public order in egypt

ANGIE HEOMax Planck Institute for the Study of Religious and Ethnic Diversity

The bodily threat of miracles:Security, sacramentality, and the Egyptian politicsof public order

A B S T R A C TThis article examines the political and public cultureof Coptic Christian miracles through the circulationand reproduction of images and the mimeticentanglements of artifacts and objects. Tounderstand the threat posed by one case of awoman’s oil-exuding hand, this study points to howsemiotic orders of security and sacramentalityintersect in the regulation of bodily miracles. Itexplores Coptic Orthodox Church and Egyptian stateefforts to contain the activity of images andtransform the public nature of truthful witness anddivine testimony. In doing so, it suggests how thematerial structure of saintly imagination introducesbodily and visual challenges to an authoritarianpolitics of public order. [images, miracles,materiality, embodiment, security, secrecy, visuality,religion, public culture]

In the sanctuary of the Church of St. Bishoi in Port Said, a portrait iconof the Virgin Mary exudes holy oil (bitnazzil zait; see Figure 1). Yearafter year, thousands of Coptic Christians travel to the port city alongEgypt’s Mediterranean coastline to witness firsthand the miraculousactivity of the famed image.1 Unlike other saintly icons, which are

anointed by priestly ritual, this one is a print poster image venerated forits unique capacity to produce and reproduce holy oils. Crowds of pilgrimsoffer prayerful petitions and sing hymns of veneration as they gaze at theMarian figure with her outstretched hands, each hand the trailhead of di-vine unction. They leave the church with souvenirs: the oils, packaged anddistributed in plastic vials for easy portability. Back in their homes, manyseek new miracles, of healings and of divine remembrance, in continuity ofMarian power outside the confines of the church.

It is widely believed that the origins of this miracle-image lie in anothermiracle.2 Late in the night of February 19, 1990, the Virgin appeared to awoman named Samia Youssef Basilious in a dream and healed her of breastcancer. Within days, varied accounts of the dream healing proliferated inthe streets and eventually entered the headlines of the state daily: “Citizenof Port Said Claims the Virgin Mary Came and Performed Surgery in Sleep”(Al-Ahram 1990). Some weeks later, on March 17, Samia’s right hand beganto exude oil. As the main attraction of the Marian cult narrative, Samia her-self drew people toward the miraculous generativity of her body. Accord-ing to official church reports, after her hand emitted oil, Pope Shenouda IIIconsecrated her as a nun, “so that she would not return again to the world.”

Less well known are the exact reasons that Samia was subsequentlysequestered from public visibility. In a private interview with me, onDecember 27, 2010, Father Boula Saad, Samia’s confessional priest andspiritual guide, more fully described the conditions of her concealment.After Samia’s hand had attracted significant attention, Egyptian statesecurity officers requested that she visit the Ministry of the Interior inCairo, and upon thoroughly inspecting her hand, ordered that she remainwithin the Convent of St. Dimyana in the isolated rice fields of Bilqas.For five years, she was prohibited from returning to her home in PortSaid.

AMERICAN ETHNOLOGIST, Vol. 40, No. 1, pp. 149–164, ISSN 0094-0496, onlineISSN 1548-1425. C© 2013 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved.DOI: 10.1111/amet.12011

American Ethnologist � Volume 40 Number 1 February 2013

Figure 1. The miracle icon of the Virgin Mary is located in the Churchof St. Bishoi in Port Said, Egypt. Gifts of oil descend from both hands ofthe popular Catholic image, known worldwide as “Miraculous Mary” or “OurLady of the Miraculous Medal.” Photo by Angie Heo, February 20, 2007.

During this period of containment, Samia’s handceased producing oil, and the print poster of the Virgin inher prayer cell began to exude in her stead. In the wordsof Father Boula, “The icon exudes oil so then why wouldher hand exude oil? That’s enough.” Following months dur-ing which her body emitted no holy oils, the state grantedSamia permission to return to Port Said. After this displace-ment of one miracle-image for another, she left Bilqas andentered the Convent of the Good Shepherd in Port Fouad.Today, it is the print icon of the Virgin that exudes for pub-lic spectatorship, year after year, as the fount of abundantoil and the prized image of ritual commemoration. “Buck-ets and buckets of oil!” as one friend had once described tome in lively fashion, pulling out a keychain replica of theMarian poster from his pocket.

∗∗∗Following Egypt’s momentous revolution in January 2011and the subsequent downfall of the Mubarak regime, CopticChristians confront the challenges of an uncertain politicalfuture. For all Egyptians, much of this uncertainty is owed to

the radical dismantling of state security and its replacementwith the more precarious and pernicious powers of the mil-itary (i.e., the Supreme Council of Armed Forces, or SCAF).For Copts, commonly characterized in the press as amongthe “casualties of the revolution,” a series of violent actssuch as church burnings, riots, and murders have drawn at-tention to their sociopolitical status as a “religious minor-ity” in times when “security is lax” (Tadros 2011). Such in-cidents have prompted various hypotheses concerning theposition of Copts in a fragile period of transition: amongthem, the notions that their increased vulnerability is owedto the lack of adequate police protection and that the new-found prominence of Islamist groups in the political scenewill further endanger the public life of Christianity in Egypt.As they wait for a new ruling order to emerge, especially inthe wake of Pope Shenouda’s death in March 2012, the ner-vous silence of leading Coptic Orthodox Church dignitariessignals the perceived unreliability and instability of newalliances.

Politically, what interested observers scrutinize per-haps most closely in post-Revolution Egypt is the relation-ship of the Coptic Orthodox Church to shifting structuresof the Egyptian state. This scrutiny sits in line with long-standing historical and sociological scholarship on modernCoptic politics that examines the development of church–state relations as both a cause and an outcome of the in-creasing alienation of the Coptic community from largerstructures of societal and political participation. After all, itwas not always the case that the Coptic Orthodox Churchhad an all-encompassing regulatory grip on communalaffairs. Concomitant with British colonial pressures andcleavages between the elite and the middle class, the Copticlaity council (maglis al-milli), instituted in the late 19th cen-tury, enjoyed varying levels of power vis-a-vis the church,especially in its early years (Sedra 1999, 2011; Seikaly 1970).During Nasser’s presidency, the Coptic Church under theleadership of Pope Cyril VI flourished through widespreadmeasures of religious revival and reform, and it was in thisperiod that the laity council was dissolved (Hasan 2003;Voile 2004). As many have noted, during Sadat’s presidency,the state lent support to various Islamist factions, leadingto serious strains in church–state relations and culminatingfamously in the monastery arrest of Pope Shenouda in 1981(Miller 2005; Pacini 1998; Zeidan 1999). With Mubarak’s as-cent to power, Shenouda’s strategy was less one of overtresistance than of strategic church alliance with the statein regulating Coptic affairs (Guirgis and van Doorn-Harder2011; Tadros 2009). In the absence of civic infrastructuresfor political engagement, Coptic Christians consequentlyexperienced a “withdrawal” into church activity and the“religious sphere,” at the expense of their independencefrom the church, which rapidly came to assume the func-tion of their representative spokesperson (Guirgis 2012;al-Khawaga 1997, 1998).

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The bodily threat of miracles � American Ethnologist

During the past 50 years or more, the prominent roleof the Coptic Orthodox Church in the political affairs ofCopts has given rise to much heated controversy—bothfrom within the church among its laity and from withoutamong secularists, Muslims and Christians alike. Across avariety of conflicts, from conversion scandals and ensuingsectarian tensions to disputes over the legal prospects ofcivil marriage, the actions of the Coptic Orthodox Churchhave been repeatedly characterized as those of a “statewithin a state” (al-‘Awa 2010; Leila 2010; Michael 2010).By pointing to its unchecked powers, this characterizationsuggests that the church contravenes the state’s obligationto protect the rights of citizens—at times, acting “abovethe law.” From an opposing viewpoint, a number of com-mentators have also argued that the church too easily ca-pitulates to state mechanisms of exercising control overthe Coptic community. For example, after the bombing ofCoptic worshippers in Alexandria in January 2011, manyprotestors angrily rejected their church’s pleas to main-tain calm, angered by its inability to call the state to ac-count for the lack of police protection for churches underthreat.

