I’m guessing that PhD students the world over are familiar with the dark and
daunting phrase, “Where is the critical thinking in your work?” “This chapter is needs
much more critical analysis.”
‘Critical analysis’ and ‘critical thinking’ are terms used over and over again by
academics, and of course by PhD supervisors, when explaining what it is that they
expect from their students.
But what is ‘critical analysis’? What does it mean, to ‘think critically’.
Well before we look at what it means, let’s consider what it doesn’t mean, and what
it doesn’t mean is ‘criticism’. If ever I have to explain to students what ‘critical
thinking’ is, nine times out of ten it is because they are confusing it with criticism. To
think critically does not mean to criticise, although clearly it does not preclude that.
So, ‘critical analysis’, ‘critical thinking’ : what do they mean?
Defining these terms is not as easy as one might think, and explaining them to
people who may have undergone pedagogical experiences in which – for whatever
reason - the skill of critical thinking has either been glossed over or ignored, is even
more difficult.
Out of the forty plus students that I’ve supervised at both PhD and MA level in the
past two decades, my guess is that eighty per cent come with first degrees gained in
the Middle East and/or Muslim-majority countries, and while it would be tempting to
say that the provenance of these students is key in determining their understanding
of the term ‘critical thinking’, it would be simplistic and reductive. Producing work
that is devoid of critical engagement is definitely not peculiar to students with a
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particular geographical background. Having said that, however, when I compare UK
or Western European students with those from the Middle East, I can’t avoid the
conclusion that, in my experience at least, there is something which sets the former
apart from the latter insofar as the understanding and application of critical analysis
is concerned.
Furthermore – and I know I run the risk of being lynched for suggesting this – it
would seem to hold true, for the most part, that it is those students with the more
traditional educational backgrounds who find the notion of critical thinking the most
problematic. I will return to this issue later.
Critical thinking is a vital component of the academic endeavour because it is chiefly
through critical thinking that new knowledge is added to a field or discipline. While
academics may agree with the conclusions of a particular article, dissertation or
monograph, these conclusions may present other questions which need to be
addressed. Only through constantly asking ‘what if’, ‘how could’, ‘what does this
mean for X,Y or Z’, for example, is new knowledge added to a field, allowing for the
continuous development of academic disciplines. That is how they evolve. Without
critical thinking, the pool of knowledge would remain forever stagnant: we would
have replication rather than application, and nothing would move forward, or,
indeed move at all. Critical thinking, then, is how disciplines evolve.
According to Michael Scriven and Richard Paul:
Critical thinking is the intellectually disciplined process of actively and skillfully
conceptualizing, applying, analyzing, synthesizing, and/or evaluating information
gathered from, or generated by, observation, experience, reflection, reasoning, or
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communication, as a guide to belief and action. In its exemplary form, it is based on
universal intellectual values that transcend subject matter divisions: clarity, accuracy,
precision, consistency, relevance, sound evidence, good reasons, depth, breadth,
and fairness.
It entails the examination of those structures or elements of thought implicit in all
reasoning: purpose, problem, or question-at-issue; assumptions; concepts; empirical
grounding; reasoning leading to conclusions; implications and consequences;
objections from alternative viewpoints; and frame of reference. Critical thinking — in
being responsive to variable subject matter, issues, and purposes — is incorporated
in a family of interwoven modes of thinking, among them: scientific thinking,
mathematical thinking, historical thinking, anthropological thinking, economic
thinking, moral thinking, and philosophical thinking.
So much for the textbook definition – or at least one textbook definition – of critical
thinking. As such I think it is a valuable working definition with much to recommend
it. But I don’t want to use this as it stands. Let us simplify this somewhat –
remember what Farid said yesterday: if you explain something in such a way that a
six-year old is unable to understand, you clearly haven’t understood it yourself – and
let us crystallise these textbook desiderata into a number of easy, user-friendly
questions that one would be duty bound to ask of one’s source material if one were
to qualify as someone who thinks critically.
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Let’s imagine – and for some of you here, you don’t need to imagine, because you’re
already engaged in this – let’s imagine that we’re writing an article or a dissertation
on some aspect of Nursi’s teachings. The following are the kind of things we have to
ask of our subject when we are subjecting him and his work to critical scrutiny.
(These questions apply equally to secondary source authors, i.e. those academics
and their articles and books which are written about Nursi and his teachings).
What is the author's approach/perspective?
Is there another theoretical or philosophical approach which might have been taken?
