Yassmin’s Story

by Yassmin Abdel-Magied

  ‘You should have seen her. She was hysterical!’

  ‘She is one messed-up bitch, hey. She just had these crazy eyes going.’

  So I find it important to stay calm, particularly in disagreements, but especially when people talk publicly about why they think the hijab isn’t progressive, or how it is connected to the patriarchy, or that they think it is some sort of ‘religious arrogance and subjugation’.

  Stop! Just stop it. Don’t we have more important issues to be concerned about? Why is this symbol so challenging?

  It’s hard to believe that people think they have the right to tell me how to dress. This applies to everyone who has an opinion on whether an individual Muslim woman should or shouldn’t wear the hijab, niqab, jilbab, chador or burqa. We claim to live in a society that allows us to be free, here in the West, where individual choice is supposedly one of the differentiating and defining features of our society. Yet when it comes to women choosing to conceal rather than to reveal, the individual decision suddenly becomes everyone’s responsibility.

  The salt in the wound is that people make it seem like they are doing it for my own good. That doesn’t sound like the ‘freedom’ we are apparently so proud of. Actually, it smells a little like neocolonialism to me, cloaked in the guise of ‘good intentions’. If people really truly cared about the welfare of women wearing hijabs or any other Muslim-related covering, they would take their cues from the women themselves and ensure that their intersectional reality is respected. Rather, whether consciously or unconsciously, people apply their own cultural lens and project their broader prejudice onto another ideology – Islam – and in doing so they lose the respect of the people they claim to want to support.

  To be fair, people have less issue with the hijab than they do with the niqab. The hijab has become accepted in Australia. However, it does visibly mark one as Muslim, particularly when it is worn in the traditional manner, and that seems to invite all sorts of people to make their opinions known to you. The issue some people have with the niqab runs deeper – they feel a fear and discomfort, perhaps due to an unconscious acknowledgement that these women are choosing to do something that they themselves wouldn’t do.

  The solution is simple: respect people’s choice to make their own decisions about how they dress themselves. If you have a problem with it, check yourself.

  I sometimes feel like I’m banging a drum no one wants to hear, because the discussion makes them uncomfortable; to my mind this highlights that their attitudes can be a smokescreen for bigotry. Denying people the right to wear the hijab or disparaging its legitimacy is definitely more about reducing the visibility of Islam in the community than about ‘protecting women’, and it comes from a place of fear, ignorance and bigotry.

  There are many ways this bigotry is framed. Sometimes, people make it about themselves and, by extension, national security. ‘The niqab makes me feel uncomfortable. I want to see their face! How will we know who they are!?’

  National security is not a legitimate reason for this conversation. Beneath that attitude is fear – fear of difference and fear of ‘the other’, an ideology and a ‘people’ they know nothing about. Niqabis are, like your everyday Jane or Jannah, law-abiding people, and have said time and time again that they are happy to show their faces to a female identifying authority for the sake of security. Why should we make allowances, you ask? Because that’s how an inclusive society works! In the same way that we make allowances for people with dietary requirements and preferences, why shouldn’t we make similar adjustments for people with religious requirements and preferences, and ensure there are female authorities available for the identification process? Lots of majority Muslim countries seem to be able to do that without an issue. And if we somehow can’t find enough female authorities for the job, is there a deeper problem around gender equality that we are also ignoring?

  It strikes me as strange that there is such fuss when the veil as an item of clothing is not something new. Christian and Jewish women have been wearing veils for centuries. What, then, is the issue?

  The issue is that the custom is at odds with the socially constructed norms of the West today, and that difference is seen as threatening. It almost seems as if some people think that a person who is covering themself is demanding others do the same and judging the choices of other women in Australia. My choice to cover has nothing to do with your choice not to cover.

  It is not always as simple as it sounds. Remember, some Muslim populations have emerged from decades of colonial oppression and have framed their identities in relation to that move. If you take a long-oppressed people and try to make them see sense in the arguments of those who have victimised them, it should come as no surprise that there will be pushback. Hating on the hijab gives Muslims who are feeling the colonialism hangover more of a reason to believe in an ‘us versus them’ narrative. We can’t continue to let any discussions about Muslims in the West be pitched as ‘us versus them’ battles of civilisations. Why? Because that is utterly destructive. We have to do everything we can to ensure the language we use respects and acknowledges the history we share.

  There is a famous story in the Qur’an, when the Prophet (SAW) was driven out of Taif by the locals. It hadn’t been a good year for the Prophet (SAW). His wife and main supporter, Khadija (RA [May God be Pleased With Her]), had passed away and shortly after, his Uncle Abu Talib, the man who had protected him from the angry tribe, also died. The guy who succeeded Abu Talib as the leader of the tribe, Abu Lahab, was quite the hater. He hated the Prophet (SAW) and his beliefs so much that he would throw dirt and stones at him in the markets, yelling at him and warning others against following him. Eventually, when the Prophet (SAW) was visiting a town called Taif, children were instructed to throw rocks and curses at him until he was driven outside the city limits and found refuge in an orchard.

