The Gender Dichotomy: How Sharia Law in the Seventh Century Granted Women Legal Empowerment

by Noura Shoukfeh

The world’s youngest major religion, Islam, was established in the seventh century when the Prophet Muhammad amassed a following dedicated to the revelations he recieved in the Qur’an. The growth of Islam in the decades after Muhammad’s death, combined with the widespread need to implement a coherent ethical account of Islamic actions resulted in the development of an legal system known as Sharia law.

The Sharia system is based on three central components: the Quran (the central sacred text of Islam), Sunnah (the Prophet’s actions and non-Quranic statements), and fiqh (logic). Islamic law and practice stood in contrast to many of the practices of the surrounding Arabian tribes, particularly with regard to the roles and rights of individuals based on their gender. Notions of gender equity in Islamic law have vastly differed between academics and across time periods, however, many traditional and modern Islamic scholars argue that the way in which Sharia law was used in court precipitated considerable strides in the advancement of women’s rights, levelling the legal playing field between the two genders in the seventh century. Rights regarding inheritance, marriage and divorce, and the social classification of women, are three of the most debated spheres of Islamic law, both within dialogues of contemporary and traditional jurisdiction in terms of exemplifying the progression of women’s rights. 

Atlaq and Mahr

Under the Quran, both men and women can petition for atlaq (divorce), and women do not need a specific reason to file for divorce (such as adultery) — the marriage having broken down is itself a plausible cause for divorce according to fuqaha (Islamic judges). In the seventh century, this right was not experienced by women across the world; in fact, the enactment of divorce by a woman was perceived as an uncommon act, and in many regions disallowed in court. For context, in England, women gained the right to divorce only in the nineteenth century under the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857,– upon colonizing the Ottoman Empire in the nineteenth century, the British discovered “Muslim women had already had the right to divorce for a thousand years”

Although physical or mental neglect or abuse was not a prerequisite for a divorce to pass through the courts, the ability to divorce was particularly beneficial for Muslim women as it allowed them to leave marriages in which they were being improperly treated. However, it is important to note the distinction between the cases for divorce by men and women — the husband could divorce without cause, but the wife had to have the base reason of “incompatibility” for the initiation of a divorce. This distinction between the preconditions for men and women points to a separation in rights between genders. Nevertheless, in comparing the rights of Muslim women to non-Muslim women in the context of the 600s, the right for Muslim women to instigate a divorce was a significantly more progressive right than those extended to their non-Muslim counterparts in other regions of the world.  

Before the topic of divorce entered the conversation, however, there was an inchoate concept known as “mahr” which established a “wife as a contracting party in her own right to her own marriage”. There are different legal interpretations of what the mahr can be or is meant to be, but generally, it is recognized as a “gift or contribution made by the husband-to-be to his wife-to-be, for her exclusive property, as a mark of respect for the bride, and as recognition of her independence”. It is similar in concept to a dowry which is prevalent in some Middle Eastern and Southeast Asian cultures, except, here, the female is receiving the gift or the “mahr” instead of the male. The two are also distinct in the fact that the dowry is used by the husband to take care of his wife, while the mahr consists of property and assets solely under the wife’s discretion. This early concept not only allowed a woman to have negotiating power within her marriage, but also served as a way to financially protect her in the case of the dissolution of the marriage; rights many women across other parts of the world did not enjoy. 

Inheritance 

In the pre-Islamic era, inheritance in the central Arabian region occurred on the basis of the patriarchal “principle of proximity,” in which wealth and estates were passed along the male lineage of the family, starting with immediate members and moving distally across family relations. The practice of gender-based inheritance put women at an immediate economic and social disadvantage as they would not have personal means to support themselves, and were thereby forced to rely on brothers, fathers, husbands, and other male relatives to provide and care for them. The adoption of Islam in the legal systems of the Hejaz, Najd, and Eastern Arabian regions marked the beginning of a new system of inheritance in which women were entitled to a share of viz (inheritance). The transmission of property and assets is complex and highly situationally varied in Islam, but the main difference between pre-Islamic and Islamic law is that under the Islamic rubric, daughters were able to receive an inheritance if a parental figure passed away. 

Now, some modernist non-Islamic scholars nevertheless perceive the Islamic law’s bearing on  inheritance as limiting for women, given that daughters receive one-half of the share of inheritance that their brothers receive. This is justified in the Qur’an through an explanation of different expectations of men and women based on their gender. Critically, the son receives twice the amount of inheritance, as under Sharia law it is required that men utilize their received finances to take care of and financially support the women of the family, including but not limited to his sister. Women, comparatively, are not under any legal obligation to employ their monetary assets for the benefit of the family. Thus, a woman’s entitlement to viz created a structure where women do not have to rely on their male family members, and provided them with financial sustainability, a luxury that women in non-Islamic Arabian tribes did not get to experience. 