These first two questions are considered when we are trying to locate a writer or
thinker within a particular intellectual tradition of matrix of similar thinkers. If our
subject is Said Nursi, we may wish to locate him within a particular theological
position. What springs to mind immediately here, of course, is a question that I had
to ask when looking at Nursi’s position on free-will: is he an Ash’arite or a
Mu’tazilite? My impression before I started the work was that theologically he is an
Ash’arite: I’d read somewhere, or possibly heard someone say, that he was an
Ash’arite, and because I trusted what I’d read, I was satisfied that this was the case.
Of course it wasn’t. Once subjected to critical scrutiny, Nursi’s theology – like Nursi
himself –is hard to pin down: as ever, he is resistant to compartmentalisation. On
some issues he appears to side with Ash’arites, on some with the Mu’tazilites – and,
not forgetting that these are not the only theological camps in Muslim thought,
sometimes he sides with the Maturidites. The conclusion here, of course, is that
theologically it is very difficult to put him inside any particular box.
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I reached a similar conclusion while researching Nursi’s approach to the concepts of
‘unity of existence’ (wahdat al-wujud) and ‘unity of witnessing’ (wahdat al-shuhud).
Having laboured under the illusion that Nursi favoured the latter (shuhud) over the
former (wujud), I was pleasantly surprised to learn that he actually sees them as
approaches which more or less signify the same thing. Without critical scrutiny of
the whole of Nursi’s output, this realisation might never have occurred.
And when I say here ‘the whole’ of Nursi’s output, I should stress that serious
students of Nursi do really need to read the whole of the Risale. It is often said that
the Risale is a mirror held up to the Quran, and from this perspective I would agree:
just as the some verses of the Quran facilitate the interpretation of other verses,
there are some parts of the Risale which throw light on others; unless we cover the
whole of the Risale and learn to cross-reference, this ability of the Risale to act as its
own interpreter tends to be missed.
To return to the questions we need to ask in order to facilitate the critical reading of
Nursi’s work, and the work of his critics, we need to determine what is left out of the
text, and why? Does the author write from the perspective of an insider or an
outsider?
The issue of insider/outsider involvement is doubly important, of course, when we
are studying secondary sources on Nursi, some of which are written by disciples of
Nursi and those who identify themselves as admirers of his message. If the work has
been produced by one of his followers, how does this effect what is included or
excluded from the text?
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Are the points made by the author supported by evidence?
When Nursi substantiates his argument with evidence, is it evidence grounded in
reason or is it evidence presented by appeal to scripture, or to use the technical
terms, is it ‘aqli (rational) or naqli (scriptural)? Or is it a mix of both?
This, of course, leads on to the 64,000 dollar question: does the author use valid
reasoning? Are the arguments used sound or are they fallacious? Hopefully you have
no need for me to tell you that in logic, "sound" "valid" and "true" are not
synonymous. The premises and conclusion can be "true" or "false"; the chain of
reasoning itself can be "valid" or "invalid"; the argument as a whole is either "sound"
or "unsound". The chain of reasoning may be valid but the argument as a whole
unsound.
When making a point or presenting a statement, is the substantiating evidence
anecdotal or is it the result of research? Is the evidence referenced?
This is another criticism you will find academics making all the time. Often one reads
through a whole page of supporting evidence but with no references. A Pulitzer or
Nobel prize winner may have the luxury of producing outstanding pieces of writing
with just a few or even no references at all, but that is a luxury that as ordinary
academics we really must deny ourselves.
Is the evidence recent?
Well, in and of itself, recentness is not a cast-iron indicator of soundness. However,
if work has been done recently that is of major academic and intellectual
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significance, it would be foolhardy to overlook it. And so we need to be aware of the
recentness or antiquity of references, both in work that we read and in work that we
produce.
Does the writer present opinion as fact?
This is a thorny one. ‘Manchester United is the best football club in the world’ is
clearly an opinion rather than a fact. (Actually the fact of the matter is that Chelsea
is the best football club in the world, but we can leave that argument for another
time).
Have the assumptions made by the writer been made clear to the reader. In other
words, do we know where the writer is coming from?
Is the author consistent within his own frame or frames of reference?
Here, of course, we are concerned with contradiction. Does the author say one thing
in one place and but something slightly or even totally different in another? How
much of this is down to sloppy scholarship and how much is attributable to the
natural development of ideas over time?
Does the writer oversimplify complex ideas? Or does he overcomplicate simple
ideas?
