In recent decades, historiography in Iran and the broader Islamic world has shifted from traditional, passive narration toward a more critical and active approach. Yet, deep challenges remain. Ustad Rasul Jafariyan, a distinguished professor at the University of Tehran, discusses this transformation in the following interview. He emphasizes that our historical writing remains largely confined to written sources, neglecting modern tools such as archaeology, numismatics, epigraphy, and field research.¹

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Interviewer: In recent decades, we have moved from traditional narrative history-writing to critical historiography. But it is important to evaluate how successful this shift has actually been. If you agree, we would like to review with you our achievements in what is called critical historiography.

Ustad Rasul Jafariyan: In books—especially in historical and religious works—references have always been made to one written source or another, and even in that, we have not always been very precise! However, over the past century, the use of ancient sources has been taken more seriously, largely as a result of the editing and publication of older works. That said, not only in the past but even now, our scope rarely extends beyond written materials, and we continue to pay little attention to non-written sources that could offer significant insights.

In the West, for nearly three centuries, archaeology and philology—that is, linguistic studies—have been employed for historical research. Philology, in particular, plays a central role in this process. Indeed, for many Orientalists, philology was the point of departure in their scholarly endeavors. This method remains relatively unknown among us. The use of coins in our historiography—though minimal—has at least begun to some extent under the influence of modern historical studies.

In my view, our historical writing still makes very limited use of archaeology, numismatics, field research, and epigraphy. In these areas, we occasionally cite findings secondhand, without direct engagement. Meanwhile, for several decades now, Western research on Islamic history has made extensive and fruitful use of such sources, including archaeological discoveries and inscriptions.

Why is it that so many manuscripts in libraries around the world and private collections remain untouched, gathering dust—such a vast reservoir of knowledge left unrevived, rarely becoming a source for research and study?

Using manuscripts for historical research has never truly become part of our scholarly practice. Although the work of textual editing (taṣḥīḥ) is taken seriously among some groups—particularly among us Qummis—we still do not make effective use of manuscript materials in historical investigations.

For example, when Etan Kohlberg was researching Ibn Ṭāwūs, he simultaneously utilized both the manuscript and printed editions of Ibn Ṭāwūs’s works and cited them accordingly. Yet we have rarely seen such use of multiple manuscript versions in our own studies—say, of texts like Ṭabaqāt by Ibn Saʿd or Tārīkh by al-Ṭabarī—though these manuscripts are full of errors and inconsistencies when compared with their other variants.

Ustad Jafariyan, how far does the scope of contemporary critical historiography extend? It seems to go beyond merely citing multiple sources.

This subject goes far beyond adding a few references to every page. Critical historiography means possessing the intellectual capacity to analyze deeply and to question the dominant assumptions that have shaped our historical understanding. For example, Taha Husayn’s On Pre-Islamic Poetry (Fī al-shiʿr al-jāhilī) marked a turning point in the field, one that remains the subject of debate and critique even today. This kind of critical scrutiny and methodological refinement forms the foundation of critical historiography, and in this regard, we still face serious shortcomings.

Traditionally, of course, we have had research methodologies of our own; the work of ʿAllāmah Amīnī in al-Ghadīr represents a fascinating example of this approach. Later, scholars such as ʿAllāmah ʿAskarī and ʿAllāmah Jaʿfar al-Murtaḍā also developed powerful frameworks in this tradition. However, modern critical methods are built upon the accumulated experiences and valuable research traditions of great historians over millennia of historiography—and particularly in the West, these methods have been studied and refined with great seriousness.

So it seems that our traditional methods still remain largely focused on isnād-analysis and, at most, textual verification?

The question of research methodology is not merely a matter of source authentication; there are a thousand subtle points, and each historical subject requires its own model of inquiry. Another important dimension is the use of new epistemological, sociological, and cognitive theories to better understand historical transformations. In the epistemological domain, hermeneutical discussions are especially important. Yet, in most of our research, realist epistemological approaches are often confused with phenomenological ones.

A sound understanding of the social and economic relations that existed in the past – based on well-founded theoretical frameworks – can profoundly transform our historiography.

