Even among the wealthiest strata of Saudi society, there is a common proverb, “My father rode a camel. I drive a car. My son rides in a jet. His son will ride a camel.” The oil age has been a terrific source of wealth for a tiny elite that has consumed the profits voraciously, but for most people living in the Middle East, it has been an unmitigated disaster. The discovery of oil put the Middle East in the crosshairs of Western ambition, and the region has been wracked with war ever since. In the American imagination, war in the Middle East has become ancient and timeless, yet nearly all of the region’s conflicts go back no more than the past 50 years. Evangelical Christians in the United States create a false sense of ancient feuds by painting modern conflicts with undertones from the Bible, but the Biblical struggles over the Middle East were settled millennia ago. Today’s struggle are the legacy of colonialism. Less than a century ago, the ancestors of the Saudi princes were poor emirs living in Riyadh. Even in the wealthiest strata, there is the unavoidable understanding that the current state of affairs is, above all, temporary.

Nationalism never penetrated very far into the Middle East, as it did in European countries. Middle Eastern countries must be propped up by Western complexity. To understand what course the Middle East might take on its own once Western complexity is withdrawn, it is important to recognize that Middle Easterners define themselves not in terms of combined ethnic-territorial affiliation, but by religious belief and lines of descent.

In the Western world, the basic unit of human organization is the nation, in America but not in Europe usage virtually synonymous with country. This is then subdivided in various ways, one of which is by religion. Muslims, however, tend to see not a nation subdivided into religious groups but a religion subdivided into nations. This is no doubt partly because most of the nation-states that make up the modern Middle East are relatively new creations, left over from the era of Anglo-French imperial domination that followed the defeat of the Ottoman Empire, and they preserve the state-building and frontier demarcations of their former imperial masters. Even their names reflect this artificiality: Iraq was a medieval province, with borders very different from those of the modern republic, excluding Mesopotamia in the north and including a slice of western Iran; Syria, Palestine, and Libya are names from classical antiquity that hadn’t been used in the region for a thousand years or more before they were revived and imposed—again with new and often different boundaries—by European imperialists in the twentieth century; Algeria and Tunisia do not even exist as words in Arabic—the same name serves for the city and the country. Most remarkable of all, there is no word in the Arabic language for Arabia, and present-day Saudi Arabia is spoken of as “the Saudi Arab kingdom” or “the peninsula of the Arabs,” depending on the context. This is not because Arabic is a poor language—the reverse is true—but because the Arabs simply did not think in terms of combined ethnic and territorial identity. Indeed, the caliph ‘Umar is quoted as saying to the Arabs, “Learn your genealogies, and do not be like the local peasants who, when they are asked who they are, reply: ‘I am from such-and-such a place.’” (Lewis, 2003)

The latest bugaboo of the neoconservative imagination, the re-establishment of the caliphate may be an inevitable development in one form or another as the West loses its ability to shape the Middle East in its own image. Moreover, this may not be such a terrible thing; to understand why the rhetoric of so many Western politicians would fail to grasp this, we need to do something none of those politicians ever did—understand Islam.

Islam differentiates between personal obligations (fard ‘ayn) and collective obligations (fard kifayah). Personal obligations are those we most readily understand; they are obligations borne by each individual personally, and any particular individual who fails to uphold that obligation is in sin. Collective obligations, on the other hand, obligate the Ummah—the Islamic community as a whole. In general, these require a caliph who can see that these obligations are met. If the community fails to meet these obligations, then the entire community is in sin. This cultural idea of the individual held responsible for the failure of his community, combined with our own democratic ideals that our governments enact our will, combine to shed some light on why so many Muslims in the Middle East believe that individual Americans should bear the responsibility for the actions of their government.