In this article, I seek to offer a richer ethnographicaccount of church and state in Egypt by analyzing a pe-culiar complex of Marian miracles in Port Said, its pub-lic nature, and its political encounter with forces of statesecurity and clerical authority. Rather than assuming thechurch and state as distinct, coherent political actors,whether at odds or in cahoots, I build on the insights ofanthropologists who have drawn attention to the ways inwhich institutional power is identified through its “effects”(Aretxaga 2003; Trouillot 2001). Further, I believe that a cer-tain impenetrability and emptiness attaches to commonclaims such as “the state has failed to adequately protectCopts” or “the Coptic Church just does what the state wantsit to do,” although I am certainly sympathetic to the ori-gin of these charges. Rather than focus on the failures ofparticular institutions or the necessity of reforming them toenable religious livelihood (often glossed as “religious free-doms”) to flourish, I propose that we meditate on the actualreligious practices and sensibilities that people understandto be endangered in the first place.

I thus begin with a detailed consideration of Coptic re-ligious practices and the entanglements of church and statepower in the public making of saintly testimony and sanc-tifying acts of witness. The most outstanding event in theaccount with which I open this article is the moment whenSamia is placed under monastery arrest. This explicit act ofviolence, for the sake of public order, requires some seri-ous, analytic footing in the material politics of Coptic mira-cles. To better grasp the contours of state power and churchauthority, I first break down their respective workings andeffects into smaller, analytically coherent elements—intoimages like Samia’s hand, the excesses of oil, and the sur-

face of skin and icon. What was so threatening about thetransgressive hand of a woman, its origins, and its succes-sive replica? What was the church’s investment in hidingthis woman away in a monastery? What is the nature ofviolence exercised in the act of prohibiting her from mov-ing freely in public? And what are the effects of this pro-hibition on the material accessibility of Coptic miracles, ofdivinely authoritative truths and the public possibilities ofeyewitness?

I argue that distinct, political orders of visibility andconcealment converge on the circulation of miracles andtheir uneven infrastructure of images at the very momentthat divine communication takes the public form of bodilyexposure. I refer to these orders as “security” and “sacra-mentality,” the former definitive of state power and thelatter of church power. By probing the material logics ofthese communicative orders, I draw attention away fromnotions of either church or state as internally consistent andcontained organs of power, free of contradiction and fail-ure. In their wholly separate yet consonant logics, the Cop-tic Orthodox Church and the Egyptian state were ambiva-lent and wary about the public visibility of Samia’s hand.Its threat entailed both the capacity to cultivate particularforms of religious truths (namely, a saintly mimesis of tes-timony) and the strategy of worldly powers to contain anddelimit these forms, thereby intervening in the public na-ture of Marian communication. I further suggest that thesubordination of certain kinds of fleshly mimesis was alsoimplicated in a material politics of public order. In brief,that which endowed Samia’s hand with the force of truthful-ness also rendered it a significant challenge to the orderingof religious truths and their governability.

On a final note, I point to the methodological limita-tions of this ethnographic account and its implications forthe scope of claims that I am able to offer as a result. At theoutset, I must be clear that I did not have access to statesecurity documents and, for quite obvious reasons, did notpursue interviews with police or security officials either be-fore or after the downfall of the Mubarak regime. Despitethis, I insist on drawing the shadowy effects of state regula-tion into analytic visibility, within the microdetail of imagesand their activity, visual practices of memory, forms of massmedia (e.g., pamphlets, photographs, DVDs), and the narra-tive account of Father Boula.3 My goal is thus less to identifyand analyze “state security” as an institutional actor thanto understand structural traces of its operation, its organiz-ing logic for rendering and preventing certain forms of reli-giosity in the public space. Following Nancy Munn’s invoca-tion of James Frazer’s writings on the task of ethnographicdescription, I pen this article as much in the spirit of an“anthropological detective—purveying both clues and an-swers” (1996:446) as I do in pursuit of a “partial” account ofintentions, following my unmet desire for an ethnographicrecovery in full.

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This article is organized into four parts. The first con-siders the visual–tactile circulation of images, in the waythey successively work together to secure the efficacy ofsaintly action. The second analyzes the material stakesof truth-making practices by examining images’ potentialchallenges to state security and the church institution. Thethird explores how the priority of public order turns on aprescribed shape of religious truths and differences, onein which “confusion” serves as the grounds for interven-tion. The fourth tracks the dynamics of containment andsecretion, how, for example, the movement of oils servesto propagate the publicity of miracles, even as it is circum-scribed by priestly authorities. I conclude with reflectionson the secret nature of testimony and how the politics of re-ligious imagination may affect the public status of the Cop-tic community beyond the realm of holy images in Egypttoday.

Miracles and the bodily circulation of truthfulimages

Everything began within the interior recesses of Samia’sbody. Late in the evening of February 19, 1990, a coupleof months after being diagnosed with breast cancer, Samiamet the Virgin Mary in her dreams, within the movingdrama of saintly images in tactile exchange. “Are you go-ing to cut off my breast?” Samia asked. “Don’t be afraid,I am the one who will do surgery for you,” the Virgin as-sured her. A jolt of heat surged through Samia’s chest, Samiashouted, the Virgin grabbed her right hand. After wakingup, Samia discovered her clothes bloodied and her chestunscarred, fully intact: She had been miraculously healed.4

The lump of clotted tissue on her chest, later identified asthe culprit tumor itself, was the ultimate sign of saintly tri-umph. In this “tactile optics” of nearing the saints (Taussig1991), the dream offers the visual scene of veneration. As theCoptic fathers wrote, in their teachings on icon veneration,“What is perceptible through the senses sympathises onlywith what is perceptible through the senses.”5 The dream isthe sensory medium for the visitation and reproduction ofsaintly powers made perceptible, for the exertion of graceand the exit of death by means of bodily vision.

Today, pilgrims may inspect photographs of Samia’sbodily artifacts in a glass display case in the Church of St.Bishoi in Port Said (Figure 2). These “objects of evidence”establish the truthful status of Samia’s verbal testimony—such as her blood-soaked white sweater, her gauze ban-dages marked with bloody crosses, even the congregate ofthe tumors in a glass jar of formaldehyde (Engelke 2008;Keane 2008). These images of diseases and dream, as ma-terial impressions of fleshly emissions from inside Samia’sbody, are now exposed for all to see. Using medical scantechnologies and reporting to the church on the results, atleast six physicians in Cairo confirmed that Samia no longer

Figure 2. The display case in the church hallway features photos, icons,and artifacts from the dream healing of February 19, 1990. The text in thecenter describes the contents of the dream, and the surrounding imagesoffer visual accompaniments of evidence. Photo by Angie Heo, Port Said,February 20, 2007.

had cancer. In this truthful making of saintly authority, be-lieving in the Virgin’s miracles rested on forms of trust-worthy evidence and reasonable evaluation (Justice 2008;Vidal 2007). What was significant was not so much that sci-entific expertise verified that the healing “really happened”but that the miracle was so readily assimilated into the “ex-traordinary course of nature” (Daston 1998).6

What served as further evidence of the miraculous wasSamia’s body, in its capacity to continually reproduce andoffer up new images of saintly power and knowledge. Gapsin the originary dream of February 20 (the official date ofthe miracle) evoked new events of dream visitation. Duringthe surgery, the Virgin had not been alone but, rather, threeother saintly figures had accompanied her as assistants: “Isaw the Virgin and a big woman, and an old man and a littleboy.” After waking up from the dream, Samia used portraiticons to identify the “old man” as St. Bishoi, the patron saintof her church, and the “little boy” as St. Abanoub, the childmartyr from Samanoud. However, the identity of the “bigwoman” remained unknown, and people urgently wishedto know who she was. About ten days after her miraculoushealing, Samia dreamed again of the same saintly cast of

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intercessors. This time, the Virgin was seated on a thronesurrounded by thousands of angels and, again, by St. Bishoi,St. Abanoub, and the “big woman.” Samia asked the last fig-ure who she was. She responded, “My name is Elizabeth.”Samia commented, “We don’t have your icon.” The womanfurther clarified, “But you have an icon of my son, John theBaptist.” This revelatory exchange was significant, as I ex-plore in the next section.