Social Status

The social classification of people is the basis of individuals’ treatment and the premise for the privileges people have access to under their respective legal systems. The non-Muslim Bedouin tribes dominating the Arabian Peninsula in the sixth and seventh centuries had rigid hierarchical social structures in which males were perceived as superior to women. Women had severely restricted rights and “were often considered property to be inherited or seized in a tribal conflict.” The reduction of women to “property” eradicated the legal rights of women, as under the law, they were not seen as individuals with rights but rather property that could be obtained. Under Islamic law, however, spiritual equality is granted to both men and women uniformly and without restriction, and as a result, placed women in an advantageous social position relative to the jahiliyyah (pre-Islamic) period’s treatment of women. Islamic law does take into account the physical and psychological differences between men and women, but in terms of many social roles, women and men are on equal footing. In this context, men and women are viewed as equals by God, and the only way for persons to be seen as above one another is through their enactment of deen (good deeds). Under this legal categorization of women as individuals with human rights rather than possessions of men, women were enabled to work, encouraged to receive an education, were capable of proprietorship, among other capabilities in the seventh and eighth centuries. The delineation of the woman’s position and standing within the Quran thus granted them abilities to utilize which non-Islamic women could not engage in due to social stratification within their respective communities. 

Conclusion

In the context of its time and even in modern perception, Islamic law granted women followers innumerable human rights recognized under the law and addressed many of the inequalities women had been facing as a result of living in a structurally patriarchal society in the seventh century. The division of viz created monetary security for women, while the setup of mahr protected a woman’s finances prior to the initiation of a marriage. The request for divorce being accessible to women resulted in safety nets for women and the establishment of relative gender equity under the law in terms of social status established the fundamental access women have to their guaranteed rights outlined in the Quran. Whether specific Islamic societies actually enforced the rights entitled to women in court is a question to be debated– and is an issue highly prevalent in many modern Muslim countries with governmental enactment of Sharia as the law of the land. Nonetheless, in theory, the structural dynamics of Islamic law and the rights provided by it allowed Muslim women to enjoy many privileges typically experienced by men in the seventh century and creates a system in which women are meant to function independently of men. 

The Forgotten Voices: Power Imbalances in Guatemalan Investor-State Dispute Settlements

by Ava Peters

On June 13, 2012, Yolanda Oquelii, leader of the La Puya Peaceful Resitance movement in Southern Guatemala, became the subject of an assassination attempt. She was targeted for starting a non-violent protest, together with many other brave women and men from her community, against a gold mining operation near their homes. They led a sit-in at the “El Tambor ” mine to protect their land from the extreme social and environmental degradation caused by exploitative practices carried out by US-based company Kappes, Cassiday & Associates (KCA). Their practices have affected air quality, as well as flora, fauna, top soil and the available quantity of water for local residents. Ever since, community members have continued their sit-in to keep vigil around the clock in the face of violent police harassment, anti-riot intervention and various legal challenges. Eventually, in 2016, their persistent protest triggered a formal lawsuit, setting off a chain reaction of cases which escalated through the Guatemalan court system. 

In 2014, the Guatemalan NGO Centre de Acción Legal, Ambiental y Social de Guatemala (CALAS) filed a case against the Ministry of Energy and Mines (MEM) contending that “Exmingua”, the Guatemalan subsidiary of KCA, did not hold a valid operating permit based on its failure to carry out community consultations required under Guatemalan law and ILO Convention 169. KCA contended that this claim was ‘meritless’ and questioned whether there was any Guatemalan law requiring the implementation of ILO 169 at the time when the mine was constructed.  However, in November 2015, the Guatemalan Supreme Court held in favour of CALAS and issued a final decision in 2016 requiring the suspension of mining activities at El Tambor. But just as the valiant efforts of La Puya seemed successful, KCA launched a counterattack, filing an ISDS case against the state of Guatemala claiming damages of $300 million.

What are ISDS Cases? 

ISDS––or investor-state dispute settlement––cases are legal challenges that allow foreign investors to resolve disputes with the government of the country in which their investment was made. They are based on legislation found in International Investment Treaties between states which typically include substantive protections and obligations that protect the economic rights of the investors. 

