“You see. It’s self-defense.” I had my answer, and I had the reference.
I had to share my find. I did go back to Reverend Nelson, this time armed with my newly discovered quotes from the text. Intrigued, he started an interfaith dialogue at the hospital. Over lunch, once a week, Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Hindus would talk—just talk, about what was troubling us in the world of religion, and of course, it was always related to jihad. Having read a few books, I considered myself an authority, and you should have heard me speak—such confidence, such an I-know-it-all air. On March 11, 1991, Time magazine published my letter, “Defining Jihad.”
Women! The question I had been waiting for cropped up. Did I think I could dodge it? No discourse on Islam is complete without women’s rights. It doesn’t matter what the forum is or who the speaker is—it always becomes the central question. Issues were also being raised from within: Is a woman impure when she is menstruating? Can she touch the Qur’an? Recite the sacred text? Fast? Pray? Come to the mosque? Perform hajj? What are the boundaries in that state, if any?
Back to the books. This was the early 1990s. No online Qur’an or Hadith, no Google, no e-Qur’an. It was hard copy all the way. I was going to study, study, and study until I had absorbed everything I could get my hands on. I was going to tap into the best minds. I started going to seminars, picking up books from the vendor exhibits, and cornering the speakers. I had a goal: I wanted to get to a point where, if anyone told me what a woman could not do, I could say, “Show me the reference,” and could hold an informed debate on whether this was cut-and-dry or had ten shades of green. I discovered translator’s bias. Often, when reading a verse of the Qur’an, I’d stop and wonder about it, reach out for another translation, and find that it had been translated differently, sometimes to the extent that it changed the meaning. I could now tell which translator had a women bias, who was conservative, who saw God as One to be feared, and who saw Him as One to be loved. I knew which translator’s version to reach out to satisfy my bias. By the mid-2000s, I had settled on The Message of the Qur’an, by Muhammad Asad. Get a copy. His commentary is beautiful. But until then, I was waking up to the fact that the only way to understand the message of the Qur’an is to study it in the language in which it was revealed—in Arabic. I decided to study Arabic. And I did. For five years I studied classical Arabic. But I was unable to master this beautiful, complex language, and today, I still study the Qur’an in the English. It’s just easier.
So what about women? I found jewels studded in the holy text. How is this for starters: Let’s go back to the beginning. Eve was not made from Adam’s rib. She was stand-alone. Yeah! There is more: Eve did not tempt Adam. God held both Adam and Eve equally accountable for their transgression, they both received equal penance, and they were both forgiven at the same time.5 The birth of a daughter is a gift from God and a blessing. It is evil to grieve over the birth of a daughter.6 She has a right to an education. The Prophet Muhammad advised that people seek religious knowledge from his wife Aisha, who is a major contributor to the Hadith. In his last sermon, he said, “No man has superiority over a woman.” A woman has the right to bear witness, and a woman’s testimony can invalidate a man’s testimony, e.g. if a man accuses his wife of being unchaste, and she denies it, his case is thrown out. In financial transactions, two male witnesses or one male and two females witnesses are required (I am still struggling with that). And guess what: a woman retains her maiden name after marriage. It states explicitly in the Qur’an to call them by their father’s name.7 It’s about identity and lineage. In Pakistan, influenced by British colonialism, women took their husband’s name. Sabeeha Akbar became Sabeeha Rehman. Too late, I will have to change all my citizenship papers, degrees, social security, passport…. Forget it. Here is the fun stuff: women are entitled to a gift from their husband on marriage—the dowry. It is written into the marriage contract. It is hers to keep.8 Speaking of which, her consent is an absolute requirement for the marriage. So many cultures have taken away that God-given right. She has the right to dissolve the marriage by petitioning the court. Whereas custody of children hasn’t been specified in the Qur’an, jurists have ruled that the children remain with the mother up to a certain age, after which the arrangements are to be worked out with mutual consent. Widows and divorcees are free to remarry.9
And now the big one: polygamy. I actually knew someone who had two wives. One of Khalid’s neighbor’s in Multan, a wealthy man, was married without children. They were guests at our wedding. Months later I heard that he had taken a second wife. Why? Because he wanted children. We were scandalized. On my first visit back to Pakistan, my mother-in-law took me to visit them. I was curious: What are the living arrangements? Do the wives talk to each another? How is the husband handling this? I was sad: Poor first wife. I was angry: How dare he do this to her! If you didn’t have children, accept it as God’s will and move on. I was feeling downright awkward: What is the protocol? Who do I greet first? Will I offend one wife if I talk to the other? Do I compliment the chef not knowing who stirred the pot? As fate would have it, the new wife bore him no children. And a few years later, the first wife found herself pregnant, giving birth to a boy. The new wife remained childless. God has His ways. The baby boy is now a young man, and Khalid is in touch with him.
