Humanity in Algiers: or the Story of Azem

         While I have a very difficult time accepting Henry Petter’s 1971 argument that the narrative of Humanity in Algiers: or the Story of Azem functions “to illustrate the hardships endured by slaves, whether Americans in Algiers or Negroes in the United States” (Faherty and White 2). I find great value in both Majid’s and Marr’s arguments—respectively—that this text demonstrates the “‘hypocrisy and double standards’ of the U.S. in regards to slavery, [and] a view of Islam as a potentially benevolent system of morality” (Faherty and White 2-3). Arguments like Petter’s always puzzle me because they tend to further this notion that people need some type of narrative reminder to know that enslaving human beings is morally wrong. However, Majid’s argument seems on point in relation to the United States ideology of global exceptionalism we have discussed in class. Yet it is Marr’s argument that really intrigues me, because as I was reading Humanity I was able to see how Islam indeed functions as a “benevolent system of morality,” which appears to offer an alternative framework to U.S. exceptionalism and Christianity in terms of literacy and enslavement.  When I refer to an alternative framework I have Frederick Douglass’s life history in mind. In the U.S. context of slavery, literacy was seen as a threat to the system. Douglass’s autobiography not only shows how he taught himself to read and write, but also how his male owner and others negatively reacted to Douglass’s literacy. Hence, the U.S. notion of Christian morality seems comparable to the one offered in Humanity.

In the beginning of Humanity the narrator—a White American man—introduces his “benefactor,” Azem. He explains that Azem was a former slave who was “gifted” to his first owners at a young age. He also adds that Azem was treated like any of the other children in the house. Sequida, “his mistress taught him the knowledge of letters, so that he could read any part of the Alcoran: and careful she was to teach him the faith of Mehometinsm, and to instruct him in all the ceremonies of her religion” (Faherty and White 7). Here—and in addition to the footnotes—it becomes clear that Azem became literate for religious study, and to morally follow the Muslim faith.

The idea of a Muslim morality also becomes salient when Omri tries to make a case for Azem’s freedom. Omri asks Sequida “‘have you not taught [Azem] to read the Alcoran, and instructed him in the moral law?’ [to which Sequida eventually replies] ‘My friend, my warmest thanks are due to you, for the pains you have taken in explaining my duty. May my God forgive my late unwillingness to obey his commands’” (Faherty and White 11). Sequida’s response concurs with Marr’s argument about Islam as a benevolent system of morality, in which she is responsible for teaching Azem how to read the Koran and also answering to a greater and “divine law” which asks that she grants him his freedom. Thus, Azem’s religious identity should be understood as that of a Muslim. However, the only times Azem performs his Muslim faith is when he implores God to allow him freedom (Faherty and White 8), a notion that seems more likely to align with the Judeo-Christian identity.  In fact, when Azem marries Shelimah there is no image of a particular faith. The narrator simply tells, “their hands were at length joined in marriage; and festivity and mirth” (Faherty and White 28).

In the preface to Humanity editors Duncan Faherty and Ed White explain that Humanity’s author is unknown, but that the text may be attributed to Robert Moffitt. Moffitt published a great number of Baptist writings in a community that “was somewhat local,” and associated with the Shaftsbury Baptist culture. Faherty and White also explain that “abolition groups had a denominational orientation, meaning that abolitionist arguments were couched in spiritual and theological terms and often linked with institutional practices and pressures” (1). If U.S. Christian abolitionists groups often used religious rhetoric to point out the immorality of slavery, then how can we understand Azem’s neutralized Muslim identity? Should we interpret it as the result of a deeply entrenched U.S. exceptionalism, which does not permit both a “benevolent form of Muslim morality” and a salient Muslim identity?