The international treaty relied upon in the case of Guatemala was the DR-CAFTA (Dominican Republic-Central American Free Trade Agreement). KCA argued that Guatemala was in breach of the international investor agreement terms that ensured ‘fair and equitable treatment, a minimum standard of treatment, indirect expropriation, and full protection and security.’ They claimed that the ongoing protests illegally blocked the entrance to the mine sites, preventing Exmingua from “using and enjoying” its exploration license. In addition, they argued that they were “arbitrarily and unlawfully” harmed by the MEM’s suspension of the export certificate. They calculated that they were deprived of the value[h] of the El Tambor project, amounting to $150 million, and the Santa Margarita project (of at least the same, if not greater value). Additionally, they allege that they have suffered a loss of $500,000 when they prohibited the exporting concentrate shipments. 

KCA martialled a convincing argument in the eyes of arbitrators: it is their gold mine, but the case fails to incorporate the struggles of those involved: it is also a gold mine responsible for numerous abuses against local communities, posing health and environmental risks to Guatemalan citizens. Local communities have faced violence, repression, and criminalization, whilst background forces continue to deplete the region’s natural resources. It’s an interesting consideration to make given that these claims aren’t rooted in empirical evidence. Considering this, should these facts be considered in the ISDS case? Past cases involving the DR-CAFTA suggest otherwise. Guatemala faced another claim arising out of an investment in a Guatemalan electricity distribution company by the U.S. investor Teco Guatemala Holdings LLC––a case that was decided in favor of the investor. Similar to the KCA case, Teco claimed Guatemala breached the ‘fair and equitable treatment / minimum standard of treatment including denial of justice claims’ under the IIA. The ruling emphasized the distinct power asymmetry in ISDS cases: the tribunal reasoned purely on the basis of the treaty, making no effort to acknowledge the stake held by third parties. 

Problems with ISDS

While particularly problematic, the Guatemalan case is not unique. Hundreds of ISDS cases are still pending, forcing us to question the effectiveness of the system and the millions of communities left waiting for their fate to be determined by a system pitted against them. 

Arguably, the most pressing flaw of the ISDS system is that it tends to cause a “chilling effect” on the regulatory system: a situation in which the threat of an investor’s potential claims leads to governmental reluctance to adopt policies out of fear of being sued by huge conglomerates. In other words: simply knowing that a company might sue stops smaller host states from protecting the rights of their citizens. With reference to the KCA case, the minimum claim of $300 million, if granted, would place an extortionate burden on Guatemala’s coffers. While Guatemala is in a better position than other developing countries to satisfy this debt, many other countries would face bankruptcy when confronted with such a large claim. 

Of greater concern is the lack of transparency during ISDS disputes. Compared to the US legal system, ISDS proceedings are relatively opaque and exclusive. Tribunals can decide whether to accept or reject third-party amicus briefs and, unlike other legal recourse[s], third parties have no ability to intervene, leaving local communities without a say in which their interests are significantly impacted.

ISDS cases do not enjoy a consistent thread of jurisprudence. While precedents in this form of international arbitration do exist, there is no doctrine of stare decisis, so that a previous ruling on one issue from an analogous case does not ensure that a ruling in a pending case will be the same. Cases decided regarding similar matters, even involving the same country and with the same kind of investor have produced different results. This lack of consistency is exacerbated by the absence of an appellate system to correct substantive errors and ensure predictable outcomes. Arbitrators and decision-makers can be subject to bias or constrained by a lack of independence, resulting in decisions favoring investors, with no checks and balances. The rights of local communities and the state at large are left unacknowledged, whilst the rights of investors have the potential to be overemphasized. Creating a trend, the power imbalance inherent to ISDS is only set to increase. 

Finally, the cost and duration of ISDS cases is particularly problematic. Arbitration is usually a long, drawn-out process that negatively impacts host states far more than investors. A King’s College London study revealed that ISDS tribunals took on average 181 days, and 103 days for annulment committees to reach a decision. The written phase for submitting briefs – without annulment – took on average 407 days. The KCA case was brought to the court in 2016, and for 5 years has been consuming money, time, and resources whilst wreaking havoc on powerless local communities. As environmental journalist Louis Magriel observed …”This type of arbitration rejects community self-determination and the role of the government to make decisions that protect the best interests of their population.” (Gold Mining and Violence by Louis Magriel).

Potential Solutions 

ISDS dispute resolutions must produce fair, efficient, coherent and consistent solutions. At present, this is not the situation – we need to consider improvements which recognize and uphold the rights of all parties involved. Various short and long term solutions have been proposed. 

The ‘quick fix’ solution to the shortcomings of ISDS would be dispute prevention. This involved creating institutions that act as a precautionary structure aiming to reduce the legal temperature between investors and states. It would focus on developing specific working mechanisms which mediate between all parties involved. As appealing as the immediacy of this solution sounds, it is not viable long term; more permanent solutions need to be considered to properly uphold the rights of those other than the investors. 

