“Social media,” Saudi artist Abdullah al-Shehri (known as Shaweesh) observes, is the “best tool we have available to showcase and express our art,” because it allows millions of Saudis to share and comment on a given work of art simultaneously. Building on this insight, this essay argues that Saudi artists, who have among the largest followings on the country's social media, have used the online public sphere to build a new social movement. They have adopted a role akin to Antonio Gramsci's concept of organic intellectuals – namely, men and women who are not part of the traditional intellectual elite, but who, through the language of culture, articulate feelings and experiences the masses cannot easily express. To paraphrase Ezra Pound, Saudi artists are the “antennae” of the kingdom's society, whose work is not “mere self-expression,” but, in the words of Marshall McLuhan, the “distant early warning system that can always be relied upon to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.” As a leading Saudi artist Abdulnasser Gharem observed in June 2019, “people need to listen to the artist.”

Almost two years after the inception of the so-called “Arab Spring” some of its primary constituencies remain enigmatic. To a certain degree, this is an effect of previous scholarly interest in various regimes’ strategies for maintaining their monopolization of critical resources, and, ultimately, of state power. The literature on “durable authoritarianism” has taught us much about autocratic longevity and the structures and dynamics that underpinned the management of the populace, as well as marginalization of challengers in a variety of regimes throughout the region. As some scholars have recently observed, however, the focus on authoritarian regimes’ staying power led to overestimations of their strength and, correspondingly, to underestimations of their publics. Of course studies of social movements, resistant populations, and opposition groups are plentiful and trends like the growth of Islamist groups have received copious attention.

In many areas of Middle East studies, revolutions—from the 8th century Abbasid to the 20th century Egyptian cases—have been treated as multidimensional phenomena, filled with actors impelled by varying, often conflicting interests and motives. Scholarship has come to perceive these revolutions as products of commingled political, intellectual, social and economic forces, and each event as the unique creation of a particular blend of the various elements. The nature of this mix, in turn, has been seen to determine the subsequent post-revolutionary behavior of the various groups in society. Yet when we focus on the case of the so-called Young Turk “Revolution” of 1908, we find that most studies have been strikingly unilinear in their analyses. The limited approach has colored our view, both of the Revolution and of subsequent events. My purpose here is to examine the historiography of the Young Turk Revolution and then to offer some possible alternative interpretations.

In the past, the majlis or dıwanıyah a sitting room used for socializing in many Gulf homes, was often a place of music-making. In recent years, however, the ‘ud, duff, and tabl have been supplanted by satellite TV, Wi-Fi Internet connections, and video game consoles. Other long-established music-making contexts in the Gulf have also disappeared, particularly songs associated with maritime occupations that were such an intrinsic part of life in the recent past. Some of these songs were performed as accompaniments to tasks on ships, such as pulling up the anchor or setting the sail, whereas others were songs of supplication, asking God for protection from the perils of the seas (Al-Taee 2005). Traditional music in the region has also suffered from the breakdown of original patronage systems, as wealthy merchants now seek to invest in skyscrapers and artificially created islands rather than support musical ensembles. With the disappearance of these traditional music-making contexts and support networks, mass media has increasingly become the primary mode of experiencing music, both old and new, in the region.

This essay presents a reflection on a selection of collections of Islamic art in Europe and the Middle East, focusing on new installations that emerged in the last decade. While various approaches have been discussed in the context of new installations, chronological narratives still prevail. Perhaps, these are indeed the best way to introduce audiences unfamiliar with the material to its complex historical and cultural contexts. The overarching goal of many of these displays may be to create positive public engagement with Islamic art in a global context where Islam is often associated with war and destruction.

Rai music has traveled far and undergone remarkable transmutations since the early days of its development in Wahran (Oran) during the first decades of the twentieth century. Originally performed at weddings and in bars, mostly by women singers known as cheikhat, the instrumentation was simple (a reed flute known as a qasba, a single-stringed viol or rbab, and a hand drum known as the gellal) and the vocals, raucous and sometimes bawdy. The lyrics consisted of formulaic couplets, and mostly dealt with relations between men and women. The early recordings of rai's greatest female vocalist, Cheikha Rimitti are the essential foundation of any collection of rai music.

Teaching modern Middle East history at the University of Melbourne raises problems of culture. Students are not generally acquainted with the Middle East and North Africa—even those whose families originate there—news coverage is patchy, and Australia is far away. Not all students are even arts students let alone history majors: our degree structure requires interdisciplinary study. The University is liberal about how to assess students, only requiring that during a twelve-week semester subject a student must write 4000 words. Within broad bounds, how teachers do this is up to them, although the Arts Faculty has a culture of avoiding unseen examinations. History major students are very accustomed to the “traditional” researched essay format, but it does not provide much variety of intellectual training; it is unfamiliar to non-Arts students; in classes that regularly number over 100 students, it is tiring and boring to assess; and large numbers of essays are freely available online. So I have introduced an assessment task to replace the standard researched essay. The purpose here is to describe an alternative approach to assessment and learning by using a simulation: in that sense the actual topic of the simulation is secondary. It concerns refugees, which is of course, a matter of vital current concern, but it is the reasoning behind the task that I hope is instructive.

Manuscript libraries, the items collected in them, their location, and something of their history can be classified as follows (previous work on this subject was described in Lütfü Eroğiu’s “Istanbul Kütüphaneleri”):

1. 1. Ministry of Culture and Tourism’s libraries under the auspices of the General Directorate of Libraries.

2. 2. Ministry of Culture and Tourism’s libraries under the auspices of the General Directorate of Monuments and Museums.

3. 3. University libraries.

4. 4. Public libraries.

5. 5. Libraries under the auspices of the General Directorate of Foundations.

6. 6. Private libraries, such as those associated with banks or newspapers.