As far as Nursi is concerned, I personally think that on the issue of free-will, for
example, he does both. But then simplicity and complexity are often in the eye, or
mind, of the beholders. He may on occasion have very good reasons for
oversimplifying complex ideas; after all, the various treatises which comprise the
Risale are aimed at different audiences, and there are times when linguistic
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condescension is necessary. Over-simplification usually means that something
invariably gets left out: it is impossible to simplify the issue of free will without
harming the integrity of the arguments to some extent. However, when Nursi
simplifies a complex concept, it does provide the reader with at least an authentic
taste of the full meal, so to speak.
Does the writer make unsupported generalisations?
This is another favourite of academics, spotted usually on the feedback forms of
undergraduate term papers. Having marked in excess of 400 term papers this year, I
can attest to this. “This essay is good on the whole, but there is also a number of
generalisations, unsubstantiated assertions and instances of oversimplification.” I
have lost count of the number of times that I’ve written that on student papers.
Actually the one thing that I’d really like to write is: “This essay has parts which are
good and parts which are original. Unfortunately, the good parts are not original and
the original parts are not good.”
Does the writer make reasonable inferences. Does he represent the ideas of others
accurately? Does he represent them fairly? Does the writer use unfair tactics of
persuasion such as appeal to prejudice or fear?
Does the writer distort the ideas of others or present them out of context?
For example, Nursi is known for his criticisms of a number of medieval scholars: I’m
thinking in particular of Farabi, Ibn Sina and Ibn al-Arabi. Are the issues on which he
upbraids them presented out of context? Does he present these figures in a way
which gives us only a partial picture of them.
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How would you characterise the writer's tone? And how does the tone affect your
response to the text?
If we are thinking of Nursi here, tone is all important. Tone can speak volumes
about personal situation, historical content, possible state of mind, and possible
audience. Our response to a seemingly harsh tone may be equally harsh and
unforgiving; only by analysing this critically can one escape reckless judgments
about the state of the author’s psyche at the time of writing, or about his intention.
Does the writer's language, tone or choice of examples reveal any biases? If so, do
the writer's biases reduce his or her credibility? Do our reactions to the author reveal
biases in our own way of thinking? If so, how do ensure that we do not reproduce
such biases in our writing? Does the text challenge our own beliefs, values and
assumptions, and if so, how do we deal with our author fairly?
These are some of the questions that we have to consider when we think critically
about an author and/or her writings.
So many questions, and this is by no means an exhaustive list. But when students
are being asked to think critically, it is because nine times out of ten they have
produced a narrative which lacks questions: it questions neither the subject of the
study nor the sources used. The writer accepts without question what he or she has
discovered in the sources.
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Now acceptance is fine, of course, so long as it is not unquestioned acceptance. If,
after questioning our sources, we accept the arguments, ideas and conclusions we
find there – then that acceptance is a valid one – valid albeit within the writer’s own
frame of reference.
You’ve all heard the old saying, ‘An unexamined life is not worth living.’ Well an
unquestioned subject is not worth studying; without the necessary ingredient of
critical thought and analysis, anything we produce is really not worth the paper it is
written on. A PhD needs to be an original piece of work that contributes to the
development of the field in which it is rooted. Unless the seeds of our scholarship
are watered by the springs of critical thinking and analysis, what emerges will be
dry, dull and unproductive. If we want to list what critical thinking is, we could say
that it is analysing and classifying; it is identifying assumptions and making
comparisons; it is problematizing and it is the solving of problems; it is questioning
and challenging ideas; it is considering facts and judging them alongside theories
and hypotheses; it is judging the validity of the source and the value of the
evidence; it is making connections between ideas, theories, texts, frameworks and
disciplines; it is drawing inferences and producing conclusions; it is analysing,
evaluating, weighing up.
When these processes are missing, what are we left with? We are left with a
narrative that does not transcend the descriptive. At best it is a summary of
someone else’s text, supported – if at all – by a rehash of theories learned in class,
or, worse still, a series of statements of the student’s own unsupported views, shot
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through – to use those perennial feedback comments – with ‘unsubstantiated
assertions, generalisations and instances of over-simplification’.
Let me go back now to the issue of the inability – or, at times, the unwillingness – to
engage critically with authors and their texts. I’m pulling no punches here. Most of
the problems I have encountered in the supervisor-supervisee context come from
people of faith who basically feel that they have to write a work of advocacy. Now
works of advocacy are all well and good, but, as I tell them, save your work of
advocacy for AFTER you have written your PhD. A doctoral dissertation is not a work
intended to promote your faith or to score points over your adversaries.
