Comic version of the Biblical historical meta-narrative suggested that 

pagans could be civilized and converted, or heretics persuaded to reject their false 

doctrines, so the Comic European meta-narrative of progress suggests that Turkey 

can reform and find “salvation as a European country”, as one MEP so aptly put it. 

CONCLUSION: IMAGINING ALTERNATIVES 

So far in this chapter we have focused on the dominant types of metanarratives, 

scripts, and roles used to construct certain collective identities. We have 

consciously avoided doing two things. First, we have focused on the most common 

and significant types, saving consideration of minor or alternative types for a later 

time, which has now come. But let us first recall the motivation behind our second 

conscious omission, which applies not only to this chapter but to the entire 

dissertation, namely, our refusal to answer understandable questions of the kind: “Is 

that really true?!?” in the face of some of the most appalling allegations of Saracen 

or Turkish wrongdoings described in previous chapters. The objects of the analysis 

in this dissertation have all been social constructs, which means that when examining

403 

any particular representation of the Turkish or Saracen Other, we did not claim to 

be studying any other reality than that discursive construct, which in a sense must 

always remain a fiction. It might well be a legitimate topic for a historical study to 

attempt to determine whether certain images of Turks accurately describe the real 

Turks that they purport to signify. Such a study might be plagued with a number of 

epistemological and practical methodological problems, but we should not reject it a 

priori. Regardless, this doctoral dissertation is not that study. When appropriate, we 

have indicated the existence of alternative accounts that perhaps contradicted another 

quoted source, or noted obvious problems with certain constructs if they were 

relevant to our analysis. But we have not always tried to do so. That is, an important 

aim of this thesis has been to understand the functions of images of e.g. “the 

Saracen”, especially with respect to relevant processes of collective identity 

construction. In many cases, precise correspondence between the contents of the 

image and the “actual” characteristics of any individual Muslims – that is, its 

representational or referential function – was of minor significance for the image’s 

ability to perform its constitutive function, and in those cases assessing the empirical 

accuracy of the image was not essential to our analysis. 

One way of challenging the predominantly negative representations of 

Saracens and Turks identified herein is by pointing out the existence of alternative 

narratives, scripts, or images. The many positive medieval presentations of Saladin 

and the related image of the Chivalrous Saracen, for example, demonstrate that it is 

possible, if not to break free entirely from near-hegemonic meaning-structures like

the medieval Biblical historical meta-narrative, then at least to adapt them so as 

404 

to make them more benign and constructive (in the ordinary sense of the word). This 

image is unusual because it was framed within a Comic meta-narrative and an 

offensive/expansive context and yet it avoided the depiction of the Other as both 

weak and reprehensible that in all other cases emerged from that perspective. The 

other main alternative image describes a possible role for Turkey as a Contributor of 

good things as a member of the EU. It, too, was framed within a Comic metanarrative 

and an offensive/expansive context and it, too, managed to avoid a 

predominantly negative depiction of the Other. These exceptions are particularly 

important in light of the common correlation which we observed between Comicoffensive-negative-weak-contingent 

images and a greater propensity to use force 

against the Other. 

The historical variation in the importance and understanding of the physical 

spatial dimension in the discourses that we have analyzed, and the ambiguities 

associated with the geographical component in contemporary understandings of 

“Europe”, all show that there is room for creative interpretation in this dimension. 

The questions of Turkey’s geographical “belonging” and Europe’s geographical 

identity remain unsettled. In contrast, there appears to be less room for alternative 

historical narratives in modern-day EU discourse, at least judging by the debates in 

the European Parliament examined in the previous chapter. The main contender to 

the Comic meta-narrative of progress that dominates contemporary EP debates on 

enlargement and Turkey’s application emphasizes the imagined Tragic consequences

405 

of the latter’s accession to the Union. Other alternative narratives doubtless exist, 

but they are not clearly visible in any of the Parliamentary debates that we looked at. 

The challenge for those who advocate the framing of Turkey’s application for EU 

membership in terms of narratives other than those identified in this thesis thus 

appears to be to ensure their acceptance in broader public and official EU discourse. 

However, in order for any meaningful change to occur in the standard 

constitutive uses of “Turks” or “Turkey” in EU discourse, three flawed premises that 

inform much of it must be reevaluated. First, representations of “Turkey” ought to be 

motivated by a desire to understand the phenomena – the multitude of spaces, 

peoples, traditions, and institutions – that the name claims to denote, and to do so on 

their own terms. This is much more difficult than it sounds, which partly explains 

why none of the major images of the Other identified in this dissertation managed to 

do so. Even the exceptionally charitable interpretations of the Muslim or Turkish 

Other, such as the image of the Chivalrous Saracen, functioned primarily to define 

the identity of the collective Self. In the case of this image, it was done by 

contrasting internal opponents unfavorably with a Muslim Other portrayed in a 

positive fashion, thereby chastising these opponents. It is perhaps a useful and 

necessary reflex to approach something different by relating it to one’s own 

concerns, and it need not be a bad habit. However, it is quite clear that this reflex is 

no longer helpful in the context of Turkey-EU relations and that it therefore ought to 

be discarded or at least addressed.

Second, by rejecting the pervasive use of the Other as a means by which 

406 

to define a collective Self, we can affect a change in the manner in which the Other 

is evaluated. A common feature of at least all images constitutive of inclusive 

identities is that the Other is evaluated in terms of the extent to which it is like Self. 