Islam has a rich theological tradition, akin to Catholicism or Judaism, where debate over differences of opinion and interpretation are common, encouraged, and often lead to realities differing significantly from the written law itself, and few subjects have seen a broader range of interpretation in Islam than jihad. That said, it can be broadly said that with respect to jihad as an armed struggle of the Islamic community, that two basic forms are observed. Defensive jihad is fought to defend Muslims from foreign invasion. As in our own culture, there is a general attitude that when it comes to defense, “anything goes.” Defensive jihad has very few rules to restrict what can be done to defend Muslims from foreign attack. Defensive jihad is generally considered an individual obligation, so each individual Muslim is obligated to defend the Muslim community from attack in whatever way they can. Al-Qa’ida has tried to make the case that their campaign constitutes a defensive jihad—most Muslims worldwide are now ruled over by despots and dictators who act as proxies for the United States and other Western powers, constituting a de facto state of invasion. It certainly cannot be denied that neocolonialism is a real and dominating force in the Middle East, and the argument that an attack on the U.S. amoutns to defense is somewhat compelling, but this argument has not been entirely accepted. And while defensive jihad can justify most acts in the name of self-defense, most Muslim leaders have condemned the attacks of 9/11 as beyond the pale and outside the scope of legitimate defense.

It is true that al-Qa’ida seeks the restoration of the caliphate, and it is likewise true that they see such a restoration as another individual obligation. One key communal sin that rancors al-Qa’ida is the failure to uphold offensive jihad. Unlike defensive jihad, offensive jihad is a communal obligation that must be organized and led by a caliph. Without a caliph, offensive jihad is impossible. Offensive jihad also differs significantly from defensive jihad in that offensive jihad is bound by many rules of engagement that provide protections not dissimilar from the Geneva Conventions. While al-Qa’ida can argue that an attack like 9/11 can be justified as part of a defensive jihad, it would never pass as a permissible attack in an offensive jihad. In an offensive jihad, a caliph would have to field a regular army and observe the rules of war; precisely the kind of war that the United States and other Western powers fight best.

Al-Qa’ida may seek the restoration of the caliphate, but they’re not the only ones. Much more moderate groups would also like to see the caliphate restored, such as Hizb ut-Tahrir.

The Caliphate is a rallying point between the radicals and the more moderate Islamists,” says Stephen Ulph, a senior fellow at the Jamestown Foundation. “The idea of a government based on the Caliphate has a historical pedigree and Islamic legitimacy that Western systems of government by their very nature do not have.”

But unlike Al Qaeda, Hizb ut-Tahrir believes it can recreate the Caliphate peacefully. Its activists aim to pursuade Muslim political and military leaders that reestablishing the Caliphate is their Islamic duty. Once these leaders invite Hizb ut-Tahrir to take power—effectively staging a military coup—the party would then repeat the process in other countries before linking them up to form a revived Caliphate. …

Hizb ut-Tahrir’s modern leader is a Jordanian known as Emir Atta Abu Rashta. He lives in a secret location in the Middle East and communicates mainly through the Internet. The party is illegal in all Arab countries as well as Germany. Britain mooted banning the group after last year’s London bombings. Ms. Baran wrote in the November issue of Foreign Affairs that the attacks were carried out by members of a Hizb ut-Tahrir splinter group. The British government has not formally accused Hizb ut-Tahrir or Hizb ut-Tahrir splinter groups of involvement. Hizb ut-Tahrir’s British branch has condemned both the 7/7 and 9/11 attacks.¹

Therein lies the promise of a renewed caliphate. Any caliphate consistent with Islamic law would have to include the voices of the entire Ummah, and the ongoing theological exchange of various religious leaders. The caliph would not be al-Qa’ida’s to pick; in fact, al-Qa’ida, for all the work they might do to re-establish such a caliphate, would suddenly find themselves a minority in the caliphate they create, drowned out by much more moderate voices who would find in the new caliphate a loose confederation of Islamic communities that stretched beyond the arbitrary national borders drawn by withdrawing European powers.

“Many people see Hizb ut-Tahrir’s aims as utterly unrealistic,” says Nadim Shehadi, a Middle East analyst at Chatham House. “Even their understanding of the Caliphate as a strong, powerful state is questionable. Historically the Caliphate only worked because it was very loose and extremely decentralized.”²

A renewed caliphate would also have to deal with the various localized forms of Islam around the world. Saudi Islam is no more universal in the Dar al-Islam than American Evangelical Christianity across worldwide Christendom.