But Ustad, theories themselves are open to criticism and error, aren’t they?

Yes, but they illuminate relationships that are deeply embedded in human life, much like divine laws (sunan ilāhiyyah). Often, these theories act as the soul of our detailed historical inquiries, breathing life into them. Without their use and integration, our research ultimately becomes like a lifeless body.

What are some of the prerequisites that can breathe new life into our historiography?

History-writing requires a powerful intellect and deep rational reflection, just as sociology demands lived experience among people, or even the reading of great novels and works that help us truly understand the lives of those whose history we write. Isolation and limited reading yield nothing but a weak and underdeveloped mind. Every science requires its own form of genius, and history is no exception.

Ustad, in our time, academic disciplines no longer have the same strict boundaries as before; they inevitably intersect with related and converging fields. In that light, where do you see the role of interdisciplinary historiography?

Many other disciplines can meaningfully assist historical research, yet they remain largely unused among us. Historically, one of the key starting points for Orientalist research was philology, a field that, among Iranian scholars, has received serious attention only in the context of ancient Iran, as in the works of Ebrahim Pourdavoud.

In areas such as the history of ideas, the need for philosophy is self-evident; we have no choice but to equip our students in these fields with a solid understanding of philosophical and social concepts. We must introduce new materials and subjects into our curricula. Beyond artificial intelligence, courses in discourse analysis, linguistics and its principles, cognitive science, and psychology in relation to history should be incorporated. Familiarity with historical documents, training in epigraphy, learning ancient languages, and many other skills are likewise essential along this path.

At present, what is the state of historical studies—especially in Islamic and Iranian history? What are, in your view, the key challenges to its development?

We must develop the discipline of history, particularly Islamic and Iranian history, both in depth and in breadth, yet we have done neither. Our progress remains linear and one-dimensional. Those who have dedicated their lives to historical study must now present their research experiences to others, in order to demonstrate what accurate and rigorous history-writing looks like. We must address the problem of conflicting reports by offering solutions that are both scientific and convincing. We must also tackle the problem of rumours replacing verified history within our source materials, by theorizing and clarifying how this distortion occurs. Mathematics, statistics, and probability theory must be taken seriously in historical research. We must work to correct misreadings and misunderstandings of historical writings. Through scholarly work, by reading documents, finding new evidence, and applying better research methods, we must cleanse our collective understanding of the widespread errors found in Islamic and Iranian history.

So, the study of research methods shouldn’t merely mean learning structure, citation, and formatting rules?

Exactly. Research methodology in history means dusting off historical texts, uncovering their errors and confusions, reading between the lines of historical works, and clarifying the ambiguities in reports that people have transmitted to us—whether deliberately or unintentionally—with numerous inaccuracies. Both our historical sources and the research we produce today often suffer from a “salvific” or “theological” gaze: they are written under the shadow of triumphant and self-affirming narratives, as if all historical developments unfold within a sacred aura. In this regard, Patricia Crone used the term “sacred narrative.”

So, in a sense, we are still struggling within a pre-existing grand narrative?

Exactly—that means we often engage in historical work within a framework of preselected assumptions. We begin with a kind of predesigned choice that guides our historical inquiry. This is something we must reflect upon seriously. Perhaps we cannot completely free ourselves from this mindset, but if we are producing works that we hope will have an audience beyond the Muslim scholarly world, we must reconsider our approach.

Ustad, sometimes we come across works with modern-sounding, impressive titles that seem aligned with contemporary academic trends. Yet, in reality, only the arrangement of data has changed, while the content still caters to prevailing tastes or dominant social expectations, and there is little that is truly original or transformative.

Yes, the problem is that most of us write books primarily to satisfy religious patrons who commission such works, or to fulfill directives imposed from above. But we must at least remind ourselves that such work has little to do with expanding the frontiers of knowledge. One of the major dangers threatening religious-historical writing is the prevalence of superficial, generalized analyses—the weaving of verbose yet hollow sentences. It is like a drum that makes noise but is empty inside. We often treat historical texts as though they were clay—something to be molded into whatever shape we wish. But we must remember: historical texts are not our playthings. Each text has its own specific orientation, its own vector. Yes, one may extract a set of conclusions that might satisfy naïve readers, but in the rigorous logic of scholarship, how much of that truly holds? That is what matters. Most of these writings amount to a kind of intellectual history-making, constructing imagined histories that future generations may take as representations of the ideas of our time, rather than works that actually clarify the past.