This practice is extremely pervasive among proponents of inclusive conceptions of 

the European Union, some of whom support Turkish accession with a version of the 

argument that it will help Turkey become more fully “European” (which is assumed 

to be a good thing), or that Turkey already is or has become sufficiently European to 

merit its inclusion. Their opponents counter with arguments to the effect that Turkey 

is simply not European enough. The latter is hardly meant as praise but many of 

Turkey’s supporters in the EU do mean to give praise by observing how European 

Turkey is. This general practice extends far beyond semantics or labeling, however, 

to such seemingly innocuous and reasonable procedures for potential new members 

as the evaluation of Turkey’s implementation of the acquis communautaire (the EU’s 

large body of existing rules and regulations) as part of the accession process. Such 

bureaucratic procedures are not likely to be easily abandoned, perhaps with good 

reason, but the prevailing unstated assumption that any difference is at least 

potentially bad should be. 

The final assumption in this complex of attitudes that in our view should be 

acknowledged and seriously scrutinized is the fear of admitting that Turkey’s 

accession might lead to changes in the current EU 25 member states. There is clear 

support for an inclusive and anti-parochial conception of Europe from the vast

majority of MEPs, many of whom associate any consideration of cultural or 

407 

religious matters in the context of enlargement with the parochial definitions of 

Europe on the far right, or with the very painful fascist past that the European project 

was designed to prevent from ever happening again. The sensitivity of these issues 

have unfortunately led to a common inability or unwillingness to acknowledge the 

importance of faith, tradition, community, and collective identity to most people in 

the EU as well as in Turkey. Even the most open-minded EU supporters of the 

Turkish accession do Turkey a disservice when they diminish the importance of faith 

to many ordinary Turks. For example, describing the “religious complexion of 

Turkey [as] a matter of historical accident” like that of Moorish Spain is in one way 

a laudable attempt to emphasize the contingent nature of difference between Turkey 

and the traditionally Christian members of the Union today. 776 However, the implicit 

warrant making this into an argument in favor of Turkish membership appears to be 

that the (unfortunate?) religious persuasion of a majority of Turks will pass, as did 

that of the Spanish Moors, who are now perfectly normal (secular Christian, we 

might call them) EU citizens. This warrant is a weak foundation upon which to build 

a potential Turkish membership in the European Union, for the analysis combines all 

three flawed premises. It suffers first from an inability to seriously understand the 

“Other” on its own terms and, second, from the error of judging the Other by the 

degree of its similarity to the “European” Self. Third, it combines a highly naïve 

understanding of the significance and durability of such “historical accidents” as 

776 Khanbhai (PPE) – (UK), European Parliament. Political Situation in Turkey, 091896.

408 

more than thousand years old structures of religious beliefs, norms, and practices 

with an equally naïve assumption that while Turkey will change entirely, the rest of 

the Union could and should remain unchanged. 

Perhaps the main challenge in thinking and talking about Turkey’s potential 

accession to the EU is to find an appropriate middle way between essentializing and 

reifying postulated differences between two supposedly homogenous actors 

(“Europe” and “Turkey”) on one hand, and refusing to acknowledge the importance 

of culture and religion or of the distinct intersubjective meaning-structures that 

condition the ways in which we understand ourselves and each other, on the other 

hand. This dissertation has attempted to identify certain such structures along with 

their histories and constitutive functions, on the assumption that the act of making 

them explicit might enable us to transcend them.

409 

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APPENDIX: PARTY GROUPS IN THE EUROPEAN 

PARLIAMENT 777 

ARE: Group of the European Radical Alliance. Center-left and europhilic parties. 

EDD: Group for a Europe of Democracies and Diversities. Eurosceptic group of 

parties. 

EDN: Group of Independents for a Europe of Nations. Eurosceptic parties, including 

right-wing parties, religious groups, and independents. 

UEN: Union for Europe of the Nations Group. Nationalist and mostly eurosceptic 

group of parties. 

ELDR: Group of the European Liberal, Democrat and Reform Party. Mainstream 

liberal and centrist parties. Currently the third largest group in the EP. 

GUE/NGL Confederal Group of the European United Left/Nordic Green Left. 

Radical socialist and Communist parties. 

I-EDN: See EDN. 

NI: Non Attached. Amalgam of far-right parties and independents. 

PPE-DE: Group of the European People's Party (Christian Democrats) and the 

slightly more eurosceptic European Democrats. Mainstream center-right parties. 

777 Some of these groups are recent creations, have ceased to exist, or have merged with other groups. 

This information was collected from a variety of sources, including the various websites of the groups 

themselves and "European Parties and Groups," BBC News Online, Tuesday, May 25 1999; Paul 

Heywood, Eric Jones, and Martin Rhodes, eds., Developments in West European Politics, vol. 2 (NY: 

Palgrave, 2002).

Currently the largest group in the EP. 

436 

PSE: Group of the Party of European Socialists. Mainstream social democratic and 

left-wing parties. Currently the second largest group in the EP. 

UPE: Group Union for Europe. Center-right but non-traditional and pro-European. 

V: Se Verts/ALE. 

Verts/ALE: Group of the Greens/European Free Alliance. Environmental Parties.

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