Love in a Headscarf

by Shelina Zahra Janmohamed

  ‘Auntie is saying that he doesn’t mind you wearing hijab in the long-term, in fact he says that he would probably want you to wear it. He says he likes the idea that you are interested in religion and he thinks he could learn a lot from you.’

  ‘So then I don’t understand what the problem is.’

  ‘Before he gets to that point, he is asking if you would stop wearing hijab …’

  My eyeballs pinged straight out, then off the wall and bounced on the floor. I picked them up, put them back in and let her conclude.

  ‘… for a year,’ finished my mother.

  ‘Wow.’ I was gobsmacked. Was this a gracious compromise on the Prince’s part?

  ‘So let me get this straight, he wants me to stop doing something for a year, which he thinks is probably the right thing to do anyway? And which he agrees is part of our faith.’

  ‘Yes.’

  This was puzzling indeed. And what was most puzzling was that his parents would have discussed this with him, and then with the Auntie, all of whom would have agreed that they thought there was sense in this proposition. In the interest of getting the boy married, they were willing to ask someone to not do something which they all agreed was the right thing to do and to make it seem that I, the poor passive, accepting woman, was inflexible and lacking in kindness and understanding, and unwilling to show a commitment to the ideal of getting married if I didn’t do it. If I sounded cross, it was because I felt cross.

  I had made a choice about my faith and the way that I wanted to live my life. I had based these decisions on careful thought and what I believed was right. I realised that I didn’t have to shape my faith in order to subsume it to this false god of social and cultural acceptability. I didn’t have to accede to the trump card of the boy’s superior cultural position and the marriage-at-all-costs attitude.

  Marriage was important, but it was supposed to complete my faith, not destroy it.

  I had changed my own world, and that meant I was ready to push back and change the world itself. I grinned at my mother. And at that, my mother’s worried frown turned into a small, conspiratorial smirk and then into a wide, proud grin at the daughter she had raised who had finally learnt to call things as they were. She didn’t want her daughter – and by extension herself – to be bullied by an age-old custom where the boy’s family held all the cards and where they would insist on incomprehensible requests, even when they knew that they contravened all faith standards.

  I blamed the gatekeepers – the mothers-in-law, the Aunties, the matchmakers. They were supposed to be upholding the sanctity of marriage. They had told the girls that it was important to look beyond the superficial, that love would grow with time, that marriage was about more give than take. They told us to be religious and uphold our faith, and yet here they were promoting and encouraging young men to ask Muslim women to stop practising their faith so that they could get married.

  ‘If they really want me to stop wearing hijab, which they agree is something that a Muslim woman should do, then I think you should tell them that I will be happy to do so if they will take the responsibility of me giving up my prayers and my fasting in Ramadan for a year as well.’

  SEVEN

  Love

  From a Single Soul, Created in Pairs

  Late in the summer I travelled with friends on a tour of Jordan and Egypt. I was excited. Egypt straddled Arabia and North Africa, at the centre of Muslim dynasties that had spanned hundreds of years. I couldn’t wait to see the architecture or to wander through its bustling and famous bazaars. Its history stretched back to the great civilisation of Ancient Egypt, which included the Bible and Qur’an stories of Joseph and Moses. Ever since I was a child I had wanted to see the Pyramids, walk on the sands that had witnessed the Pharaohs, El-Alamein and the building of the Suez Canal. It was not just its history that I wanted to experience, but also its natural beauty: to travel through its wildly beautiful desert, to take a sunset boat ride along the Nile, the artery of this great nation. I felt a connection to Egypt through the river Nile, as it originates on the borders of Tanzania, my parents’ place of birth. I had seen with my own eyes out of the window of the aeroplane on my travels to East Africa the way that the water transformed the desert, winding through it like a thick verdant snake.

  We spent several days in Cairo, the capital of Egypt. Despite the incredible whirlwind of activity in the city and the utter majesty of the Nile that dominates its centre, there was one thing that constantly surprised us: the number of marriage proposals we received. We compared notes at the end of each day to tally up our offers. We notched up several proposals from taxi drivers – they had car journeys in which to make and explain the value of their offers; two from shopkeepers and a handful from the owners of the horses that took us for rides around the monuments.

  Sulaiman owned a tour company that provided horses and guides for tourists to ride around the Pyramids. All four of us took a horse each, and Sulaiman elected to accompany my horse on foot. I had never ridden a horse before and wondered what the risks were if the horse broke into a gallop. Sulaiman laughed at my feeble urban nerves, chuckling at these soft female tourists who couldn’t do a basic thing like ride a horse. The hooves padded rhythmically in the sand and the small dots in the distance turned into high-rise Pyramids. We continued past them and the swarming tourists, and circled round to the other side as the sun slowly dropped towards the horizon. The hot red streaks in the sky reflected on the sand.

  We stopped directly in line with the Pyramids and waited for sunset, admiring the ancient vista before us. Sulaiman was diligent in exercising his guide duties by allowing us to fully enjoy the sights.

  We chatted about tourists, life in Cairo, his work, London. And then abruptly, and uninvited, he looked directly into my eyes and declared: ‘You are beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered, and fell silent. I wobbled on the saddle as the horse swished round to drink from a shallow puddle.