Longer-term reform of the ISDS system could be a hopeful, albeit lofty, aspiration to redress the power balance.  Adapting ISDS policy through the institution itself, for example through making it easier to submit amicus briefs or allow the state to establish bi-legal challenges that mirror the ISDS suit, could help create a more equal system. However, the efficacy of these outcomes are limited. Any reform of the ISDS system will be long and tiresome, and at present, there is no clear solution. 

Another potential solution, as advocated by the Columbia Center for Sustainable Investment, is to terminate or withdraw from IIA’s altogether. The Center produced a report posing some potential reforms: “Chief among [ways for states to exit or mitigate the recognized adverse effects of the more than 3,300 treaties], we’ve advocated for termination (or withdrawal of consent to ISDS arbitration) of these treaties, as a near-term solution, alongside any longer-term project.” However, this impacts the economic interests of both state and investor, so is likely to be opposed by both the governments and corporate actors involved. 

Arguably, the most extreme yet effective solution would be to create an entirely new system alternative to ISDS. Countries in Latin America have led in this pursuit, establishing the ‘Centro de Solución de controversias en Materia de Inversiones’ which aims to establish a new mechanism to resolve investment disputes. However, progress has been slow and the states involved have faced various disagreements. The EU has also attempted to create a ‘multilateral investment court,’ but the changes made from the current ISDS system are minor and have failed to consider the key shortcomings of inefficiency, lack of transparency and failure to uphold the rights of all parties. Ultimately, whilst the idea of creating an entirely new system seems optimal, the actual act of establishing one that fits the needs of all stakeholders is complex and the potential for completion is low. 
Through briefly outlining some major potential solutions, it’s obvious there is no clear answer. Yet, there is a clear goal: to make the ISDS structure more equitable and to protect the rights of marginalized, developing nations that have been exploited by huge companies. We need to continue the fight to reform the system and ensure that stakeholders don’t get left out of the conversation.

National Popular Vote: Circumventing the United States Constitution

by Alexandra Orbuch

In 2016, Donald Trump became President of the United States after winning a majority of electors (he won 304 electoral votes, surpassing the necessary 270 votes) but losing the popular vote to Hillary Clinton. For reference, the national popular vote is the direct vote of individual citizens. The electoral vote, on the other hand, is cast by electors chosen as the result of the popular vote in each state. 

As a result of this electoral outcome, the vociferous objections of many with strong sentiments against the electoral college resurfaced. The issue of the electoral college, however, is not a new one. 

Founded in 2006, National Popular Vote (NPV) was created to lobby for The National Popular Vote Interstate Compact (NPVIC) which would allocate the electoral votes of the states in the compact to the overall winner of the U.S. popular vote. In the words of the NPV’s Agreement Among the States to Elect the President by National Popular Vote

​​“The National Popular Vote Interstate Compact will go into effect when enacted by states possessing a majority of the electoral votes—that is, enough to elect a President (270 of 538). At that time, every voter in the country will acquire a direct vote for a group of at least 270 presidential electors supporting their choice for President. All of this group of 270+ presidential electors will be supporters of the candidate who received the most popular votes in all 50 states and DC—thus making that candidate President.”

While there is a separate debate to be had about the relevance or “fairness” of the electoral college system, I want to explore the legality of the NPVIC here. The National Popular Vote Interstate Compact collectively apportions votes to the winner of the overall popular vote without a constitutional amendment abolishing the electoral college or the assent of Congress. Yet, by May 2021, 15 states and Washington, D.C., had signed onto the National Popular Vote Interstate Compact.  

This constitutes a violation of the Compact Clause, which states that “No State shall, without the Consent of Congress…enter into any Agreement or Compact with another State.” 

As I will outline below, NPV is a compact of a political nature that encroaches upon the power of non-member states, does not allow for signatories to withdraw at will, and gives its member states far more power than they would have had in its absence. All of the aforementioned contractual features, when taken together, form an unlawful interstate compact.

According to Virginia v. Tennessee, interstate compacts are defined as “all forms of stipulation, written or verbal…which may tend to increase and build up the political influence of the contracting states, so as to encroach upon or impair the supremacy of the United States, or interfere with their rightful management of particular subjects placed under their entire control.” The NPVIC does just that. It would have the power to change the results of federal elections and  “interfere with the federalist structure of the US Constitution’s procedure for electing a president.”