Getting back to the theology of polygamy. This is what I understand: It’s contextual. During war, many women were widowed and many young girls were orphaned. It was in the context of orphans that God ordained:
And if you have reason to fear that you might not act equitably toward orphans, then marry from among [other] women such as are lawful to you—[even] two, or three, or four; but if you have reason to fear that you might not be able to treat them with equal fairness, then [only] one—or [from among] those whom you rightfully possess. This will make it more likely that you will not deviate from the right course.10
There you go—polygamy is permissible but restricted. “As regards the permission to marry more than one wife (up to the maximum of four), it is so restricted by the condition, ‘if you have reason to fear that you might not be able to treat them with equal fairness, then [marry only] one,’ as to make plural marriages possible only in quite exceptional cases and under exceptional circumstances….”11 Having said that, I don’t care what the exceptional circumstances may be, I will never ever want Khalid to have a second wife (not that he is contemplating it—I think).
Women have the right to own property and a right to inherit—a right given to them fourteen hundred years ago, a right that women in the West got only in the last hundred years or so. Much in the Qur’an is allegorical, but some principles are clearly specified, down to the last digit. The laws of inheritance are one of those, lest there be any dispute. Check it out.12
Should I go on with the women’s rights business, or have you had enough? OK, very quickly. The highest status is accorded to the mother.13 If anyone launches a charge against chaste women and cannot produce four witnesses, they are to be flogged with eighty stripes and their evidence is never to be admitted in court again.14 If she commits an offense, her penalty is no less or more than a man’s.15 Did you know that Prophet Muhammad’s wife Khadija was a businesswoman? That the Prophet’s wife Aisha led the troops in battle? That in the early years of the Islamic caliphate, women attended congregational prayers in mosques, participated in educational forums in mosques, learned and taught religion? And they were not veiled.
Let’s talk about “impurity.” Here is what I found: the Qur’an places only one restriction during the menstrual cycle: no marital relations.16 That is it. As for all the other restrictions—I question the decree imposed by jurists, by male jurists speaking for women, from a male lens. I don’t believe that the All-Loving, All-Hearing God would close the doors on women for seven days, month after month, throughout their reproductive life. I don’t believe that God, who speaks to women in the Qur’an, and tells them to pray and fast to achieve God consciousness, w
ould deny them equal opportunity, and I don’t believe that only a male Muslim can be a full Muslim. Forgive me God, if I have erred.
OK, enough about women.
In those early years of my quest—the 1990s—I came to believe that I had all the answers. After all, consider all the studying I had done. I eagerly volunteered to teach, to speak, to lead group discussions, and I reveled in my newfound knowledge. I felt like an authority, and I had done it all by myself. I loved my faith. I still do, but the years have humbled me, and I am aware of how much I don’t know.