  The story goes that the Angel Jibreel told the Prophet (SAW) that he had the Angel of the Mountains ready. ‘If you wish, I can bring the two mountains at the opposite end of the city together and crush them.’

  ‘No, they should be spared, [for their descendants could be believers].’ The Prophet’s (SAW) words were clear.

  These were people who had stoned the Prophet (SAW) out of their city because they disagreed with his beliefs. He had the compassion to forgive them and show them mercy. There was no ‘us and them’ or a desire for vengeance and to right past wrongs. No, there was leadership and mercy. Regardless of motivation, there was mercy.

  This is what we must constantly remember. At some point, there has to be forgiveness. Yes, there can be immense frustration that we have to continually explain ourselves. Yes, there can be anger at past wrongs. Yes, there can be recognition of pain and hurt. Yes, there is a responsibility for those in the majority and those in power to recognise past wrongs, to realise the value of doing things differently – to actually lead and not simply hold on to power.

  Even after recognising all of this, at some point everyone needs to set an example and be the bigger person. Every community has to shoulder the responsibility of educating and re-educating people. The conversation really comes down to respect. We live in an individualistic society. And okay, yes, you might not like what I choose to believe in. But even if you don’t like it or wouldn’t choose it for yourself, you must respect it, because that is how we build civilisation. That is how civilised societies and people behave – by respecting each other’s agency and beliefs and the right to uphold their values. After all, that’s what living in an individualistic society is about, right?

  Chapter 26:

  We Gon’ Be Alright

  So there you have it. Twenty-four-and-a-bit years of third-culture-kid ups and downs, figuring out how to be strong, which battles to fight and how to have a laugh along the way.

  It hasn’t always been a straightforward journey and, Inshallah, I’ve still got a way to go, but reflecting on these experiences has allowed me to reach a few conclusions.


  Coconut or not, I’m proud to be Australian.

  Even if the world keeps asking me to define what that means, I’ll continue living it and let the rest figure itself out along the way. Australia is my home, my place to own and improve and to strengthen where possible, just like it is for every other Australian, and I relish that privilege.

  My journey so far has also taught me that there is great strength in kindness and compassion, although every once in a while we have to make a stand for what we believe in.

  There may be worlds of difference between where I was born and where I am today, but bringing the value systems of my faith and heritage to the culture that I grew up in has allowed me to understand more than one way of seeing the world, and I hope has enabled you to, as well.

  Occasionally, I am overwhelmed by the vastness of the challenges that lie ahead. Lying in the dark on my single bed, the room swaying with the swell rocking the rig, it is easy to think of myself as insignificant and unable to make a difference.

  But that’s not true, is it? It isn’t true of any of us, and knowing that is immeasurably powerful.

  There is great inequality in the world, and there is injustice that drives me to tears of frustration. Turn on the TV or check out your newsfeed; I’m sure you’ll understand what I mean.

  So how do we find our way out?

  I don’t have the answer, but I do know something has to give. We have to believe that things can change – otherwise nothing ever will.

  In the meantime, we have to learn to check ourselves: to challenge the implications of everything we read, eat, buy and think, because when we are uncomfortable, we are learning, growing and changing. We have to hold ourselves accountable, because sometimes no one else will.

  Once we are aware of the systems we are operating in then we can improve them.

  Is it going to be easy?

  I doubt it. Is it going to be worth it?

  Most definitely, Inshallah.

  Chapter 27:

  And Now?

  Habooba left us in the first week of Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic year. She had been ill for some time, not even able to pick up the phone when I called. Frightened that my strong grandmother could become so frail, I resigned myself to sending voice messages my aunt could play to her. The reality of her condition was difficult to reconcile; I avoided looking at photos on the family Whatsapp group – her sunken eyes made her spirit looked crushed, and I couldn’t bear to have these images as my final impressions of the great Habooba Saida. I hadn’t seen my grandmother since Aya’s wedding two years earlier, and even then her health had been faltering. Our time together that visit was short, but her voice was bright and familiar. She smiled as she held my hands in hers, skin soft and grip firm. ‘I love it when you call me just to see how I am,’ she said, and my heart lifted. I had planned to sit with her and record her childhood story, but we didn’t have time. Next visit, Inshallah, I remember thinking. Alas.

  When the news came I was on my way to Brisbane. I had wrangled a few days of the holy month back home, a rare treat. This would be my first Ramadan with my family in years – the last four had been spent on the rigs – and I was looking forward to throwing myself on the couch next to Mum while she watched trashy TV and chatting about future plans and politics with Baba, just like old times. No matter how independent I became, coming home was grounding.

  I arrived late and suspected nothing until the family car pulled up. I’d asked Mama to collect me and my too-many bags but she was sitting in the passenger seat, face ashen, and my father was driving. ‘We’re dropping Mama off at the International Airport,’ he said warmly – not the tone I was expecting. A grin with a pinch on the cheek, maybe. A half-hearted barb about not visiting enough, definitely. Dad hadn’t been impressed by my move to Melbourne a few months earlier and was even less excited about my decision to take a year’s sabbatical.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked as I loaded my suitcases into the car.