The inability, or unwillingness, to think critically has many reasons of course, not
least the deficiencies which inhere in educational systems where, at the lower levels
especially, rote learning predominates, or where inordinate esteem is accorded to
the teacher, the ustadh, who is a figure of authority and, of course, must never be
questioned. To enumerate the reasons behind the difficulties that some students
have with critical thinking would take too long, but it is worth dwelling on one
particular issue – one that some will find quite trivial, but one, nonetheless, that I
think is not without significance.
One of the reasons people writing from faith perspectives – and not just religious
faith perspectives – one of the reasons they are reluctant to engage critically, in all
senses of the word, with their subjects may be the reverence and respect which they
feel ought to be accorded to their subjects at all times.
One student, who obviously shall remain nameless, was writing a dissertation on
Nursi many years ago, recalls today how difficult it was for him to break the habit of
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referring to the author of the Risale-i Nur as ‘Bediuzzaman Said Nursi, or, even more
respectfully, Bediuzzaman Hazratleri, or Ustad. To refer to Said Nursi simply as
‘Nursi’ seemed to him to be a step too far: it seemed disrespectful and antithetical to
the adab or etiquette that goes with names and naming. But to refer to the author
simply as ‘Nursi’ is not inherently disrespectful . It is not suspect ‘Islamically’; there
is nothing in the scriptural sources to suggest that referring to someone by their
surname only is somehow lacking in tact or social etiquette. And of course, using
‘Nursi’ instead of Bediuzzaman Said Nursi cuts down on the word count. More
importantly, I believe, it allows that extra measure of emotional distance from the
subject and so contributes to the ‘objectivity’ of the study.
We need to decide, then, which conventions are cultural rather than scriptural
constructs and, if they are detrimental to our quest for a certain amount of
emotional distance, discard them if at all possible.
Incidentally, my ex-student recently told me that he is now able to refer to the
author of the Risale simply as ‘Nursi’ without whispering ‘May God forgive me’ under
his breath.
This may seem like a trivial point, but I think it should be taken seriously. If a
student is so in awe of the subject of their study that he cannot bring himself to
refer to that subject by his surname, what likelihood is there that he will be able to
subject the articles and books written by that subject to sustained critical scrutiny?
(Incidentally, I also think that it is better to dispense with customary blessings on
the Prophet when writing his name or title in our studies. Or, if we really cannot
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bring ourselves not to use it, at least use it properly and write ‘Peace be WITH him’
rather than the somewhat awkward ‘Peace by upon him’.)
A word, before I end, on criticising scholars. As I said at the outset, critical analysis
is not synonymous with criticism, although obviously it does not preclude it. I know
that some students find criticism of a major scholar somewhat difficult, and this
difficulty is compounded considerably when that scholar is revered as a person of
piety and spirituality.
Well, all human beings are worthy of respect, regardless of whether we happen to
think them right or wrong on a particular issue. To criticise a scholar of repute,
someone who naturally commands great respect, so long as the criticism is
constructive, and delivered judiciously and in the sincere spirit of enquiry, this really
should not cause us any sleepless nights. It is not a question of finding fault –
although finding fault is also nothing we should shy away from, so long as we do not
make it our mission. Besides, great scholars of piety and spirituality have thick skins.
And the Quran itself finds fault with the prophets, and if the prophets can make
mistakes, of course so can the scholars. On this particular score, no-one is immune;
no-one is infallible. Nursi himself has no compunction about criticising fellow
scholars: Ibn Sina (Avicenna), Farabi and Ibn Arabi are three notable examples.
The spirit of enquiry among medieval theologians was such that critique and
counter-critique was considered part and parcel of the scholastic theological
endeavour. Ghazali’s famous Tahafut al-falasifa and Ibn Rushd’s Tahafut al-Tahafut
are two examples of the critique and counter-critique, which itself arguably
constitutes a whole genre of Muslim scholarly literature.
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It is axiomatic, then, that critical analysis is key to good scholarship, and it is
something that students ignore or misapprehend at their peril. Those budding
scholars who self-identify as Muslims have no excuses, because they have a noble
role model in their midst in the form of the Quran itself, which not only exhorts the
believers to think (tafakkur), deliberate (tadabbur) and exercise their powers of
reason (ta ‘aqqul), but also challenges them to look at God’s creation with a critical
eye and, if they are able, to discover any faults or deficiencies. If this is not a call for
critical analysis on all levels of life, then I don’t know what is.
Thank you very much.
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