There was an unintended consequence to my pursuit. I was reading the chapter of Light, Surah Nur. After reading this passage, I stopped using makeup:
And tell the believing women to lower their gaze and to be mindful of their chastity, and not to display their charms [in public] beyond what is apparent thereof …17
I remember closing the Qur’an—I must have bookmarked it, letting it rest in my lap, and pondered over this verse: “… not to display their charms beyond what is apparent thereof”! So that would mean that applying makeup is enhancing “what is apparent thereof.” I picked up another copy of the Qur’an, by a different translator, then another. No luck—I was not getting an out. I read the commentary, looking for loopholes, absorbing the import. How does a woman display her charms? Flowing hair, lipstick, mascara, revealing clothing, what else? I made a mental list of my charms and all the ways in which I display them. It’s about display, about modesty in one’s appearance and demeanor. But I adorn myself for me; it makes me feel good when I look good. What is wrong with that? Nothing, other than: Why do I have to depend on red lipstick to feel good? I should have more confidence than that. Right? Right. But I cannot give up makeup. I have used makeup since the day I got married. I had ten shades of red lipstick jutting out on my dresser, two shades of blush on, and tiny boxes of eye shadow in multiple colors, mascara…. I never left home without my face made up. I can’t give it up. I would look pale and not as pretty. I’d be unattractive. Aha! There you go. So you want to be attractive! To whom? Gotcha! I put the Qur’an on the coffee table, stood up, and walked up the stairs to the computer room. Khalid was typing away, probably another article for the Staten Island Advance.
“Khalid, I want to talk to you about something.”
He looked up, stopped typing, and swiveled his chair around. I kept standing.
“How would you feel if I stopped wearing makeup?”
“Where did that come from?” he asked with a loving smile.
“I was reading Surah Nur in the Qur’an, and it says that women should not display their charms in public.”
Khalid kept smiling, as if to say, “Go on.”
“It also says that this restriction does not apply when I am in the presence of my husband, brother, father, etc. So I will still use makeup at home. And charm you,” I said with a giggle.
Khalid stood up, opened his arms, and gave me a hug. “Whatever pleases you.”
“Thanks.” Khalid had always liked to see me in makeup.
I went back down, and Khalid went back to typing. A few minutes later, he came down. “Bia, that means you won’t wear makeup when you go to the hospital dinner-dances.” I nodded.
The next morning, I applied some moisturizer, a little blush-on, and no lipstick or eye shadow. Let me go easy on myself and get used to it little by little. I got through the day without anyone saying anything at work or me feeling any different. The next morning, I put away the blush-on and went scrub-faced to work. No one recoiled from my plain face. The most I got was, “Are you not well, you look pale?” and I said, “I’m fine. I just stopped using makeup.”
“Allergies?”
“No.” Don’t hesitate. It’s OK. “You see, uh, I was reading the Qur’an, and, uh, it had an effect, and … well …”
“Oh, sure! You look great just the same.”
When I came home from work, I’d wash up, walk over to my dresser, and apply color on my lips, and blush on my cheeks. Khalid was tickled. It went on for a few years, this makeup-for-your-husband’s-eyes-only, until I ran out of lipstick and blush-on. I never went shopping for them again.
Mummy was upset. At every special occasion, she’d say, “Just a little lipstick won’t hurt,” but I was stubborn. How I wish I had put on some color, just to make her happy. My cousins in Pakistan were aghast. “She is becoming too religious. Where does it say in the Qur’an that you cannot use makeup?”
Then I donned the hijab—the headscarf. Well, not quite. Let’s say that I became a part-time hijabi. Soon after tossing out Revlon and Maybelline, I decided to tie my hair in a bun—no more display of curly, thick, glossy black hair. Be modest, I commanded myself. I was getting comfortable in my no-frills, no-fuss appearance, and covering my hair was more of a natural progression than religious conviction. Whereas I wasn’t convinced that the hijab was a religious requirement—though many would argue otherwise—it felt right. By cloaking myself in another layer of modesty, I was assuring myself that I could do it. I could resist the temptation to have my hair adorn my face. “I will take it a step at a time,” I told Khalid. “Let me start with the hijab off-hours, build up my confidence before I start wearing the head covering at work.” By now I had changed jobs and was the director of managed care at University Hospital–University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey (UMDNJ). I tried to picture myself: a high-profile executive in a business suit with a calf-length skirt at the boardroom, in a hijab. I will feel out of place. My colleagues may view me with a different eye. They may feel that I don’t fit in. Maybe I should wait a little. First get used to wearing it outside of work.