In Senegal, I found local Muslims irate at the condescending attitudes of Saudi emissaries who condemned their practices as contrary to Islam. With their long-established Muslim brotherhoods and their beloved marabouts, the Senegalese responded, “We were Islamic scholars when the Saudis were living in tents.”

From West Africa to Indonesia, an unnoted defense against Islamist extremism is the loyalty Muslims have to the local versions of their faith. No one much likes to be told that he and his ancestors have gotten it all wrong for the last five centuries. Foolish Westerners who insist that Islam is a unified religion of believers plotting as one to subjugate the West refuse to see that the fiercest enemy of Salafist fundamentalism is the affection Muslims have for their local ways. Islamist terrorists are all about globalization, while the hope for peace lies in the grip of local custom.³

In short, were al-Qa’ida and others to succeed in creating a caliph, it would not be the raging, fundamentalist theocracy they dream of; forced to include the rest of the Islamic world in the process, the caliphate could create a loose network of affiliation and coordination that could establish a relatively low-cost level of complexity, one that allowed Muslims to participate in a far-flung brotherhood while participating in a localized, pastoralist economy. Such a caliphate could provide the Muslim world with a distinct advantage in the face of civilization’s collapse.

Such an advantage would be sorely needed. The Middle East is in a dire position. With most of the world’s remaining oil reserves, it cannot help but be the focus and primary victim of whatever resource wars might follow from energy decline. We have already seen the first taste of these struggles in Iraq and Kuwait over the past 20 years; though the U.S. has suppressed full counts, the war in Iraq may have already killed 665,000.⁴ The collapse of Iraq’s middle class has left much of the state hollowed out.⁵

While the Middle East is cursed with too much oil, it is also cursed with too little water. The region consistently tops lists of most critical regions for future water wars and significant lack of freshwater resources. We may well already be seeing water wars in Israel.⁶ Additionally, the Middle East outstripped its ability to feed itself long ago.

Yet most Middle Eastern countries are highly dependent on food from abroad. With the exception of Israel, agriculture in the region remains undeveloped. This results in an enormous cost. The region’s food import bill in 1984 came to $22.5 billion. Dr. Edouard Saouma, Director General of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, in his Foreword to this volume, states that the Middle East produces less than half of its food requirements.⁷

There are some solutions that could greatly help the Middle East, though. Permaculture has proven effective at restoring some of the worst soil in the world, around the Dead Sea.

The local agricultural department described the land as useless for any serious production. With a soil salt level of 5,000ppm, the only available irrigation water at 4,100 ppm salt content, and a pH of 9.5, even10 in places it was considered impossible to grow figs and many other fruit trees and crops.

With the local project workers well educated in permaculture design, Sindhu and Geoff’s instructions were carefully followed and on their next return visit, four months after the first trees were planted, the results were very exciting. Figs were growing well and fruiting, so were guavas and pomegranates, some of the pioneer trees had reached two meters in height and the general greening up of the site was very encouraging. These results indicated that the salt levels must have dropped, pH must have also dropped and soil fertility must have improved. The Agriculture Department were invited back to do further soil tests and the results were incredibly exciting even to Geoff and Sindhu.

The good results would normally indicate a large use of sweet water, but on the contrary, the high cost of transporting sweet water on to site is not only against permaculture principles, but is financially out of reach to the average farmer and also too costly for our own budget. We used the same salted water that local farmers have to irrigate with, but because of good design only 1/5th the amofunt of water was used compared to that of a farm similar in size. The effects achieved were a mystery to the local people, and to the agricultural department, and a great deal of attention from all sorts of individuals and authorities resulted. The soil had come alive, the lifecycles within the soil were starting to lock up the salt, the process of soil creation had begun, and not only had pH and salt dropped dramatically, the pale sandy soil was turning deep brown with the creation of hummus, Geoff and Sindhu found themselves explaining this process time and time again to satisfy the astonishment of those who had not believed they could succeed.⁸

A strong tradition of urban gardening, combined with permaculture techniques, could provide some relief and the possibility of a smoother transition from cities to a more sustainable way of life. However, these solutions provide for even a smaller scale than the agriculture currently practiced, which itself provides far too little food for the population. After resource wars and the removal of Western complexity, there will be little energy to support the current society’s scale or population.