  ‘Habooba isn’t doing so well …’ Baba’s hand gripped my shoulder, briefly, awkwardly. The meaning was clear.

  My mother called us from Sudan with the news the next morning. She had reached Habooba before she passed and the ritual cleaning of my grandmother’s body and her burial were incredibly quick – a good sign, I was told by my aunt: ‘If it only takes a short time to wash the body it means most of their sins have already been washed away, already been forgiven.’

  My few days in Brisbane blurred as friends from the Sudanese and Muslim communities called to pay their respects. She left us during Ramadan, we reminded ourselves – one of the best times possible. It is said that during Ramadan the angels are out in full force. Pray for strength, pray for her forgiveness, all we can do now is pray … Across the ocean, Sudan kept my mother and her sisters busy – hundreds visited to mourn with the family, filling the house with love and memories.

  I felt far from the shared mourning in Sudan. There was no real language for grief in our Australian home beyond prayer: my father, like many Arab men of his generation, wasn’t one for tears. Mine would sometimes spill over despite my best efforts, but I was quick to wipe the traces from my face whenever I heard Dad approaching. ‘Are you crying?’ he asked once. I shook my head. ‘Good. We don’t cry now.’

  I soon returned to my life of constant movement, back to a world that demanded all of my attention. Grief was not an emotion I knew how to process, and I was even less certain about how to perform it publicly; the world only knew the joyful, optimistic Yassmin. Was there space for anything else? I limited the public announcement to a single, heartfelt, Facebook post.

  I was looking forward to my trip to Sudan – to time with cousins loosening my tongue with Arabic, to the chaos and confusion of Sudanese existence. My life had changed significantly over the past year: I was almost always on the road away from family, friends and language. The separation had left me feeling unmoored, so I was keen to get back to my roots but anxious about going back to a land that I knew would feel completely different. Sudan had always meant family to me and I dreaded seeing Habooba’s unoccupied bed in the Arkaweet home; the country of my birth would feel empty without her. For the first time, I was seeing Sudan not just for its people, but for its true landscape: hot desert sands, a tough, unchanging political climate and an increasingly conservative populace and government. Strange how the loss of one person reshaped the way I saw an entire nation.

  The flight to Khartoum had a stop in Dubai. After passing through immigration I stole into the women’s bathroom, got my old ibaya out of my hand luggage and waited in line. The double-denim outfit I had worn on my flight from London might have been trendy-yet-modest in the UK, but it did not send the same message in the airport in Dubai and most certainly would not do in Sudan. As I unfolded and refolded the ibaya in my hands, the soft polyester pouring through my fingers, I thought about how much my presentation to the world had changed over the last few years. Had I made the right choices, or had I strayed off the right path – as my father occasionally suggested – and normalised what wasn’t ‘true’ Islam? I wasn’t sure. Sometimes I didn’t know how to tell the difference between pushing the boundaries and drifting.

  I was the woman who spent most of her life in hi-vis orange coveralls and steel-capped boots, whose only make-up was a few sticks of lipstick. At some point I had started to have fun with how I dressed, playing with colour, material and character to tell stories with my outfits, and not just the story of my faith. My appearance began to reflect who I was as an individual, my intersectional clothing mirroring the growing complexity of my life: hipster ghetto, preppy tradie, on-trend traditional. I had realised there wasn’t just one way to look like a ‘good Muslim’ and I was embracing it. Sure there was tradition and expectation to live up to, but culture changes with the times – or that’s what I told myself, anyway. And yes, culture does change, but when you’re the one evolving it, who checks whether you’ve changed it for the better? My answer has always be
en to look to Islam, but in areas where there’s so much room for interpretation, religious certainties are harder to come by. I was struggling to find a way to interrogate my beliefs without feeling blasphemous. How does finding the right path work when the religion encourages questioning and growth, but the environment does not seem to allow that?

  If the Whatsapp messages my mother sent admonishing me for the tightness of my jeans and the new piercing in my nose were anything to go by, she didn’t think the way I was dressing aligned to our values. So even though I was having fun, was my behaviour appropriate, Islamic, right? I had to hope so, Inshallah.

  As a woman vacated the cubicle in front of me her eyes travelled up and down my person, clocking the ibaya in my hands. I could see the cogs of judgement whirring. In that moment I realised that to her I had become one of ‘those women’ - the ones who were derided while I was growing up. The stories were well known both in the Arab Muslim communities and outside of them: women who wore ibayas in their home country and then changed into Western clothing as soon as they got on a plane. ‘Those women’ were used as pawns on any side of an argument about the hijab: proof that Muslim women were losing their way, proof that Muslim women actually wanted to live like Westerners, proof that Muslim women were oppressed, that they needed to ‘be saved’ … Had I become one of ‘those women’? I wasn’t sure. Things were far simpler when I didn’t challenge my own attitudes. I could challenge the world around me but challenging myself? That was trickier. Sometimes I wished I could settle for seeing the world in black and white, but I knew that unquestioning certainty lent itself to a blinkered view. I was certain about one thing: my belief in Allah, Alhamdulillah. But on how to dress? I would have to live with the uncertainty and pray, Inshallah, that I was making the right choices.