  ‘I have a good business,’ he continued. ‘Many horses.’

  ‘How lovely,’ I answered insipidly, worried now at the direction this conversation was taking.

  ‘And many camels, too.’

  ‘That is very good,’ I said unenthusiastically, keeping my gaze fixed on the Pyramids.

  Sulaiman strode off and came back a moment later with another horse, and swung himself up onto it. He had been disadvantaged on foot but now he sat eye to eye with me, separated emphatically by two well-behaved horses.

  ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ He paused and looked over at me. ‘Wouldn’t a human being want to survey this kingdom every day?’

  I thought about his suggestion, far away from rainy London, the daily commute by dirty, crowded train to sit at a stagnant desk job, which led to more commuting and different desks as life progressed. Just because that was how it had always been, it didn’t mean that was how it had to be. Why wait until I was creased and battered by life to have a holiday home in a warm relaxed climate? I could throw out those parameters that I held myself back with and have that joy now. I was already asking myself challenging and unorthodox questions every day about what I was really looking for in a person who would be my companion. I ought to ask the same type of challenging questions about the way I lived my life.

  ‘I have 20,000 camels.’

  I pointed to my ring, even though it was on the wrong hand, leaving him to draw the conclusion that I was married or at the very least engaged.

  If only I had known that each camel was worth a thousand pounds, I might have agreed, or would I? Could I have spent so many years searching for someone who would complete me and hold my hand on a spiritual path, only to give it all up for a stranger with a large pot of cash?

  I was quick to decline: there were too many other things to consider in this case. I would be facing a new country and a new culture with a man who I had known for barely an hour. I saw the risk of being stranded in an unknown place with so many new people. Most of all, and thinki
ng clearly, I had to question whether he really did have this enormous reserve of wealth, and if his intentions really were genuine. I’d heard too many horror stories.

  At the papyrus shop, I admired the varieties of tourist memorabilia made from one of Ancient Egypt’s most well-known symbols: reed papyrus. The intriguing painted paper made for ideal presents – light, small and cheap. I found myself browsing through the different paintings on my own, but not for long. One of the shop staff came to assist me, and without hesitation spoke to me with frank emotion.

  ‘You are very beautiful.’

  Here we go yet again, I thought. I continued to look at the papyrus.

  ‘The men where you come from must be blind not to see how exquisite you are.’

  I paused and gazed at a traditional painting of the Tree of Life.

  ‘I would defend you, and look after you. I would show you how a woman like you should be appreciated. You should be accompanied by a man who treats you as the most important thing to him. I would not let you be on your own like this. I would carry your bags and take care of you wherever you go.’

  It was an eloquent and touching speech. I smiled, opened my mouth several times, but could find no suitable words. What could one say to such an outpouring of emotion?

  What motivated these men to approach us so directly? Perhaps they saw us as a game of statistics and believed that if they asked enough women, one might succumb. Or were we an easy target to drum up business through flattery? It was possible that we were entertainment for them, as they laughed amongst themselves at the gullible female tourists.

  I wondered, what if one of us had actually said yes? Would he have married her, and then would she remain behind in Egypt? Or would the newly married couple have moved to London? We were sceptical: we assumed that they found our passports more beautiful than us. In this context, we thought love was being played as a game.

  Was this all part of the tourist service? Despite our complaints about the unwanted attention, did female visitors enjoy the compliments and flattery? I had never been told so often how beautiful I was. I had never been proposed to so often. All that these men were doing was exposing and then feeding the beliefs that we had about ourselves that we were desirable women with status. We had let their compliments go to our heads and it revealed an unpalatable truth: we thought we were somehow superior because we were from the ‘West’.

  Every so often their words made me pause and wonder if I had been too cynical about their motivations. Were we seeing them as caricatures? I wanted to find out what really lay behind the cheerful banter. I decided to put a stop to their flattery and ask them directly about their lives, and speak to them as one human being who was on a quest to another. They were surprised that I was interested in their lives. As they spoke, the men evoked strong emotions about the way they lived, how they struggled to earn a living, about their families and their aspirations. They described with great passion how much they loved their country and how they longed to make it a better place.

  The shop assistant carried on speaking to me. ‘I am a Muslim too, and I am looking for a wife who is a good practising Muslim. If you are from London and you wear the hijab there, you must be very strong. It must be difficult for you.’

  I turned to look at him. The tone of our interaction had changed and we were now two people on the same journey, learning from each other. I was no longer his prey. Instead, he was inviting me to connect with him at my very core – my faith. That was the power of the sense of ummah that Islam instilled in all Muslims. Ummah was one of the fundamental concepts that Muslims believed in. It meant being part of a single nation of people who shared a sense of community and togetherness, wherever you were in the world. Even though every individual and society within the ummah would have different opinions and cultures, it brought everyone together through unity and belonging. What we shared was a journey towards the Divine, and a desire to make the world a better place. Rooted in the very beginnings of Islam, 1400 years earlier, it was the first global identity that existed, before the ideas of ‘globalisation’ or ‘global village’. Like a large family, every member of the ummah was of value, and you felt their happiness and their pain. That is why Muslims always seemed to express themselves so strongly about the experiences and troubles of other Muslims in different parts of the world. Each one was immediate and real, like a family member, no matter their physical location.