The Saudi proverb quoted above has already left a cultural strategy for declining energy: a return to the nomadic pastoralism that dominated Arab life until recently. Pastoralism is still immediately culturally relevant, and has declined significantly only in the past century in the wake of colonialism, neocolonialism, and imported food.

In contrast with the urban and rural populations, nomadic pastoralists have always constituted a small minority of the total population of the region (and in the late twentieth century, no more than an estimated 1 percent). Although conditions affecting nomads vary from one country to the next, overall, nomadic pastoralism has been on the decline since the turn of the twentieth century. In Iraq, for example, nomads were estimated to make up about 35 to 40 percent of the population in 1900; by the 1970s, their proportion had declined to 2.8 percent. In Saudi Arabia, nomads constituted approximately 40 percent of the population, a figure that had declined to about 11 percent by 1970. Likewise, Libya’s population was 25 percent nomadic in 1960; in the mid-1990s nomads constitute only 3.5 percent of the total. …

As an economic strategy, pastoral nomadism is an adaptation to the general semiaridity of the region. Where true desert conditions obtain, such as in the Sudanic belt of northern Africa and in the Arabian Peninsula, camel breeding dominates. In other, less arid areas, including the high plateaus and mountains of the region, nomads concentrate on sheep and goats.

Nomadic pastoralists, who account for a small part of food production in the region (when compared with peasants), have a historical and cultural significance that far outweighs their number and economic contribution. This is generally true for all tribally organized nomadic populations, be they Arab, Berber, Turkish, Kurdish, or Persian speakers. Historically, armed and mounted tribally organized Arab-speaking nomads played an important role in the early Islamic conquests of the Byzantine and S�?ss�?nid empires. Likewise, Berber-speaking nomadic and seminomadic tribes were instrumental in the Muslim conquest of Spain. On the local level, nomadic pastoralists have traditionally posed a challenge to the political authority of their respective states as they struggled to maintain their political autonomy and their distinct cultural traditions.⁹

While this may well help in the short-term, the longer-term prospects for such a lifestyle are more dubious. Pastoral cultures have historically made up a systemic resource shortfall by trading with (and often raiding) neighboring agricultural societies.¹⁰ While permaculture may well be part of the Middle East’s future, the prospects for continuing agriculture post-Green Revolution in the Middle East are even more dismal than they are across most of the rest of the globe. On the other hand, the pattern of pastoralism is so thoroughly engrained in local cultures that it may well be able to morph into a more sustainable form, like that of the Saami, whose reindeer herds are only semi-domesticated.

A new caliphate might one day unite permacultural villages and a new kind of hunter-pastoralist across the region, but it would take extreme optimism to believe that such a transition could be made without great difficulty in the interrim. With more than half its food imported and the looming threat of water wars and resource wars, the Middle East is poised for significant die-off in the immediate future. Permaculture and pastoralism offer some hope for the future, but these strategies cannot hope to feed anything near the region’s current population. Unlike the United States, the Middle East does have a significant chance that some major section of their society will try to live in a more primitive manner when energy begins to decline. Pastoralism remains a central part of many of the regions’ cultures’ identities, and most people in the region have a basic understanding that the current situation is a temporary one; however, in this moment of overshoot, the Middle East has suffered from the same basic problem, so more people will be turning back to pastoralism than ever gave it up. Unlike North America, it may well be resources—and not the imagination to employ them—that become the bottleneck for survival. Predicting hardship for the Middle East may not be the most innovative forecast, but given the region’s situation, it seems difficult to avoid the notion that civilization’s birthplace will suffer greatly from its collapse.

Works Cited

• Lewis, Bernad. 2003. The Crisis of Islam. The Modern Library.