On March 17, 1990, Samia’s right hand began to ex-ude oil.7 During the morning mass, people first noticedflecks of aromatic matter (al-h. anut.) appear on her fore-head as she went to partake in communion. And, then, af-ter she ingested the Eucharist, her hand wept in earnest,expelling fragrances and transmitting oily liquids from itspores.8 One priest, who explained the miraculous logic ofcauses and effects to a group of pilgrims years later, saidthat Samia’s right hand emitted oil because “that’s wherethe Virgin touched her.” As a wonder-working index, herhand served as a kind of “contact-relic” (Bynum 2011) or “a-cheiro-poieton” (Belting 1994), of authentic status by virtueof being made through the nearness of holy presence. In itsofficial investigation of the divine origins of Samia’s weep-ing hand, the church committee conducted its tests throughmimetic principles of “contagion” (Frazer 1922; see also Gell1998). According to committee reports, when Samia heldholy articles in her right hand or heard holy hymns, herhand gushed greater volumes of oil.

Her hand emitted oil, the church fathers concluded, “sothat everyone could see for themselves.” Unlike the spaceof dreams tucked away within the depths of the dreamer,Samia’s hand was superficially exposed to public orders offirsthand eyewitness and judgment. Father Boula said tome, “so that no one could dispute it.” In the terms of M.M. Bakhtin’s (1990) writings on the ethics of art, the imageof her hand became “answerable,” in the sense that it re-sponsively rendered an account of its own activity. Peoplecame to see her hand shimmer and drip, saturate handker-chiefs, leave slippery prints. They watched her fist squeezeoil into glass teacups and fill the cupped palms of priests.These were scenes of transfiguration: The auratic imper-ceptibility of saintly dreams became materially transmissi-ble and reproducibly credible. In short, they made the au-thority of a dream public through the active circulation ofsigns visible to all spectators, beyond the privileged seer-ship of the dreamer. These newly made artifacts—the oilycloths and vials—like the bloodied sweater and bandages,also functioned as Marian traces of a miracle and as poten-tial vehicles for new miracles to come. When Samia’s bodydreamed, new possibilities for saintly contact occurred (cf.“dream milieu” in Munn 1973:91–118).

As I showed her the vials of oil I collected during myvisit to Port Said, one nun soberly reminded me, “The truemiracle is that Samia repented and came to Christ.” Ul-timately, as in cases of Marian collective apparitions, the

“aim” of miracles like Samia’s, far from momentary sen-sationalism, is “to bring people closer to God” (qarrub al-nas ‘ar-rabbena). Being a saint oneself requires imitatingthe likeness of saintly predecessors, of “living icons” (Brown1971). To the degree, then, that people are able to share im-ages of penance, they might also be moved to “venerateone another, as having a portion of God and having cometo be in the image of God” (St. John of Damascus 1980:Treatise III:37).

Security and sacramentality

Such movement, from image veneration to becoming-an-image oneself, is the force that transforms people intosaints. This sanctifying force is difficult to anticipate andmaterially offensive in its physical trajectories. Across inter-faces of flesh, objects, and domains, it transgresses bordersthat mark the intimate privacy of dreams and the fleshlyperiphery of the human body, so central to the integrity ofthe individual. Rather than exteriorized reflections of soul-ful devotion, the visitation of the Virgin and the activity ofbodily blood and oil offer material artifacts of divine work-ings in a common realm of truths. Samia’s miracle, and,moreover, the entire sequence of miracle-images, is an ac-tively public testimony of Marian power. As a form of publictruth, it is also the material means through which witnessesare moved to partake and also participate in the making ofimages—as one bystander witness put it for me, of “friendsof Christ.”

A wealth of anthropological literature investigates thedangers signaled by the transgression of bodily bound-aries, much of it penned by heirs and critics of Mary Dou-glas’s classic symbolic analysis Purity and Danger (1966; seeOrtner 1973; Parker 1996; Rouse and Hoskins 2004). Thestakes concern more than “a matter of truth,” so to speak.My use of the term security invokes the double sense ofritual “secretion” at the boundary of Samia’s body and ofthe institutional practices of “security” (cf. Warnier 2006).Through the secretion of matter like blood and oil, Douglasargues, the very political order is contravened, as the body’sedges and orifices are understood to symbolize the “weak-est point of society” (1966:117). Secret is the etymologicalkin of secretion, and the social and political structure of thesecret (Simmel 1906) is also formative of distinct spaces andrealms of security—from the intimacy of gender-segregatedcommunities (Abu-Lughod 1985) to the rituals of state cit-izens and covert societies (Ferme 2001; Herzfeld 1997). Wemight thus understand Samia’s bodily porosity, and the ex-cesses of fluid that it produced, as a precarious site of publicattention and political performance. In its continual activityof secretion, her oil-emitting hand was the material struc-ture of security.

To my knowledge, not many bodily miracles havecaused police intervention in Egypt, but I have certainly

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heard rumors among Coptic Christians of this occurring onrare occasions. One example stands out in my memory, ofFather Fanous of Beni Suef (south of Cairo),9 whose light-emitting hand and “phosphorescent” face had attracted somuch attention that the state asked the church to send himto stay for a time in one of the Red Sea monasteries. How-ever, though miracles of healing are quite common, parallelphenomena defined by the ongoing bodily reproductions oflight, oil, and blood are extremely rare among both Coptsand Muslims (Mayouer-Jaouen 1998).

And yet, as many ethnographers of Egypt have richlydetailed and analyzed, the policing of sainthood cults hasbeen regular enough to demonstrate that state presencein Samia’s case is not unusual but representative of along-standing pattern of ruling interventions in public ap-pearances of divinely mediated presence. For instance, theBritish colonial authorities banned moulids (saints’ festi-vals) as “classic occasions for ‘mob’ formation, ‘trouble’ and‘disorder’” (Gilsenan 2000:611), and Egyptian police duringthe Mubarak regime aimed to “civilize” moulids by institut-ing public order through bodily habits and spatial organiza-tion (Schielke 2008). As part of its larger ambition to regulateand control the religious lives of its citizens, the Egyptianstate has strategically cemented alliances with religiousinstitutions of Al-Azhar and the Coptic Orthodox Church“in service of the state” (Moustafa 2000; Tadros 2009).Such acts of state-initiated regulation and reform havethoroughly transformed, for example, Islamic forms andpedagogical practices of knowledge (Starrett 1998), whichconsequently intersect and compete with long-standingdiscursive traditions of virtue and ethical discipline(Agrama 2010a; Hirschkind 2006). It is perhaps of little sur-prise that the governing structures of religious institutionshave subsequently changed. Most notably for the purposesof this discussion, current critics of the Coptic OrthodoxChurch have pointed to the increasingly hierarchal andcentralized nature of its internal government—what onelay Coptic deacon characterized to me as “haramiya”(pyramidal). Evidence of the heavy-handed powers ofhigh-ranking clergy may be seen in the way the statehas directly responded to the appeals of Pope Shenoudaand other bishops in moments of scandal and disorder(El Amrani 2006; al-Bishri 1981; Hasan 2003; Tadros 2009).

