Either way, I had made up my mind. This was my new status quo.
Hafsa put the hijab on with me as well, but she capitulated to her parents’ pleas to remove it after a few months.
‘They didn’t want me to be a target,’ she muttered solemnly, relaying the news as we hung from the tree in front of her house in a leafy southside suburb of Brisbane. Hafsa said her parents were worried because a girl wearing a scarf had been attacked for being a Muslim a few days earlier on her way to school. ‘Plus,’ she added, ‘they think it’s something Arabs do, and we aren’t Arab.’
The issue of being a target because of my hijab wasn’t something my family had talked about. Being visible was simply part and parcel of practising our faith. Their general attitude was that they wouldn’t let their values be compromised by external factors that they couldn’t control, but this was never explicitly uttered; it was implicit in everything we did. Being visible but remaining true to our faith was our Jihad, our struggle. The world is what it is. When you live for an afterlife, sacrifice and difficulty are easy to understand and justify.
That is at the crux of why, as a Muslim, I will continue to do something that I feel is an expression or requirement of my faith even though it might be uncomfortable in the society I reside in.
If you believe that there is more than just the life we have now, you can accept sacrifice, compromise and struggle in the name of faith because you know that there is more beyond your years on this earth. If you believe that this is the only chance you’ve got, it may cause you to approach challenges differently. So in the case of my family, because we believe that this life is simply one stage in the journey of our soul, a little bit of turbulence is worth the plane ride.
My reasons for wearing the hijab started off pretty uncomplicated. My reasons for continuing were less straightforward.
From a religious viewpoint, I felt there was an imperative in the scripture to wear the hijab, but not necessarily for the reasons that people usually expect (although there are some who will disagree).
When discussing the hijab, it is important to see it as being something for women instead of something for men.
Very often the conversation about the hijab is conducted and controlled by men, in relation to the male gaze, or in some way centred around men and maleness.
Muslim men in particular will say things like ‘women should wear the hijab because otherwise it is a trial for men’, ‘men can’t control themselves’ and so on. Understandably, with men having the conversation, it becomes about the men.
Nahhhh, mate. Have a look at the following verse from the Qur’an:
Oh Prophet! Tell thy wives and thy daughters, as well as [other] believing women, that they should draw over themselves some of their outer garments [when in public]: this will be more conducive to their being recognized [as decent women] and not annoyed. But God is indeed much-forgiving, a dispenser of grace! (Qur’an 33:59 Muhammad Asad)
There is a lot of variation in the interpretation of this verse, but to me what is interesting is why it was revealed. At the time of revelation, women were being harassed in public, and were at risk of being assaulted simply for leaving their houses. The hijab (with the focus not necessarily being on covering the hair but covering the body!) was brought in to allow women to feel more comfortable walking around in their own cities. It was not brought in for men but brought in as a tool to allow the women to participate more in their own societies.
It is also important that we ensure that the language about the hijab doesn’t become one of victim-blaming. If we say wearing the hijab is about modesty (and for some women it is), that is fine.
However, extrapolating that concept and saying not wearing the hijab is the same as being immodest, and that is somehow linked to the behaviour of men, is excusing men from being civilised and that is not acceptable. The statistics show that clothing and a woman’s attire have no impact on the likelihood of rape and abuse. Misogynist viewpoints are right at the root of such behaviour, and those are what need to be tackled, not the attire of the women in the street.
Why do I continue to wear the hijab?
I’ve been asked this question so many times I barely know what to say anymore. Religious imperatives aside, the hijab is truly part of my identity. It says to the world, I am Muslim and I am proud and I can do anything I damn well please, just you wait. Sometimes, it’s because I feel super close to Allah. Sometimes, it is just my everyday way of sticking it to the man.
Chapter 5:
Back to Sudan
Sitting in my economy aisle seat in late 2001, on our way to Sudan, I dinged the bell for the hostess. My mother looked over at me with a warning glance. ‘I don’t think you will be able to go anymore, Habibti …’
Post 9/11, it felt like all of my favourite treats were being taken away, one by one. On our trips to visit the extended family, I always used to ask to see the pilots, to get their signatures and check out the cockpit. I loved those moments!
Today I was no longer a ten-year-old child interested in the skies, but a young Arab-looking, hijab-wearing Muslim asking for access to the plane’s cockpit only a few months after four planes had been publicly hijacked. It was no wonder the air hostess’s face dropped so significantly when she arrived, and my request was duly denied.
My family and I travelled to Sudan every two years until I finished high school. Once I hit university, things changed but up until then my father made it a priority to go back, meet the family, see where we were from, and gain an appreciation for our ‘original culture’.
My early memories of Sudan are hazy and not just because we were young. Almost every single time we went back, I would get thoroughly ill, due to the change in weather, the food, something. Each time I found myself in bed with some illness – whether it was a cough, a fever or bowel movements that flowed so fast they made the Nile river jealous – it was typically something that meant I wasn’t able to go on the big family Ri7la, the trip they always took to the Sudanese outback – and by outback, I mean the Sahara Desert. We would go out for a day’s picnic, climb a small mountain that was a feature of the area or visit relatives that lived outside the main cities. Rather than the focus being the destination, though, the fun was all in making the trip and having an adventure with family.