According to the opinion in United States Steel Corporation v. Multistate Tax Commission, “A proper understanding of what would encroach upon federal authority…must also incorporate encroachments on the authority and power of non-Compact States.” This component of defining a compact is certainly relevant in the case of NPVIC. Should the NPV Interstate Compact go into effect, non-member states would be negatively affected and votes of individual states would be of no consequence when compared to the popular vote. The election would be determined not by all voices, but instead by the one combined deafening voice of the compact. 

The National Popular Vote Manifesto promises that “The Compact ensures that every vote, in every state, will matter in every presidential election.” The key implication here is that the indirect election does not represent the will of the people, acting instead to dilute the one-man-one-vote principle which constitutes the basis of the electoral system. However, this argument misses a key consideration. We live in a republic that was founded to be a counterbalance to passing popular opinions and fads. It was intended to allow for the expression of regional and state concerns in addition to individual concerns. In the words of Baten v. McMaster: “the system reflects a considered balance between national and state power.”’ And the electoral college makes it so all states are represented in elections. 

In contrast, with a popular vote, politicians would need only to campaign in areas with the largest population. They would flock to California and New York, yielding to those voter bases and tailoring agendas to fit their demands, meanwhile ignoring states like Wyoming and Montana. Ironically, this was exactly the reason the founders had for instituting the electoral college: to prevent tyranny of the majority. 

The NPVIC is allowing just that. By circumventing the laborious process of amending the constitution, it is withholding the power of the rest of the states of our great nation to decide on the fate of the electoral college. It is allowing the electoral college to remain in name only. In that vein, I would like to discuss these aforementioned non-member states. 

Statista put together a chart featuring the “number of times each state has consecutively voted for its most recent party in U.S. presidential elections from 1964 to 2020.” Every single state that has enacted the NPV Bill is designated as Democratic learning with significant voting streaks. California has a Democratic voting streak of 8 elections; District of Columbia: 15; Hawaii: 9; New York: 9; California: 8. The list goes on. 

This brings to light a frightening reality. Not only does the NPV Bill violate the Compact Clause by harming non-signatory states, it effectively silences half of the two-party political system in this country. All states who have signed on lean left, leaving the right-wing of America out of the picture should the bill take effect. The National Popular Vote Compact Bill could change the outcome of U.S. elections in perpetuity. If that does not fall under the category of “encroachments on the authority and power of non-Compact States,” then I do not know what does. 

Now that we have discussed how the NPV Interstate Compact violates the Compact Clause through its encroachment on non-signatory states, let us turn to the next component: the inability of signatory states to withdraw from the compact at will. In United States Steel Corporation v. Multistate Tax Commission, the Supreme Court opined that in a permissible compact, “each State [would] retain[] complete freedom to adopt or reject the rules and regulations of the Commission…each State [would be] free to withdraw at any time.” 

Under the rules of the National Popular Vote Compact Bill, however, a member state cannot withdraw at will from the compact at any point in time. Should a state want to exit the compact within six months of the end of a president’s term; if the said state chooses to leave, they will still have to allocate their electoral votes to the winner of the popular vote in that election cycle. In the words of the NPVIC, “[a]ny member state may withdraw from this agreement, except that a withdrawal occurring six months or less before the end of a President’s term shall not become effective until a President or Vice President shall have been qualified to serve the next term.”

The prohibition of compacts in the constitution applies to “treaties of a political character,” according to Virginia v. Tennessee. A compact that impacts the outcomes of governmental elections is undeniably political in character and thus unconstitutional.

Finally, an unconstitutional compact is one that “authorize[s] member States to exercise…powers they could not exercise in its absence.” By giving its member states powers that they otherwise would not have had, the NPV Interstate Compact meets this standard of unconstitutionality. ;t allocates electoral votes to the winner of the overall popular vote rather than just to the winner of the vote in their respective states and gives the signatory states more power than those who refuse to sign the bill. As discussed earlier, the states involved would effectively be silencing the rest of the country. And as we have seen, that means that the right-wing of the country would lose its voice in elections and thereby in policy making essentially eradicating the diversity of thought and plurality that is so key to the American political character.

The NPV’s manifesto says the following: “The National Popular Vote interstate compact will go into effect when enacted by states possessing a majority of the electoral votes—that is, enough to elect a President (270 of 538).” Individual states–and even a minority of multiple states–would not possess the power that a compact with the majority of electoral votes would.  

Hence, my argument stands that the NPV Bill violates the Compact Clause of the United States Constitution. The Compact’s founders and proponents need to come to terms with the very real fact that they are waging war on our Constitutional order by being unfaithful to the manifest restrictions that document imposes upon the electoral system. No matter what they may think of the merits of our current system, there is no justification for shunting aside the constitution.