Here, I point out the overlapping of spaces of securitywith the governing of the sacred, or the “sacramental.” Thisis the place where two modalities of order, and their legiti-mate relations to objects and systems of circulation, meet inintersecting domains of authoritarian rule. In what follows,I show further how such semiotic orders of material imag-ination are not fully assimilable to the realms of state andchurch institutional control (cf. Caduff 2012). According toCoptic teachings, the “sacrament” (as-sirr) is the “chan-nel” by which the “graces and blessings of the Holy Spirit”are ritually conferred and received.10 As ritually “public”

manifestations of divine “mystery” (cf. Shenoda 2010), thesacraments organize the bodily and material accessibilityof what is imperceptible. Within five of the seven sacra-ments, holy oil (Coptic, al-mayrun) is used toward variousends—from blessing the newly baptized, confirmed, andmarried to conferring legitimacy on members of the conse-crated priesthood. In all these sacramental rites, the handsof priests serve as the authorizing conduits for distribut-ing blessing and imparting the ritual effects of holy power.Of related interest is the observation that the “hand” sym-bolizes “beneficent invisible power” in Egyptian folklore(El-Aswad 2002) and the focus of respect due to legal hier-archs in Islamic contexts more largely (Messick 1988).

The unknown origin of the oil exuded by Samia’s handpresented a kind of “sacramental” challenge to church hi-erarchy. As the tactile conduit of Marian blessing, her handintroduced the “counter-routine” quality of charismatic au-thority (Weber 1968). One high-ranking Coptic Orthodoxbishop explained to me, “I don’t think Samia’s hand was amiracle, but her dream was.” When pressed to elaborate,he further explained that people are “simple” (basit.a), thatthey would be confused by her, and that it was of no spir-itual benefit to Samia to continue to attract so much at-tention. If what happened to her had truly been a miracle,she could simply “keep the miracle to herself.” As I under-stand him, mixing Samia’s human identity with that of awonder-worker or saintly figure risked the sin of idolatry. Orperhaps, one could speculate, it broached what the East-ern Orthodox fathers, in their writings, called “deification,”more daringly expressed than in the Latin tradition—“theidea that God became man so that man might becomeGod.”11 The power of this mixing derives from its manifesta-tions in public. As one Coptic friend pointed out to me witha bit of mischievous humor, “After all, didn’t Christ himselfbegin the whole Christianity thing with miracles?”

In miraculous scenarios like the one I describe, secur-ing the public order of holiness thus relies on a particularform of “sacrament” precisely to curtail its worldly expan-sion through bodies, objects, spaces, and so forth. No won-der, then, that the highest-ranking Coptic Orthodox bish-ops, in turn, seek to scrutinize and regulate all such saintlyimages within the space of the church and through the con-secrating mechanics of their own hands. What is the re-lationship between divine images and church authority?What is it about the “living” quality and reproductive po-tential of images that renders “holy persons” and iconic ob-jects threats? How might we consider the public and politi-cal stakes in the legitimate making of divine likenesses andrepresentations?

There are many forms of iconoclastic inclination, no-tably, those derived from impulses toward the immaterialtranscendentalism of the Protestant Reformation (Keane2007; Pietz 1987) or the materialist suspicions of Marxistrealism (Mitchell 1986).12 Drawing on a deeper history of

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icon wars in Eastern Christianity, I find it useful for en-riching our theoretical imagination to return to the eighth-century Byzantine quarrels over divine images. They werewars in which an Orthodox theology of the icon was notmerely a proxy for political issues in imperial battles againstthe church; rather, they concerned “the very conceptionof power at the highest level of hierarchical authority”(Mondzain 2005:1). Against explanations of the iconoclas-tic controversies, which suggest that the icon was part ofa “doctrinal vocabulary to rationalize an essentially polit-ical conflict” (Pelikan 1977:92; see also Mitchell 1986), wemight understand it as central to the debate over the natureof the holy and its governability. This is to consider the pol-itics of iconicity as intrinsic to the imaginary foundation ofthe church and to its relation to the state.

Here, I draw further on the illuminating insights ofMarie-Jose Mondzain’s analysis of the sacramental traditionfor theoretical direction on this point. Mondzain employsEmile Benveniste’s distinction between hieron and hagion(the Greek terms used in the eighth century),13 arguing thatthe iconoclast and the iconophile hold to two competing or-ders of divine authority:

In respect to the Greek material, Benveniste concen-trates specifically on hieron and hagion, the sacred andthe holy. The sacred—hieron—occurs in relation to theterminology of sacrifice and venerated places or peo-ple . . . On the other hand, hagion indicates rather “thatthe object is not allowed to be violated in any way.”[The] definition of the hagion protects it from any hu-man contact . . . [on the contrary], the hieron comes intocontact easily with the profane by means of sacrifice andhuman legitimation. [2005:118, emphasis added]

Mondzain goes on to characterize the logic of iconoclasmas one rooted in hagion, whereby only specific images,such as the Eucharist or relics, are made holy throughthe transcendent origins of priestly institution (Bourdieu1991). Iconophiles are more ambitious, defining the spaceof sacredness, hieron, as one of “communicative unfolding”wherein the divine works in visible ways (cf. iconophilia vs.“freeze-framing” in Latour and Weibel 2002). At stake is thecommunicative potentiality of objects and bodies to be intouch with divine power. In circulating and transmitting sa-cred signs, they also forge the grounds of mystery (Arabic,as-sirr; as noted, also the term for “sacrament”).

This distinction, between hagion and hieron thus con-cerns the relation between the nature of divine authorityand legitimate forms of sacramental power. In their ma-terially excessive form, liquids, like oil and blood, intro-duce vehicles of hieron that are difficult to contain, that is,to secure. As propagating extensions of bodily and iconicforms, they communicate by seeping against and acrossborders of skin and surface. This enduring Coptic sensibilityof saintly action is illustrated in a legendary excerpt from a

tenth-century Coptic manuscript of a homily on the HolyVirgin attributed to Theophilus, archbishop of Alexandria(C.E. 384–412). In it, he describes an icon’s bleeding as boththreat and miraculous testimony:

The workmen looked and saw the tablet of wood, set upon top of the wall, the Icon of the Virgin being drawntherein. They took it, and saluted it, and embraced it,and kissed its hands and feet and continued to saluteit a long time, pressing it to their bosom in great faith.[Then one] seized the tablet of wood which was in theirhands and shattered it, and broke it into small piecesand cast it into a basket . . . when the workman pickedup the basket, blood flowed continually from the basketwhich contained the icon of the Virgin . . . The icon re-mains ever unto now, and it shall remain world withoutend. [Skalova and Gabra 2001:33, emphasis added]14

The power of the icon lies precisely in its capacity to over-come efforts to contain its transmissive effects in liquidform. It was Samia’s body, in imitation of iconic matter, thatmade her the sign of competing forms of sacred truth andholiness. Such sacramental action leads to corollary formsof violence.

Samia’s weeping hand was concealed behindmonastery walls for five years. Indeed, a ban on im-ages is grounded in the prohibitive notion of holiness, thehagion. Conceptually, it is not a coincidence that hagionreappears when Giorgio Agamben also draws on Benvenistein his exposition of the “separation of life” from “the worldof the living” (1998:66). Here, it is a certain concept ofholiness, and its legitimate forms of communicativity, thatis reinscribed in this act of violence. A metaphysical struc-ture is not reenacted, but a structure of public religiosityis introduced. The productivity of hagion results fromprohibition: The power of Samia’s body intensified once itwas placed at a physical distance, in the realm of invisibility.In prohibiting the accessibility of oil, of holy images flowinganew from Samia’s hand, new images were consecratedoutside the realm of priestly legitimation, introducing amimetic engine of Marian nearness and reproduction.What they also introduced were new forces of movementon witnessing bodies, material and spiritual in nature.

