The small souvenir shop (labeled the “Muslim Commodity Service Shop” or 穆斯林用品服务部) just inside the front gate of the Niujie Mosque in Beijing offers very few things of interest to nonbelievers. I am told as much by the woman running the sales counter in the small room. She is middle-aged, wears a light pink headscarf, and seems slightly amused by all the questions I’m asking her about the things she’s selling. It’s a particularly hot Wednesday afternoon in mid-August 2015, and the mosque is mostly empty between afternoon and evening prayers. “You can buy these things,” she says, surveying the array of curios—including, ceramic vases, prayer beads, headscarves, commentaries on the Qur’an, incense, etc.— for sale in the small shop, “but if you’re not Muslim they really won’t have any significance. They won’t be of any use to you.” “I’m studying the Hui,” I say, “and I just want to learn more about these things.” She seems to understand, and patiently explains how fairly self-evident items (like prayer hats or beaded prayer bracelets) aid in the practice of Islam. I ask about the a set of placards which displayed the words of the Bismillah, “In the name of God the most merciful and compassionate” (奉普慈特慈真主之尊明) in both Arabic and Chinese. “What are these for?” I ask. The signs are fairly ubiquitous in China. Any restaurant run by Muslims from any nationality will probably display a similar sign prominently, near the entrance. It’s an easy signifier that the restaurant is halal, and that Muslims can eat without fear of dietary restrictions. I was expecting a fairly simple response. And, indeed, it begins as one. “We put these signs in the doorways of our homes and businesses,” she replies, “to say ‘our family is Hui.’” My ears perk up. To be sure, the line between Hui ethnicity and Islamic faith is blurred. However, I’d never before heard a Hui person use the word Hui (回族) to mean ‘Muslim’ (穆斯林) more generally. In fact, this almost always worked the other way around. “What’s the difference between Hui and Muslim?” I ask tentatively. “Well, they’re more or less the same,” she explains. “Here in China, we call Muslims ‘Hui.’” Nodding my head, I answer, “I see.” A few moments later I politely excuse myself, still pondering her words: “They’re more or less the same.”
***
Often, when describing my research, people ask, “Why did you choose the Hui?” It’s a fair question. China recognizes 55 ethnic minority groups, and urbanization happens everywhere in this country. Why limit my research to the Hui? I always feel like the answer I give usually mentions the fact that the Hui are one of China’s more urban minority groups. Or that they are one of the most widely dispersed geographically. Or to say that many of my friends in China are Hui, and I really want to tell their stories. All of these are valid reasons. However, there’s also a more complex reason for looking at Hui communities: their very unique position within Chinese society as a minority group distinguished almost exclusively on the basis of their Islamic faith.
The matter of what Hui identity is, and what its about is something I’ve been meaning to address here. And this question also frequently comes up in conversations about my research. “What exactly is being Hui about?” a colleague asked me not long ago at a dinner in Beijing. “I’ve never really understood what it means apart from being Muslim.” Similarly, another friend asked me recently what it means to research an ethnic group that was basically “made-up.” In simple terms, the Hui are Chinese people who are Muslim. They speak Chinese. They look Chinese. The only ostensible thing that separates them from their majority Han Chinese counterparts is Islam. But again, these are simple terms. Looking at the difference between Han and Hui, and indeed the difference between “Hui” and “Muslim” more closely reveals a much different picture.
***
On the first night of Ramadan in June 2014, I sat, sweating profusely in the courtyard of the Niujie Mosque. My contact Hassan, who I’d met for the first time earlier in the day, insisted that being around for the prayers the preceded the breaking of the daylong fast would illustrate a lot about the community. So, at dusk (around 8pm), we sat in the courtyard as the neighborhood’s faithful streamed in. Hassan took great pride in introducing me as an “American scholar of Islam.” I didn’t dispute it. I was still jetlagged from the flight over, and didn't have the energy to explain that I wasn’t really studying Islam so much as I was studying the Hui. In any case, the difference seemed immaterial to Hassan and most of the people I met in the courtyard. The crowd that gathered was surprisingly diverse. True, the majority were Hui, but representatives from other of China’s Islamic majority groups were also present, as were expatriate Muslims from all over the world. One couple came from Russia. Another man came from Pakistan. From West Africa. From Malaysia. From all corners of the world. Presently, I found myself speaking to one of Hassan’s friends. “You’re studying Islam?” he asked. “Well, I’m studying the Hui, really,” I said. “The Hui?” he asked, interested, “Are you going to convert?” Politely (but still quite awkwardly, I’m sure) I told him that my interest was completely academic, and that, though I respected Islam, I wasn’t really looking to make that kind of change in my life. Hearing this, Hassan’s friend smiled, and with a laugh said “Oh, I think you’ll convert. To understand the Hui, you must first understand Islam.” I laughed, nervously, wondering whether I was indeed in over my head. But then the prayer service began, and the faithful shuffled inside the hall, while I remained out in the courtyard to observe, Hassan’s friend’s words still echoing in my head; “To understand the Hui, you must first understand Islam.”