For my parents, visiting Sudan was about reconnecting with their families. For my father in particular, being connected to family is a religious duty, and it has always been important to him that we know the people we are related to.
‘What was it like when we went back to Sudan?’ I asked my dad recently, trying to scrape together bits of memory.
‘It’s hard to say what you kids were thinking and feeling,’ he replied as he continued to move around the house, shutting all the windows. It was 3 pm and Dad has a regular schedule for airing the house out on the weekends, based on what he thinks is best for holding heat in or keeping the house cool, depending on the season. I followed him from room to room as he reminisced.
‘Tab3n [of course] the best memory must have been in 1997, when we were living in Robertson …’ My dad was referring to the suburb we called home on the southside of Brisbane.
‘When you and your brother saw our house, the house you recognised – whoa, you jumped up!’ He laughed at the memory. ‘You jumped so high. You couldn’t believe you finally saw something you knew, something you recognised, after a month of everything being new and strange. Your mother and I laughed so hard our stomachs hurt!’ I smiled at the thought: we would have been so happy because we had just spent a month in a world that was so different and foreign, even though it was technically where we were ‘from’.
My brother and I usually stayed in one of two places on our trips home; either my father’s family house or a few suburbs away with my mother’s family.
My father’s home was more rigid, similar to my father’s personality. His father, whom he called Fati (the nickname a shortened version of ‘Father’ in German), was an i
ntimidating figure to us small children, with large ears and wild black and white hair. We always called him Gidu, which means ‘Grandfather’ in Arabic. What I did not learn until much later was that he was a giant in the community, politically and academically, and that my father holds him in the highest esteem. Gidu’s room was closest to the front door, and when he woke he would sit in one of the two seats right outside the door of his bedroom, resting his arms on the deep mahogany arm rests, a coffee table in front of him and a wall of books behind. That bookshelf, which spanned the entire wall, was the pride and joy of the whole house. I would gaze up at it, thinking about all the knowledge it contained. The books were in Arabic, English and German and talked about everything from science to history, even babies! It was a wall that forever entertained and where I found my first Tell Me Why, but also my scariest Hercule Poirot story, one that sent me into tears.
Habooba, Gidu’s wife, would come out and serve him tea in the traditional Sudanese manner, a ritual they repeated for years. Gidu would have grapefruit for breakfast every single morning, and Habooba would ask us if we wanted any. I tried it once and scrunched my face almost immediately as the bitter taste of the grapefruit juice came into contact with my taste buds. The texture was deceptive, I thought – it should taste nice, like orange or lemon, but this! I politely placed the grapefruit piece back on the tray and smiled at my grandma. ‘Shukran, Habooba! I think I will just leave the rest for Gidu …’
Our days in the Abdel-Magied household were regular and easy. We would wake up for shay [tea] with Gidu and Habooba, then help get breakfast on the table, usually fool-u-bayd with whatever else my grandmother felt like, but always accompanied by fresh bread.
My dad would then take us to see one of the Abdel-Magied family businesses. The extended family used to own many businesses in Sudan, including a series of factories that produced everything from macaroni to candles. To ensure he had instilled in us a good work ethic, Baba would take us to visit the factories and then to the engineering office in the city for work experience. After all, we were a family of engineers.
Habooba would pack us some sandwiches in a small plastic bag, usually white cheese and tomato, give us a bottle of water and send Gidu, Baba and me on our way – my little brother was too young to come to the office. The sandwiches were always sumptuous, the key being Sudanese bread, which is like a short French loaf but much softer and always fresh. Preservatives are uncommon in Sudan so the bread would usually go stale in a day or two; fresh was the only option.
Dad would take me to the office of the engineering company and introduce me to the many people who worked there. We would walk past the tea ladies sitting on the broken tiles out the front of the building, fanning their teapots and crooning at passersby. Baba would let me push open the glass door, dusty from the street, and the tinkle of a little bell would announce our arrival.
‘Al Salam-u-alaikum!’ my dad would say, instructing me to say hello to the receptionist, the lady who took care of the books, the man in the office who did the logistics … Baba would instruct me to say hello to every one of them, and to be genuine about it.
‘It’s very important to greet everyone,’ he would tell me, as we walked up the stairs towards Fati’s office. ‘Even people who are not family, or who are doing service jobs. You must show respect.’
For all my father’s idiosyncrasies, he has always been consistent about respecting everyone, no matter what their social standing. It may have not even been about kindness, but more about duty, your duty to the community. Either way, it made me believe that no matter what your standing in society, you were to be treated with respect. Whether it was due to his father’s socialist influence, or simply a deeply rooted principle, it set the example for us kids.
I would spend my day either reading some paperwork (a manual or similar), which at the age of ten I only barely understood, helping file documents or simply entertaining another engineer or officeworker with my stories, perched on the bench of the desk, legs swinging.