“Confusion” and public order

In the glass display case of the Church of St. Bishoi, adja-cent to the photographs of bodily artifacts of Samia’s dream,there are also photos of Samia squeezing oil from her righthand into jars, with people—mostly Copts—watching allaround. The spectacle of her hand attracts attention, andthe mimetic accumulation of oils introduces the possibilityof broader bodily circulation. Part and parcel of the publicstructure of eyewitnessing, spatial proximity to the residualactivity of her hand is what makes the experience powerful.

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For her testimony of Marian intercession to move others,Samia’s bodily images must be seen—and even touched.

We might probe even further into the material poli-tics of the threat posed by this image economy of Marianmiracles, particularly at the point at which Samia’s handexuded oil. For, in addition to disrupting certain commu-nicative arenas of church and state power, her hand wasidentified as a sign of public disorder, that is, a danger to thepublic beyond the confines of the Coptic Orthodox commu-nity. As I now show, the convergence of church and state au-thority critically turns on a particular notion of what pub-lic order looks like and the authoritative shape of religioustruths necessary to uphold it.

In the days following Samia’s miraculous healing, thenewspapers began to report on it and people began totalk. During the ten-day period between the Virgin’s ini-tial dream visitation and St. Elizabeth’s self-revelation, theunknown identity of the “big woman,” referred to by Fa-ther Boula as “the fourth,” posed a problem of saintly au-thority. The Friday after Samia’s healing, the mosques inPort Said announced, “The Virgin and Sayyida Ayesha cameand healed a woman.”15 This announcement stirred uneaseamong Copts, who asked for the identity of “the fourth.”This public urging for divine clarity prompted a seconddream in which the mysterious lady visited Samia, this timewith the message that she was St. Elizabeth, the mother ofJohn the Baptist.

In the words of Father Boula, it was “confusion” (al-balbala) that initially raised alarm among security offi-cials in Port Said. As ethnographers of Islam have pointedout, the term confusion, also connoting “public disor-der,” frequently serves as the stated reason the Egyptianstate intervenes in the public realm of Sufi imagination(Gilsenan 2008; Mittermaier 2008; Schielke 2008). Coptic–Muslim relations are not the same everywhere in Egypt,and two points are to be noted with respect to Port Said.First, the recent surge of Salafism along the Suez and withinAlexandria and smaller cities in the Delta region has in-creased the exposure of Port Said to new types of religiosityand regulation (Brown 2011). Second, this trend has led tomore suspicion of cults of sainthood and commemorationpractices, both Coptic and Muslim. This lies in stark con-trast to cities in Upper Egypt, which are arguably more char-acterized to date by the presence of Sufi shrines and prac-tices. There is a strong likelihood that these two aspects of ashifting religious landscape in Port Said have affected bothchurch and police sensitivities to public forms of sainthoodveneration and their potential to catalyze “confusion.”

About two weeks after the second dream, Samia’s handbegan to exude oil, attracting crowds to the Church of St.Bishoi, where she was staying. Some days after this bod-ily image drew significant attention, local police detectivesin Port Said examined Samia’s hand and then notified theOffice of the Ministry of the Interior in Cairo in Midan

Lazoghli. At the request of Egyptian Security Headquar-ters, Father Boula and Father Bishoi accompanied Samia toCairo to see Chief Magdy Bey Shareef in his office along with10–12 officers. In my interview with him, Father Boula pro-vides a detailed account of the dialogue between the po-lice chief and Samia, as well as of the staging of bodily in-vestigation that led the chief to make a consequential deci-sion. According to Father Boula, Bey Shareef asked, “Samia,is your hand truly exuding oil?” She did not answer. Afterrolling up her sleeves, he scrubbed her hand with soap andwrapped her right arm, hand, and fingers with cloth. And,then, they all waited. Father Boula describes the steps of theexamination:

Then, [Bey Shareef] rose, got the cloth from her, andfound her hand steadily glistening (bitlamma’). And hewent and gave her another piece of cloth, and she tookit and the entire thing soaked up the oil. This was infront of him and other officers, in his office. They allsaw the oil and some of them were afraid of her. Theysaid, “She is doing this so that Muslims will believe.”He said, “Where are you going, Father?” “We are goingto the monastery.” “Fine. It would be best if you stayedthere a little bit and don’t go home now. If you go home,it will make confusion (al-balbala) between Muslimsand Christians.”

This narrative account, offered by Samia’s priestly patron, il-lustrates a genre of eyewitness testimony but reveals little ofthe intention or strategy of state security officers. The con-tagious logic of cause and effect is familiar. Isolated from itsoriginary setting of conveying saintly power, Samia’s handis tested to see if it “truly” produces oil. Scrubbed, wrapped,and unwrapped, it creates new, contact-borne artifacts ofevidence. For Father Boula, who reports its visualizing ef-fects as evidence of its power, her bodily image is one thatadvances Muslim spectators toward fear: She is exuding oilso that Muslims will believe. In his imagining of possibleconsequences, the realm of spectatorship risks moving peo-ple toward uncertain ends.

Whether this risk was appropriately assessed remainssubject to speculation, and only that. After recounting whatFather Boula had revealed to me, I asked a Coptic friend,who organizes civic dialogues between priests and sheikhsin the Delta region, for his opinion on whether this riskseemed reasonable and why. He suggested the possibilitythat her oil-seeping hand might have been understood aspotentially placing her in danger from those offended byit. Aniconic sensibilities certainly exist among both Mus-lims and Coptic Christians (particularly evangelicals), but itwould be premature to conclude that they necessarily leadto offense. I recall the words of one custodian at the pop-ular Abbasid Mosque in central Port Said, who invoked aQur’anic reference in response to my asking if he had heardof the oil-emitting icon of the Virgin: “They said, ‘Show us

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God in public signs’ but we in Islam, we believe in God,whether or not anybody saw him. That’s why the Prophetsaid, ‘My companions are those who believe in me with-out seeing me.’” My point here is not that the risk per-ceived by Father Boula and the police was off the mark,or completely fabricated, but that varied religious sensibil-ities toward material signs of miraculous truth should notbe too readily equated with disruption, disorder, and dan-ger. We might say there is also room for a kind of “indif-ference” to images built into the reasoning logics—in thiscase, characteristically “modernist”—of various religioustraditions.

What thus remains from her police visit is the widelyobserved, verifiable fact that Samia was sent to stay in theConvent of St. Dimyana. State security had some level ofinvestment in preventing her bodily visibility and, perhapsmore so, in delegating custodial powers over her physicallocation to the Coptic Orthodox Church. This security mea-sure of sequestering a Coptic woman behind monasterywalls, conjointly enforced by church and state, is neitherunprecedented nor unique. In contrast to Samia’s situa-tion, however, the public presence of other women, in dif-ferent contexts and moments, was considered potentiallythreatening to the national order (Mahmood 2012).16 Insuch cases, it is notable that the key point of politicalcontention has been the problematic role of church inter-vention in matters involving the security and rights of in-dividuals. As I mention above, the Egyptian state maintainsstrategic alliances with religious institutions like the Cop-tic Orthodox Church and Al-Azhar to regulate the publicand political happenings of everyday religious life. In otherwords, it is the institutional position of the church vis-a-visthe state that is also at stake in the political making of publicorder.