  I smiled at him as I spoke: ‘Do you know that there are almost two million Muslims in Britain? We are very blessed, I can wear my hijab to university and to work. We can pray and fast. We have our own mosques.’

  ‘Really?’ He was surprised and moved. ‘Sometimes we wish for that kind of freedom here. We have to be careful of what we say. It is easy to get into trouble, especially if you are too religious.’

  I had heard similar stories in other Muslim countries too. In Syria people rarely spoke to strangers about politics. In Tunisia the government tried to ban Ramadan. The Tunisians we met also told us how unusual it was for them to see educated women wearing the headscarf, because it was not permitted to be worn at university. The men even whispered that if they went to Friday prayers at the mosque, they would risk being taken to jail. In Saudi Arabia I met a woman who wept about how difficult things were for her and how she longed for the freedom I had to practise my religion freely. I felt a sense of responsibility in using my freedom to change the situation that these people faced.

  One hundred years earlier, most Muslims had lived within relatively defined areas of the world. With the end of all the empires that had dominated the globe, along with changes in travel, migration patterns and a global economy, Muslims were now part of societies all over the world. My own family was one example. The breadth of that existence and the huge contribution Muslims made to all the various countries they lived in was not known by those who remained in Muslim majority regions. No wonder Muslims who still lived in the traditional heartlands were surprised to find out how widely spread out we all were.

  ‘Inshallah, I will go for hajj this year,’ he told me. He was beaming broadly. Hajj was the opportunity every Muslim yearned for at least once in their lives, a journey to Mecca. I also wanted to go and experience the phenomenon that changed the lives of so many people.

  ‘I will pray for you to go there and to return safely,’ I told him. Prayers were the best gift that I could offer him. We were always advised that if we wanted something, we should pray for others to be granted what they wished and in return our own wishes would be granted. ‘And I will pray that you find a beautiful and wonderful wife.’

  ‘Thank you, sister, I will pray for you to go to hajj also. And I will pray that you find a very good husband,’ he responded. I was very moved by his unsolicited prayers for me to go on the hajj. His use of the word sister indicated a change in tone and respect. It made me feel safe and welcome.

  Here in Cairo I was forced to ask myself whether all the time, effort and dedication in securing the impossibly perfect man was misdirected. Perhaps the reality of love was much more mundane in its origin than the idealised, airbrushed expectations I had. All that romantic chasing around after a perfect-but-unattainable love: who had time for all of that? As the Imam said, ‘Love comes after marriage. You only know the meaning of love after you’ve made the commitment.’

  If love blossoms after the relationship has been formally agreed, then instead of putting all our focus on the ‘finding’ part, more of our emphasis should be on the ‘relationship’ part. Less searching and asking; more energy on keeping the relationship alive afterwards, integrating our families together and making the marriage unit a foundation for the community. In which case, proposing should be as easy, quick and straightforward as I had experienced in Egypt. There ought to be no shame in being rebuffed to reach the goal of getting married. Making a formal commitment was the entry point into the real story of love.

  I should have learnt from all my encounters that love lies in the most extraordi
nary people and places. Even if I didn’t find love for myself here, it lived here too, in a different shape, fitting its people and community. Was love hiding in those narrow souk alleyways? Whatever the heritage and cultures amidst which it found itself, love existed at the very core of the human condition. Love was the spark that ignited the soul and love was also what sustained it.

  *

  Once we arrived across the border in Jordan, we made our way towards Petra, the mystical setting of the film Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  If only Indiana Jones was with us, I sighed. I had an enduring crush on him, with his masculine chiselled looks and his fearless chivalry. Who could resist the vast intellect of a professor of history and archaeology who lived a double life as a roguish adventurer from the 1930s?

  Petra had been at the crossroads of trade for thousands of years, being inhabited since prehistoric times. I imagined this junction of commerce bustling with travellers transporting silks and spices between China, India, Arabia, Egypt, Greece and Rome.

  To reach the ‘Rose City’ of Petra we had to make our way slowly down the siq, a one-and-a-half-kilometre long gorge that was dark and narrow, sometimes only three to four metres wide. The terracotta-coloured cliffs swept frighteningly up to the skyline, leaving only a sliver of light coming down to us as we sweated our way along the enclosed path. Even though we had begun the walk at 6.30 that morning, the heat had already reached intolerable levels. The path we were following grew even more constricted and the deep orange cliffs on either side stretched even higher. Eventually the corridor widened and we were spat out at the entrance.

  Standing at the gates to the historical site at 7 a.m., we looked around at what appeared to be a bustling village. There were small cafés and plenty of locals milling around the already buzzing throng of tourists. Long shades extended across low tables and chairs set out in traditional Arabic style to delight the visitors. At this time they were empty as travellers focused on exploring the historical ruins of Petra. Later, as the afternoon grew long and dusk approached, they would fill up with ravenous customers. We too walked past them. The locals who worked there nodded to us, noting our presence.