***
Though China’s official system of assigning every citizen a designated, recognized ethnicity according to Stalinist criteria is a relatively recent development in the grand historical scheme of things, the separation of Han and Hui as distinct social—if not ethnic—groups is by no means a new occurrence. Islam arrived in China at least as early as the late 700s. In fact, some scholars use a popular hadith in which Muslims are implored to “seek wisdom even unto China” to suggest that Islam may have arrived in China as early as a generation after the prophet Mohammed’s death. Muslims from the Arabian peninsula, Persia, and Central Asia came to China as merchants, traders, scholars, court dignitaries, ambassadors, and Imams. Their religion came with them. And gradually they assimilated. Their descendants spoke Chinese, and looked like their Chinese neighbors. This is what historical record tell us. Jonathan Lipman, a respected historian who writes on Islam in China, describes these insular communities of Chinese Muslims as “familiar strangers” to the Han Chinese: a group of people who could speak their language, and looked just like them, but remained separate in their dietary, religious, and cultural habits. Another scholar, Raphael Israeli, maintains that in Ming Dynasty China, the Hui adopted Chinese names, Chinese language, Chinese dress, Chinese styles of food preparation, and generally appeared Chinese in public while speaking Arabic and taking Islamic names, and studying Islam among other Hui. Such coexistence has not always been easy. The annals of the Qing Dynasty are filled with histories of Islamic revolts led by Hui generals. Regardless, over the course of generations, a separate Hui culture emerged. And though Hui from Beijing and Hui from south or west China may differ significantly in the dialect of Mandarin they speak, or the architectural style of mosques they build, or in the regional cuisine they prepare, Islam provides, in some senses, a common thread that allows the idea of a Hui ethnicity that is separate from the Han to cohere.
***
The Songjiang Mosque is the oldest in Shanghai. It is also miles away from what might be considered the heart of the city at the end of subway Line 9. Getting there from the heart of the French Concession requires nearly an hour on the train. The mosque itself is a small, but lovely structure first built during the Yuan Dynasty and restored several times thereafter, most recently in the 1980s. In spite of its historical importance, and the attractiveness of the building, the Songjiang Mosque doesn’t really register on most tourist itineraries (I found out about it on WikiTravel, but even there, it merits only a blurb). On this late July afternoon in 2015, I am clearly the only visitor. A restaurant serving Lanzhou Hand Pulled Beef Noodles (兰州牛肉拉面), a dish frequently associated with the Hui, adjoins the mosque. It, too, looks totally empty. After strolling through the quiet courtyards, and walking through the Islamic cemetery behind the mosque, I return to the gatehouse, where I find the gatekeeper half dozing with the TV on in the shade. As he sees me coming, he regains some alertness, and sits up. “You done looking around?” he asks pleasantly. I am, I say. I ask if he minds to answer some questions about the place. He agrees. I ask, a few questions about the age of the place, and he confirms that the mosque has been here in some form since the 1200s. “What about now?” I ask. “Are there a lot of Hui in this part of Shanghai?” The gatekeeper says, “There are many who don’t believe anymore. There are maybe only about 500 people who come to worship as this mosque.” He gestures toward the Lanzhou Beef Noodle Restaurant, adding “Most people just come here to eat.” “Really?” I ask, a little surprised that the oldest mosque in such a large city attracts such a small congregation. “So few attend?” “Yes,” he responds “(主要是拉面) Mostly for the noodles.”
***
Recently, the degree of Islamic devotion among the Hui , especially in comparison to their other Islamic minority co-religionists, is something a few scholars have written about. Isabelle Cote, a China-focused political scientist, noted that such tensions regarding Hui assimilation have increased tensions between the Hui and some Uyghurs, who may regard them as phony Muslims. On more than one occasion, I’ve heard the Hui referred to pejoratively as “watermelons” (西瓜) because they are perceived as (superficially) “green (Muslim) on the outside and red (Chinese) on the inside.” One Han Chinese architecture student I met while touring a mosque in Yinchuan simply commented that the Hui were “already Han-ified” (已经被汉化) and thus weren’t so different at all from the Han. I’ve never found these criticisms to be fair, but they do point to the difficulties that come with understanding where exactly they fit in Chinese society.
***
On an early July evening in 2014, it feels too warm for hot-pot, especially in Lanzhou, a city on the banks of the Yellow River that, despite its proximity to the Gobi desert, gets steamy. Despite the heat, the restaurant is packed and buzzing. The pot in the center of the table bubbles furiously and the enclosed room my companions and I sit in feels like a sauna. Earlier in the evening, my contact (who I know as Brother Wang, 王大哥) introduced me to two of his Hui colleagues. Wang is Han, but many of his friends and co-workers are Hui. Situations like this are common in Lanzhou, a more diverse city than many of China’s eastern cities. As we eat, Wang’s friends describe Lanzhou’s Hui community, and discuss what it means to be Muslim in this part of China. “In Lanzhou there are Muslims of all nationalities,” one friend explains. He’s not wrong. In addition to the Hui, Lanzhou has a sizeable population of Dongxiang, Salar and even Uyghur Muslims. I ask if these communities tend to gravitate toward mosques with their own co-ethnics. “Not really,” he responds. ”Here we don’t differentiate between nationalities. We just have Muslims and non-Muslims.”
***
In the end, the picture that emerges of Hui culture is one that anthropology of religion scholar Robert Orsi might indentify as one of “in-between-ness.” Some of Orsi’s work discusses how Italian immigrants, largely due to their practice of Roman Catholicism, occupied such a space in the popular imagination of the United States in the late 1800s: note quite like other white Americans, but not like non-white Americans either. The divide between Han and Hui appears remarkably similar today. Hui identity is evidently different from Han, and yet so very similar in many respects. Lipman’s analysis still seems incredibly apt. In many cases the Hui remain familiar strangers. It is this unique position that makes Hui communities such a rich and theoretically interesting place for the study of ethnic identity amidst urban development. While the differences between the Han and Hui may be subtle, they are also profound. Articulating these differences, and thinking about how they manifest themselves in daily actions in rapidly changing urban environments is exactly what I hope to achieve. This, in the end, is the reason to study Hui communities.