In regulating Samia’s body—its public presence andactivity—the state and church also had a hand in transform-ing the public nature of Samia’s testimony, that is, the shapeof religious truth. Here, I pause and think through the im-plications of Father Boula’s claim that Samia would gener-ate “confusion” and suggest another explanation for her se-questering. On the mere face of it, this move would seemto pit Muslims and Christians against each other, the as-sumption being that these two religious traditions are in-trinsically at odds with each other. But it also concerns thegenealogical underpinnings of “public order,” as both aconcept and an armature crucial to modern state power.

In her analysis of John Locke’s A Letter Concerning Tol-eration, political theorist Kirstie McClure brilliantly makesthe case that Locke’s late position as a “liberal” must not beseen as a divergence from his early position as a defenderof “authoritarian” modes of power. Instead, she argues, histheory of liberal toleration reflects continuing strands of hiscommitment to the prerogative powers of the state—onlyin other terms. She shifts the grounds of analysis, usefully

pointing out that what we refer to as “wars of religion” were,as articulated from within religious perspectives, “wars oftruth.” She further explains that the aim of Locke’s statemodel was to articulate such truth claims as matters of “po-litical indifference”:

[Locke’s letter] makes clear that this privilege of [wor-ship acceptable to the conscience of the believer] hasits epistemological ground and limit in the absence ofworldly injury. “Indifferent things” remain the peculiarjurisdiction of civil authority, but a distinction betweencivil and religious “indifferency” is marked by the claimthat properly religious practices concern only a care forsalvation . . . Conversely, political authority over indif-ferent things is specifically directed to such things asdo produce discernible worldly effects . . . for “the pub-lic good is the rule and measure of all lawmaking.”[McClure 1990:377, emphasis added]

Within a liberal politics of toleration is an ordering of thoseaspects of religious livelihood that are subject to state reg-ulation and those that are not. As McClure describes it, thetransformation of religious truths, into private beliefs andoutward practices that “concern only a care for salvation,”enables the rise of state power over all things that concern“the public good.”

To be clear, government under the Mubarak regime isnot considered that of a “liberal state.” And yet, where Mc-Clure’s critical study of liberal power (in my reading, a studyof its disguised antinomic relation to authoritarian modelsof state power) provides productive insight is in the way sheshifts attention to the intrinsic linkages between the order-ing of truths and the making of public order. As HusseinAgrama proposes in his work on “public order” (al-niz. amal-‘am) in Egyptian state courts and what he argues to bethe “indeterminate” nature of secularism, sensibilities thatare intimate and “secret” are critical to the ordering of the“private” from the “public” (2010b:511–517). Against spec-ulations surrounding the reception of Samia’s hand, whatcan be safely concluded is that its sequestering had an effecton the testimonial structure of Marian miracles. Recall thatwhatever role her bodily transgressions played in the forceof testimony was contingent on their capacity to be seen.It was precisely this material capacity that was constrainedand circumscribed behind church walls. Thus, the provinceof salvific truths was transformatively secured in realms thatare inconsequential to the status of public order.

In such an undoing of truth making, Samia’s hand wasstripped of its significance as an image of divine testimony,in intimate relation to other images and objects that carryMarian presence and power. Samia’s hand and the oils itproduced, insofar as they caused “discernible worldly ef-fects,” were made “indifferent” to salvation. For they poseda risk to a form of public order in which the interlocking

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mimesis of flesh, blood, and oil does not—or, more exactly,should not—really “matter.”

Materialities of containment and secretion

After visiting the Ministry of the Interior in Cairo, Samiawent to the Monastery of St. Bishoi in Wadi Natroun with Fa-ther Boula and Father Bishoi. There, they received a phonecall from the Metropolitan of Tanta: “There is no permis-sion for Samia to enter Port Said now. Wait a little bit.” “A lit-tle bit” became five years. During that period, Samia movedto the Convent of St. Dimyana in Bilqas, where she and herhand were cloistered behind convent walls. Her testimonyof Marian intervention, which began with the exit of can-cerous blood and ended with the emission of holy oils, wasdefined by the travel of liquids from inside to outside. Forthis reason, her body’s edges were policed and its activity ofpublic secretion managed. This ban from visibility (hagion)set into play a competing dynamics of Marian propagation(hieron).

Sometime during Samia’s five-year period of contain-ment, a peculiar displacement occurred: Inside her prayercell, a print poster icon of the Virgin began to exude oil. Itdid so through autoconsecration, its iconic authority de-riving from the outpouring of a dream rather than frompriestly anointment. As a technology of traversing earthlyand spiritual worlds, the icon serves as a vehicle of spatialand bodily occupation (Buck-Morss 2007; Mondzain 2000).Its surface and edges, where saintly presence begins andwhere it ends, make publicly accessible the passing move-ment of divine power. To look at the image of the Virgin isthus to become another image of saintly communicativity:As one pilgrim explained to me, “Sometimes I don’t thinkabout anything. I just look and receive what the saints havefor me.” From a more theological perspective, one mightthink of this bodily passage as characteristic of Christianbeginnings: In the words of St. Theodore the Studite, whostages his Orthodox defense of icons as one fundamen-tally of the incarnation, “In the same way, you should un-derstand that the Godhead has also remained uncircum-scribable in being circumscribed” (1981:First Refutation,3). As public witness to Christ’s fleshly envelope, then, theicon testifies to the paradoxes of divine bodily mediation.Even while contained by boundaries of skin and paper, theporous dynamics of expansion and release intrinsic to allholy images are always there (see also de Abreu n.d.). Theirmultiply mediated exposure thus sets the material condi-tions for saintly distribution and movement.

Saintly icons themselves might also be considered“pores,” portals and openings accessible at their surfaces. Inpractical imagination, the surface of the icon is where saintstravel between heavenly and earthly realms. Thus, Copticinformants have described to me their visions of saints whoappear through their icons: St. Abanoub walks through his

image to heal a sick woman, Al-Baba Kyrollis jumps out ofhis frame to ward off a thief. Objects are also exchangedthrough an icon’s miraculous boundaries. The History of thePatriarchs of the Egyptian Church (Ibn al- Muqaffa 1904–10) provides the example of one ninth-century ruler whothrows a bunch of basil to the icon of St. Theodore theMartyr and is astonished when the saint catches it. I havealso heard the legend (source unknown) of the Coptic monkwho, in a moment of despair, catches a rose thrown at himfrom an icon.

Today, the ritual image of veneration associated withSamia’s miracle is the poster icon of the Virgin, fore-grounded inside the Church of St. Bishoi in Port Said.Framed with wood and a garland of flowers, situated at thesanctuary entrance, the Marian portrait is encased withinglass and surrounded by velvet rope. These reinforcing bor-ders circumscribe the physical domain of Marian pres-ence. The icon itself is a popular, familiar image of theVirgin dressed in a blue and white robe, her hands out-stretched, her head tilted downward—what Copts identifyas al-manzar at-tagalli (the apparitional pose). Pilgrimsgaze at her, sing hymns, take photos, and record videos ontheir cell phones to capture her mobile activity. Remittedthrough auratic circuits, the Marian semblances of dreamvisitation appear once again, this time emerging within the“age of its technological reproducibility” (Benjamin 2008).And yet, the poster is exhibited as the quintessential imageof saintly authenticity and irreplicability. Bound to its al-cove within the wall of the church, the Marian icon rendersthe place of its shrine in Port Said unique, as one earthly“locus sanctorum” among others (Duval 1982). Its enclo-sure is both the “condition and consequence of disclosure”(Kockelman 2007:304).