Speaking of fundamental problems—what, in your view, causes much of Muslim historical writing to be judged weak when evaluated by rigorous academic standards in the social and historical sciences?

In the social and human sciences, one major issue is our tendency toward endless “talk”—explanations and elaborations that lack a concrete referent or empirical grounding. This is a valid criticism of much of Muslim historical writing. We often fail to understand what scientific progress really means, and so we repeat ourselves without realizing it. In many cases, we do not clearly distinguish between propaganda and research. These are two entirely different discourses, operating in separate domains. Propaganda has nothing to do with science; it is a form of pseudo-science used for particular purposes.

Surprisingly, this problem seems quite widespread, doesn’t it?

Indeed—it is extremely common. Much of what we write consists of what philosophers call tautologies or analytic propositions, to use Kant’s terms. These are statements that are self-evident and add nothing new to knowledge—such as: “A circle is round,” “All parallelograms have four sides,” or “All immaterial beings lack bodies.” Such propositions are always true and require no empirical verification, since the predicate is already contained in the subject. But synthetic propositions—as Kant described them—are different. They expand knowledge because the predicate adds something new to the subject and must therefore be proven. For instance: “Some cats are black”—this requires observation. “The sun will rise tomorrow”—this, too, must be confirmed by experience. Some of these propositions are a priori (like mathematical truths), while others are a posteriori (like those in the natural sciences). My point is this: much of our historical writing fails to produce synthetic knowledge. It does not illuminate or advance understanding. And even when we do make synthetic claims, we are rarely committed to proving them. We speak a great deal, often offering strange or unsubstantiated interpretations. Moreover, we neglect a basic logical principle: the conclusion follows the weakest of the premises (تیجه تابع اخسّ مقدمات). What we usually do is prepare a pre-determined framework and then collect data to fit into it.

It seems we are compelled to redefine our research objectives. It is part of our shared experience that, very often, when we approach historical–religious texts, we already know what kind of data or conclusion we are dealing with. The title of a book or article often reveals the author’s bias from the outset.

In practice, we are performing a kind of duty, and it is clear that such work cannot be considered scientific. It is discourse, not inquiry; persuasion, not exploration. We are trying to convince others of the correctness of a principle that we have already assumed to be true. For instance, if we had lived during the era of opposition to ijtihād—the first phase of Islamic jurisprudential history—we would have written in defence of the necessity of the Imams’ being akhbāri and their opposition to ijtihād. But once we entered the era of ijtihād after Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, we began to write works proving that the Imams themselves practiced ijtihād. This means we are working within predefined templates—models we must then strive to prove. Of course, this does not mean that all such works are unscientific. But, at the very least, they are not entirely trustworthy.

Although religious-historical writing differs from purely historical research—each having its own audience and aims—the important thing is to understand this distinction. For instance, one could say that some of Shariati’s writings were a kind of historical construction—what might be called ideological historiography. What is your view on this?

Indeed, in the past century, we have seen the emergence of a distinctly ideological historiography with well-defined themes: revolutionary Islam, anti-capitalist Islam, political Islam, and similar orientations. This current was influenced by the writings of Abul A‘la Maududi, Sayyid Qutb, Shakib Arslan, Sayyid Jamal al-Din al-Afghani, and Muhammad Abduh. In this framework, history became an instrument for realizing ideological objectives, leading to the production of overtly revolutionary texts. Dr. Ali Shariati represents a prime example of this approach. Within this perspective, even Imam ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib (a) is portrayed through a particular lens—a portrayal that has become common both in Iran and in Egypt. However, this kind of ideological framing, while powerful and inspiring for some audiences, inevitably obstructs scientific historical inquiry.

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