Coward!
“Don’t be a hypocrite,” a friend advised me. “If you want to wear the hijab, wear it full-time. Otherwise, forget about it.”
It was Saqib’s wedding. Mummy asked, “Go to the parlor and get your hair done.”
“Why would I do that? My hair will be covered with the dupatta.”
“It’s your son’s wedding! For once, don’t you want to look nice?”
“I will look just fine.”
Mummy shook her head in exasperation, looking visibly distressed. I wish I had humored her. I don’t know what I was trying to prove to myself.
In the end, I cast it off—I couldn’t handle the conflict inside me. Maybe one day I will put it on again. Who knows how I will evolve into my eighties. It’s a shifting relationship.
Meanwhile, a postscript: Whereas I see the headscarf as a cultural expression of Islam, I have utmost respect for women in the US who, compelled by religious conviction, have chosen to don the headscarf, particularly the teenagers. They have made a choice and exercised that choice. It is part of their identity and a reminder of their faith. Who doesn’t want to style their hair, try the latest look, have highlights, perms, and the like? Isn’t vanity one of the most powerful feminine traits? Sorry, feminists. Who wants to stand out, be different and apart, and in the post 9/11 era, no less? Wouldn’t it be easier to just blend in? It’s a huge leap of courage, and my scarf’s off to them.
Another postscript: I have finally reconciled the “how people should dress” issue. Note: I didn’t say women. The principle applies to both sexes, and it’s all about modesty. With the intent of not attracting unwarranted attention—as in sexual attention—the boundaries of modesty are defined differently in various cultures. A Muslim girl walking down Fifth Avenue in a blouse and jeans is not going to make heads turn. It’s kosher. Show cleavage and watch the crescent of the Muslim eyebrows arch. Now, if I walked through the bazaars of Rawalpindi in blouse and jeans, men would stare. In Saudi Arabia, the loosest fitting attire won’t fly unless you are cloaked in an abaya. As for men, they dress modestly for the most part. I mean, what is immodest about a shirt and pants, or shalwar kameez, or the ankle-length Arab thobe?
One fine evening I decided to quit singing. Singing was food for my soul, and the sound of music is what I lived with and lived for. I was taking the edict
of “Do not display their charms beyond what is apparent thereof” to another level. I decided that I would sing but not in the presence of men. I was interpreting singing in mixed company to be an act that is beyond the boundaries. “Why?” asked my brother-in-law. “Because a woman’s seductive voice should not be heard by men.” He blushed and said nothing. Daddy had been quiet until now. He had let me experiment with my news ways—until I made this pronouncement. “I was OK with no makeup, I was OK with the hijab, but to give up singing, I feel as if my life has been cut short.” My friend scolded me, “Have you no regard for your parents’ feelings?! What has gotten into you?” Unmoved by guilt, I dug my heels in. A friend had invited the renowned Pakistani poet, Ahmed Faraz, to her house for an evening in poetry recital. The Pakistani community flocked to the gathering. Someone told him that I used to sing one of his ghazals, “Rangish he sahi.” They asked me to honor him by singing his ghazal. I remained silent. Many pressed on. I didn’t budge. Then Ahmed Faraz, the celebrity, addressed me and requested me to sing his ghazal. I looked down at my hands in my lap, silent. I had made a decision on principle, and I was not going to be pressured, celebrity or no celebrity.
Something had indeed gotten into me. He has since passed on, and I am back to singing. If only! I had broken out of the cocoon on a cruise to Alaska, organized by the Pakistani physicians association. At an evening of beautiful music, I was overcome by the euphoria of the sounds and lyrics, and when someone asked me to come on down and sing, I walked to the stage, took the mic, and sang away. My friend Kausar, sitting in the front row, rushed up to the deck and sent Daddy a text, across the oceans, “Bia is singing again.” I suppose you eventually swing back. You cannot get too far away from yourself.
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