When pilgrims come to see the Marian icon in PortSaid, they pay attention to the activity of the oil. Its move-ment is aggressive, pulling the weight of the image down-ward. Its viscosity makes it capturable and containable.Caught in a plastic tarp at the foot of the image, stored anddistributed in finger-sized vials, the oil leaves the churchand goes to homes and to the ailing bodies of petitioners.In my conversations with pilgrims, most emphasized thatthe icon generates oil by itself and that the volume of oil isinfinitely abundant. In this final displacement, the oil servesas the mediating tissue between stationary icon and mo-bile persons, as the residuary medium of “transferal” (in-tiqal; Pandolfo 1997). As they exit the church sanctuary, thepriest blesses the flesh of the pilgrims who carry the vials bydabbing their wrists and foreheads with oil (Figure 3). Oil isskinlike in its capacity to seal and move evenly across sur-faces, and its material capacities “help . . . associate it withthe spreading or transfer of virtues or properties betweenskins and across individual bodies” (Connor 2004:182; cf.Turner 2007). From the icon’s interior to its exterior, theoils serve as the vehicle of secretion, the communicative

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Figure 3. One of the three main priests of the Church of St. Bishoi sits atthe entrance of the sanctuary and blesses exiting pilgrims, dabbing oil ontheir foreheads and wrists. Photo by Angie Heo, Port Said, December 27,2010.

making of a “secret.” Across the icon onto bodies, the oilscreate new surfaces of containment, the anointment of holyflesh, akin to the “baptism of priests.”

For its visitors, the icon is the remembrance (ad-dhikra) of February 20, the date of the Virgin’s miracle inSamia’s first dream. And yet, in the church, there is no men-tion of her second dream of “the fourth” or of the contro-versies surrounding the excesses of her hand. Shortly afterthe icon began to secrete oil, Samia’s hand stopped doing soand, upon confirmation by the church, the state permittedher to go home to Port Fouad, across the Suez Canal fromPort Said, where she entered the Convent of the Good Shep-herd. Through the eruption of oils from the icon, Samia waseffectively released, her return enabled by a materially lat-eral transfer of miraculous media from skin to paper. Thistranslation of saintly power, that is, the transport of holy im-ages from one place to another, is what makes the establish-ing of new sites of holy authority possible.

Now “dead to the world,” Samia is a nun, an ascetic whoquietly serves in Port Fouad, having ceded the replication ofmiracle-images to the mediation of a print poster and theeffluviae of oils. Her new name, “Sister Elizabeth,” and theexuviae of her hand are the only remaining fragments of apublic dispute over a past set of truths. In the meantime, oilstravel outward from the church to witnesses longing for newMarian miracles. “Bring me a vial for my sick mother-in-law,” one of my friends in Cairo requested before I headedto Port Said.

“Secrets” and their effects

Before my vials of oil made it back to Cairo, they first passedby other places. After hearing that Samia’s dream had beenof interest to Muslims in Port Said more than a decade ago,I hoped to find more fieldwork clues. It was a challeng-

ing and awkward hunt. After leaving the church gates, ran-domly asking shopkeepers and passersby if they had heardof the oil-exuding icon of the Virgin, I was still at a loss. Amanager in the National Bank of Egypt noticed me and theninvited me for tea in her office on Midan Manshiyya, justcatty-corner to the Church of St. Bishoi. After I explainedthat I was trying to learn more about the miracle icon andwhether Muslims in the neighborhood knew of it today, sheposed a question. “Did you see it with your own eyes?” Herquestion reminded me of Father Boula’s refrain throughout:“So that everyone could see for themselves.” At this pointin our conversation, I took the vials from my bag, and sheopened each one, peering inside and sniffing the fragrance.Then she said something that caught me a bit by surprise:“Christians do most of their activities inside the church. Idon’t know what goes on inside there.”

Unlike others nearby whom I had briefly engaged,many of whom claimed ignorance or dismissed the iconas a kind of trick, with no reference to dreams or contro-versies over envisioned identities, she pointed out to methe plain fact that the icon was located inside the church.For that reason, she simply had no basis for knowing muchabout it. Each year since 2007, I have visited the Church ofSt. Bishoi to study the oil-exuding Marian icon. From thestart, it was immediately clear to me from full days spentinside, chatting with church employees, pilgrims, andparishioners, that Copts were overwhelmingly the onesphysically present—even though talk of Muslims also com-ing to visit the church consistently resurfaced as a commontheme. After my last visit, it had also become evident thatthese Coptic visitors themselves were partial to lost tracesof the icon’s testimonial memory. For it was only duringa follow-up interview in late December 2010 that FatherBoula, for reasons still unknown to me, decided to share bitsof a “secret” about the state’s involvement in the publicityof miracles. Indeed, this article was largely enabled by hisdecision to share bits of what he had deliberately omittedbeforehand: “What I didn’t write in the book and what I willtell you now . . . .”

By way of conclusion, I offer some thoughts on thelegacies of church and state intervention in the pub-lic nature of miracles and the political structure of re-ligious communication. It is through the critical lens ofthe “secret” and its variable effects that my reflectionsbegin. Drawing on Joseph Masco’s characterization ofcounter-terrorist power, I see much of the church’s se-crecy as owing to “the ability of officials to manage thepublic/secret divide through the mobilization of threat”(2010:433). In recent years, Coptic churches have experi-enced an intensified presence of police guards and a se-curity apparatus fortified with metal detectors bolsteredwith ID checkpoints. Much of this is a response to per-ceived threats of attack (particularly in the post-Revolutionmoment), the assessment of which lies beyond the scopeof this discussion. According to one highly problematic

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viewpoint, such a reaction on the part of the church re-flects an ongoing stereotype of Copts, widely held in theEgyptian public, as “devious and secretive”—possessing a“secretiveness” entrenched in a cultural psychology, thatis, in a “natural desire for self-preservation” (Pennington1982:178). Taking this view further into the public realmof accusation and conspiracy, the church’s efforts to po-lice boundaries are also vocalized as signs of their ambi-tions to establish a separate Coptic state and develop “store-houses for weapons” (Fawzi 2010). For example, in one in-flammatory interview on Al Jazeera on September 16, 2010,one prominent Islamist intellectual, Muhammad Salim al-‘Awa, suggested that churches in Port Said are stockpiledwith weapons transported from cargo ships. The harness-ing of threats, against churches and through churches, thusrisks having cyclical effects.

Secrets are productive, propelling imaginings of whatunfolds behind walls and gates, what is concealed and re-vealed within a multiplicity of objects and persons. Knit-ting communities as knowing and known intimates, theyalso transmit effects of alienation as communicative bor-ders and boundaries. It is, after all, not sufficient to “see”miracle-images with one’s own eyes. My host and tea com-panion suggested that the baseline circumscription of allChristian-specific activities to the church’s interior pre-vented her from having a face-to-face encounter with theicon, even if she was exposed to the oils carried out-side. Muslims have entered the church and inspected theicon (Father Boula has shown me photos), although giventhe heightened presence of hired guards at the gates, andsometimes of state police, finding Muslims in churches isan increasingly rare phenomenon (as a non-Muslim non-Egyptian, I have also been “carded” upon entering massmore than once). This organization of imagined inaccessi-bility, a virtual “ghettoizing” of Christians from Muslims, isindicative of other domains of boundary making and hid-den activity. For instance, a number of Copts have lamentedto me that the days are long gone when open doors ofChristian and Muslim neighbors signaled an everyday per-manence of mixed mingling and exchange. People expressnostalgia not only for interreligious openness but also fora time before churches and homes became the necessary,protected “safe havens” of Christian activity in Egypt.

To characterize the Coptic community as “secretive,”as one also under threat from outside, is to overlook acrucial point. I have devoted much of this discussionto ethnographically accounting for the ways in whichdistinct orders of “secrecy”—analyzed as “security” and“sacramentality”—are implicated in the making of churchand state powers. Secrets also have to be made; it is notonly the Copts who are “in” on them, if they know of themat all. Historical shifts in relations between the Egyptianstate and the Coptic Orthodox Church have resulted invarious measures directed toward regulating the Coptic

community and securing public order between Muslimsand Christians. Church–state relations are both currentlyvulnerable and ripe for transformation. As I write thesefinal paragraphs, the newly elected Egyptian president,Mohamed Morsi has dismissed Marshal Tantawi, formerhead of SCAF, and the Coptic Orthodox papal seat remainsvacant for the first time in over 40 years (outlasting theduration of the Mubarak regime).