When we weren’t at the office we spent our time reconnecting with family; my memory is littered with countless visits to houses I could only identify through strange landmarks – the house near the water tank, with the empty lot in front, with the nice garden, and so on. We would be welcomed in, sometimes by the family member and sometimes by the maid, ushered into the salon and plied with soft drinks, sweets and tea while my mother and father made conversation, with the occasional question about what we were up to or how we were liking Sudan. If there were other kids we would be out of the salon in a flash, playing tag and sharing childish gossip. I was a well-behaved joy of a kid to have around, or so I had thought. When I asked my mother, though, her recollection of the early days weren’t quite as rosy.
‘It was a little embarrassing,’ she said with a sheepish look on her face.
It wasn’t the answer I was expecting, and the rest of her answer only shocked me further.
‘You were little Aussie kids who weren’t used to being around lots of other people. You wanted your own things, you weren’t used to sharing and, well, you weren’t exactly quiet about it. You also didn’t have the other kids’ awareness or dexterity! One time we took you to the souq [the market] and there was a puddle of water on the ground. Of course, everybody else was walking around this big puddle but you walked right into it and toooooosh!’ My mum mimed falling. ‘You slid over in the mud, on your bottom, and just started to cry.’
I burst out laughing at the image. Sudan’s streets are full of random puddles of water as there is no real functional sewage system, so Sudanese kids were used to deftly avoiding them. An Australian city kid like me had no idea.
‘You cried, and then everyone rushed to pick you up, to take you to the car, help clean your hands.’ Mum was on a roll now. ‘We would go visit people in their houses and you would just say whatever was on your mind. Things like, “Mama, why is everything so yucky and dirty? Why does no one have nice things?” You weren’t used to things in Sudan.’
‘So we really were spoilt Aussie kids?’ That had never crossed my mind, but I guess we were those foreign children who spoke English, were used to toast and Weet-Bix, and wanted to play with our own toys. It was a little shameful to think I was one of those ‘Western-bred-kids’ with no manners who I would later laugh at on my trips to Sudan, because they didn’t know how to act. It also made me really grateful that my parents had made the effort to teach us, so we didn’t remain those kids who grew up overseas without connection or appreciation for where we came from.
‘Yes, you were those spoilt Aussie kids who didn’t understand this new world just yet. But it wasn’t all bad. Do you remember when you and your brother used to sleep with your uncle on the ground in the salon? He would lay the straw mat down and you would all just fall asleep on that under the fan, then wake up in the morning nice and early with the sun and have white tea and biscuits with Habooba.’
I remembered; it felt like a lifetime ago.
‘He would take you to meet his friends and show you and your brother off! The two little kids who talked a lot in English, so fancy and cool.’
I liked that we were able to provide our family with some street cred, regardless of the embarrassment we’d caused.
‘You loved Arkaweet [my mother’s family home]. The front garden wasn’t paved so you’d play in the sand outside, put the sand in your hair, roll around in it – you loved it! You would say, “Habooba Saida’s house is in a sandpit! Can we stay in her sandpit house?”’ My mother smiled. ‘That was so bizarre for people in Sudan, because they had no idea what a sandpit was. They couldn’t understand that here in Australia people build pits and put sand in it for kids to play with. In Sudan, there was sand everywhere. The whole place was a sandpit. Why would you want to build one?’
I could only imagine the general confusion when my mother’s English-speaking baby spent her time playing in the sand, which is the one thing that annoys Sudanese people uniformly.
‘OMG – but he used to pinch me, all the time!’ I remembered Esmat’s exquisitely painful but oh-so-sneaky pinches, and the innocence he would feign when I yelled at him.
‘But then one day when you were playing in the bedroom he ran out crying and yelling. You followed behind him, smiling like this …’ My mum’s face arranged itself in the perfect imitation of the cat that got the cream, satisfaction oozing out of every pore. ‘You’d bitten him on his bottom!’
I let off a peal of laughter, having forgotten that memory.
‘He never pinched you after that.’
I am proud of my younger, still sassy self, showing my cousin what was what. It looks like I learnt how to defend myself in a scrap very early on. Although I was a bit disappointed to hear we were known as spoilt kids, as outsiders, which I told Mum.
‘That’s true, but every time we came back, people remarked on how much you had grown up. In Sudan, it’s not easy to survive. You have to please everyone, serve the elders, and navigate the complex social web that is your extended family. It teaches kids skills that you don’t learn here in Australia. Once you started to grow up, you developed those skills, and as you became familiar with the environment you began to thrive. Now you are better off for those experiences.’
Although my time in Sudan as a child feels blurred and like it happened to someone else, I have no doubt the visits had an impact on my connection with the country.
Thinking back, I didn’t notice major differences being in a Muslim country because at that point all my friends and family in Australia were Muslim too, so I knew no different. Mainly, I just had culture shock from being in a world different to what I knew – chaotic, loud, dirty, full of people and demands that I couldn’t understand.
Yassmin’s Story Page 9