The Double Skies of Chinese Islam

Even as a creaking relic, the ancient street exudes a sense of intimacy—perhaps inevitable in a world that seems to be spinning on its axis at a dizzying speed. There are wooden houses, shadows, and doors harboring secrets: the very raw material of a nostalgia for a place that was never, and will never be, your own.

I have a confessed weakness for Chinese Islam. It touches a range of exposed nerves, both near and far, regardless of the angle from which I approach it. As a product of the Galilee, the alleys flanking a mosque always feel close enough to touch, even when they are a galaxy away. Like the Muslims of China, I am a ward of the majority in this land; yet as a child of a historical era defined by minorities, I feel a certain kinship—however imagined—with these local sons of Abraham. I cannot help but wonder about the alternative history of China’s forgotten Jews, had they not been swallowed by the teeth of time and distance.

Like a younger sister who has risen to greatness, Islam embodies the awe-inspiring charm of a comprehensive doctrine. Through its twin pillars of faith and law, it carries both the promise and the peril inherent in a responsibility larger than the human measure.

After years of studying and moving among diverse Muslim communities, I find Islam to be a multifaceted, significant historical phenomenon. I try to avoid an essentialist approach toward it, just as I do with any other faith.

I also believe that Islam has produced some of the most elegant expressions of human culture in its striving for the unity of all things under heaven—from the Timurid tradition to Akbarian theology, from the poetry of Rumi and Nasir Khusraw to the intricate theories of Radif and Maqam.

I remain skeptical of the claim that historical Muslim societies were uniquely prone to the sword compared to their pre-modern peers, or that conversion was primarily a matter of force—even if it is naturally difficult to distinguish between enemies of the Emperor and enemies of God during the era of pre-modern state-building.

At the same time, the friction between modern globalization and the dominant currents of political Islam is undeniable. Since the twentieth century, certain elements have evolved into sophisticated destabilizing forces that must be countered by any means necessary—including open warfare.

Yet I believe that alongside a skilled, uncompromising defense against those who view us as a fleeting abomination, we must always extend a hand to any community within Islam that sees us as brothers under heaven. There are many such people, and there will be more, God willing.

Perhaps this is why I find myself thinking of Ma Dexin, a 19th-century genius of Yunnanese Islam who embodied these very contradictions. A man of the wide world and a pillar for his people during a fateful era, Ma Dexin moved between the great Islamic centers of his day and the crumbling periphery of a multicultural—and decidedly non-Muslim—state.

As an authority in his time and place, Ma Dexin stood at the crossroads of innovation and tradition. He maintained a complex relationship with the Confucian hegemony, even in the heat of a massive rebellion that challenged the boundaries between religion and law. He navigated the aspirations of a world religion limited by the reality of an alternative political structure.

Ma Dexin’s execution by Qing Dynasty forces and his burial in Dali in 1874 did not change the fundamental logic of his life. Even if he never said so explicitly, he proved that there is no essential contradiction between a life lived according to Sharia and communal participation in a non-Muslim political order.

The double skies of China’s Muslims—one of the few communities to flourish entirely outside the Dar al-Islam—represent more than just inherent tension. They represent a potential for reconciliation. God willing.