And yet, of course, a change of headship is merely partof what would be required to recover the forms of religionleft behind. “Sacramentality,” as one realm of “secrecy,” isan order divergent from the political structure of majority–minority difference and of church–state separation. Materi-ally constitutive of divine authority, it intersects with relatedorders of “security” definitive of a range of transgressions—bodily, spatial, reproductive, perceptual. The institution ofpublic order takes the form of hiding women from view. Theperson of faithfulness is replicated in the active icon. Thepower of miracles is, at once, skin deep and skin superficial.In these provocations, what I mean to stimulate within ourintellectual imaginations is recognition of the far-reachingeffects of religious and political authority within theintricate density of “secrecy.” They involve more than aMuslim woman not “knowing” of the icon in the church.Rather, the very nature of mimetic knowledge, the mem-ory of her Coptic neighbor’s dream vision once offeredin the Marian icon, is radically forgotten. Which pilgrims,Copts included, remember Samia’s bodily displacementwhen gazing at the icon?

As the testimony of the miracle icon suggests, the pub-licity of religion is also transformed, through the regulationof imagination and material action. The very capacity forMarian presence to circulate “within and across religions,”mediated by various images, is what was arrested in PortSaid. It is this secret that is mobilized to undo the workingsof saintly threat and to create new measures of protectionfor a transformed memory no longer attendant to the truth-ful implications of a woman’s dream.

Notes

Acknowledgments. Fieldwork for this article was made possibleby the National Science Foundation and a Barnard College Fac-ulty Grant. Oral versions of this article have been enriched by au-diences at the Department of Anthropology at Columbia Univer-sity, the Department of Religion at the University of Vermont, andthe Department of Religious Studies at Yale University. I am alsograteful for input from participants in the 2012 Spring Conferencefor Ancient Religions at Ohio State University, especially to FritzGraf, Sarah Iles Johnston, and Carolina Lopez-Ruiz. I would liketo express thanks for valuable comments and support regardingthis article from Nadia Abu El-Haj, Anne Allison, Febe Arman-ios, On Barak, James Faubion, Cassie Fennell, Charles Hirschkind,Kelda Jamison, Brian Larkin, Alan Mikhail, Sean Mitchell, NancyMunn, Charles Piot, Beth Povinelli, Samy Saad, Devin Stewart,

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Kabir Tambar, and Jeremy Walton. Thanks are also owed to fouranonymous reviewers for American Ethnologist for their meticu-lous readings and suggestions as well as to Linda Forman for pa-tient editing. Special gratitude goes to Carlo Caduff for precision atkey moments and to Maria Jose de Abreu, whose etymological in-tuitions provided much inspiration.

1. More specifically, the vast majority of these pilgrims belongto the Coptic Orthodox Church. Over 90 percent of Christians inEgypt are Orthodox, and the remainder are mainly Coptic Protes-tants and Catholics. Numerous current studies indicate CopticChristians compose anywhere from 6 to 12 percent of Egypt’spopulation.

2. Here, I introduce the term miracle-image to characterize animage regarded as miraculous because of its unique activity, qual-ity, or effects recognized as divinely authored.

3. This article is a result of fieldwork I conducted in Port Said,during annual trips from 2007 until 2010. Pilgrims who visited PortSaid from Cairo were also interviewed. During each trip, I stayedone to two days and interviewed pilgrimage participants, churchmembers, and nuns in the Good Shepherd Convent.

4. I rely on the details of Samia’s dream as described in churchpamphlets and DVDs and the church website. I have found the ac-counts to be largely uniform, with very minor discrepancies, mostlikely because they all internally replicate the same sources.

5. This quote is taken from Order of the priesthood (Tartib al-kahanut), a major text of the Coptic Orthodox Church from the me-dieval period. Its authorship has often been attributed to the tenth-century Coptic theologian and historian Severus Ibn al-Muqaffa(1955).

6. My concern here is not whether these miracles were “real” orillusory–false, or if they were “supernatural” or human in origin.Historically, the categories for evaluating “exceptional phenomena”have widely varied. Here, I find valuable the insights of historianof science Lorraine Daston, who argues that early modern naturalscience in Europe was largely founded on the anomalies and oddi-ties understood as internal to the workings of the natural world. Seealso Daston and Park 1998.

7. According to anthropologist Robert Hertz’s spatial orientationof moral order, the right represents beneficence and activity andthe left, impurity and maleficence. For more detail, see Ochoa 2007.

8. The aroma issued from multiple fragrances, or al-h. anut. ,which is simply a generic name for a mixture of perfumes. Al-h. anut.is used to anoint the relics of saints and distribute their blessings.To my knowledge, there was no effort to regulate Samia’s odor, onlyher visibility.

9. In her own fieldwork, anthropologist of Coptic and Muslimsaints Catherine Mayouer-Jaouen heard that Father Fanous borea physical likeness to Rasputin suggestive of “l’intelligence dumonde d’en-haut” (1998:148).

10. This definition is widely assumed and is elaborated by a con-temporary Coptic theologian, Bishop Mettaous, the abbot of theMonastery of St. Syrian. For more, see his tract “Sacramental Ritesin the Coptic Orthodox Church” (Bishop Mettaous n.d.).

11. These issues have recently been vibrantly debated amongcontending figures of the Coptic Orthodox Church. In his book De-ification of humankind (Ta’lih al-insan; 2006), Pope Shenouda IIIcharges the deeply respected late monk Matthew the Poor (giventhe pseudonym “the writer” [al-mu’alif ]) and ex-communicant-turned-Anglican theologian George Habib Bibawy, of importingWestern ideas about “deification” into the church. For more onthese theological debates, see the last chapter of Stephen Davis’sCoptic Christology in Practice (2008).

12. Pope Cyril IV (1854–61), known as the “Father of Re-form” (Abu Is.lah. ), is deemed a modernizer and iconoclast, hav-

ing removed all icons from the Cairo Cathedral and set themon fire: “God alone should be adored.” Historian Paul Sedra(2011) persuasively suggests that it was English missionary JohnLieder’s influence on the pope that led to this public imagedestruction.

13. The texts Mondzain closely analyzes are Antirrhetics, byNikephoros, patriarch of Constantinople (C.E. 758–828); the Horosof the Council of Hieria (C.E. 754); the Peuseis of Emperor Constan-tine V; and the Acta of the Council of Nicaea (C.E. 787).

14. In the homily, it is the “Hebrew” or the “Jew” who representsthe figure of the iconoclast and, upon witnessing the miracle of thebleeding icon of the Virgin, converts to Christianity.

15. The Virgin Mary, Elizabeth, and John the Baptist are sharedfigures in Islam and Christianity (though with different biogra-phies). Dream visitations and miraculous healings through visionsalso occur among Muslims in Egypt, as studies of Sufism have de-tailed (Hoffman 1995; Mittermaier 2011). Historians of late ancientEgypt have proposed that aspects of Christian shrines of dream in-cubation might have originated in earlier Greek practices associ-ated with the cults of Isis and Asclepius. For more, see Frankfurter1998 and Bagnall 1976.

16. In 2004 and again in 2010, the alleged conversions to Islam oftwo Coptic women, specifically the wives of priests, sparked pub-lic controversy over the status of their identities and, more signifi-cantly, the power of the church to intervene in the private affairs ofcitizens. In these cases, the church relied on state security forces to“return” the women to their families and, ultimately, to the custodyof the church. Both women remain in Coptic monasteries, theirprecise locations unknown. For more detail, see Tadros 2011 andMahmood 2012.

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