Shelina Janmohamed

by Love in a Headscarf

  “IS IT HOT?”

  The prevailing imagery of Muslim women showed us covered from head to feet in black. The headscarves were long, black, flowing pieces of fabric, draping over a long black cloak, and sometimes with a niqab, a veil, over the faces too, also usually in black. The photographs were taken to make the women look eerie and inhuman, alien to Western eyes. But underneath each one was a life, a story, a heart, which was denied by those who saw them just as a ghost covered in black cloth. Those who saw them as anonymous creatures were complicit with those who tried to make them anonymous by imposing this uniform style of dress. It made me feel uncomfortable to see women—Muslim or otherwise—dressed in identical clothing, whether that was the “little black dress” or the black outfits of the media luvvies or the black cloaks of Muslim women. It was strange that the color black was the recurring theme.

  This style of long, shapeless black clothing was deliberately adopted by many Muslim women as a way of controlling for themselves the external projection of their persona. They were fed up with the imagery surrounding us of female perfection and nothing less: thin, tall, blond, glamorous, perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect makeup. That was still women being told how they should dress and what they should look like. For them, the long black clothes were a way of reclaiming control over their image.

  Not all women chose to dress like that. For me, personality and aesthetics were important. “God is beauty, and God loves beauty,” is a famous Islamic saying, and I believed that meant incorporating beauty into your clothing to complement its modesty. After all, it was modesty that was the Islamic value at the heart of the discussion; the headscarf was only one component of that.

  The Qur’an advises both “the believing men and the believing women” that the first step toward modesty is for both of them to “cast down their gaze” when looking at someone of the opposite gender. The words suggest this either literally, or perhaps metaphorically, as a form of respect to another person not to see them for their sexuality. Take that out of the equation, and social relations become less tense and less fraught with the complications of sexual tension. People want to be judged for who they are, not what they look like, and sadly, it seems to be women who suffer most by being judged on their looks and sexuality.

  Modest behavior is accompanied by modest clothing. For women, that meant clothes that were loose and covered up to the wrist and down to the ankle. Most Muslims, but not all, believed that it meant covering the hair as well, and a very tiny number believed that it meant covering the face, too.

  By introducing modest behavior and clothing into the public space, the aim was to make life easier, less tense, and less judgmental for everyone. If I wanted to make society a happier place to live, I was willing to spend a little more time and care on choosing my clothes and wearing a headscarf. For me, it was a matter of faith and a contribution to making the community we live in better. The ever-visible headscarf was therefore only one element of the dress choice. Sometimes it was a bit hot, but it was worth it.

  “WHY DON’T MEN HAVE TO WEAR A HEADSCARF?”

  The Qur’an prescribed modesty for men just as it prescribed modesty for women—in fact, in the text of the Qur’an itself, the prescription for modesty is given to men first. According to most Muslims, men were required to dress modestly but weren’t required to cover their hair as part of their modest dress in the way women were. The curiosity that I’d found men had about my hair, where women had not had the same curiosity, and the way they used hair to complete their visual imagery of me, made me consider the possibility that hair was an essential part of a woman’s beauty and mystique in a way that it simply wasn’t for men.

  Irrespective of whether it was an obligation for men to cover their hair, in many Muslim countries it is in fact common for men to do so, and this is done in conjunction with modest clothing. Traditional Arabian clothing is very similar for men and women, where men wear the long “thobe,” which is a long dress, and a cloth over the heads, which is almost like a headscarf. In Oman they wear a turban-like head covering called the mussar. In Saudi Arabia they wore a white cloth called a ghutra, held in place by a black coil. In the Gulf as well as the Levant the men wore the keffiyah, a checked cloth held in place in the same way. In the subcontinent it was a small hat, often white, called a topi, and in Malaysia the men donned a cap called a songkok. It is a strange and unobserved phenomenon that “modern” Muslim men do not cover their heads. Perhaps they have put all the emphasis on women to cover their hair and have forgotten about doing the same themselves.

  When it came to the subject of men and hijab, there was one thing that made me angry on their behalf. Some Muslims described wearing hijab as a way of protecting themselves against men’s rampant and uncontrollable lust. If women didn’t wear hijab, they would be ravaged by these poor men who would be driven wild. I felt quite offended on behalf of men by the idea that they were sex-crazed monsters. It wasn’t up to women to control men. They weren’t wild animals. Men were ethical and moral, and were perfectly capable of treating women with respect.

  “DO YOU SLEEP IN YOUR HEADSCARF?”

  Being beautiful is an inherent part of being a woman. Looking glamorous, smelling fragrant, making the most of one’s feminine attributes are all significant components of womanhood. One of the reasons I was looking forward to getting married was to have a man with whom to share these beauties and who would appreciate me. Intimacy of the sexual kind was highly encouraged by Islam, and making the most of your beauty, for both men and women, was all but mandatory in the privacy of the home. Stepping out of the modest paradigm was not just with a spouse but for the whole of the private domain. So I would step in the door at home and unpin my headscarf. When it came to bedtime, there was nothing between me and my pillowcase.

  Wearing the headscarf in public was a matter of practicing my faith, involving modesty in behavior as well as clothing. I couldn’t separate that out and leave it at home, because that would be leaving my social values in the private sphere, and what was the point of a social value if it wasn’t practiced out in society? It was like believing that kindness was important, but then not being kind out in public.

  “ARE YOU A TERRORIST?”

  I wanted to respond “yes!” and then rummage round in my handbag to pull out an unidentified object, but I had to hold myself back. I limited myself to a response in a deep, baritone voice, “Are you?” and then waggled my eyebrows like the villain from a superhero cartoon.

  As students, we had reviewed our career prospects with the local school adviser. I filled out a digital questionnaire about my strengths, weaknesses, and interests. It offered me four suggested careers. First, prison warden, as it said I had good nurturing skills and could see the good in people. Second, library administrator, as I liked books. Third, technology design, as I liked new ideas and relating them to people. And finally, a new addition to their list of potential careers, terrorist, as I wanted to “make an impact.” I wasn’t sure what the qualifications or job prospects would be for this last option. I was doubtful that it would be well paid, and was certain there would be no pension or healthcare. Instead I decided to obtain a degree from Oxford and then go on and work in the fledgling technology industry. It was definitely the right choice.

  Of course I’m not a terrorist, what a silly question.

  I wondered what drove someone to the point where they were willing to end their own life and create destruction around them. What kind of macabre aspiration was that? Was it pure hatred? Was it an evil mind that had got hold of the means to carry out a bloodthirsty act? I couldn’t help but think those who had committed the acts of September 11 fell into this category, although none of us would ever know the truth.

  I aspired to live a happy life, a good life, a life that might be remembered by just a few, or perhaps by many, for making a positive contribution. I wanted a career, a home, a husband, children, a comfortable retirement, as most human beings do. And I also wanted to make a
contribution to reducing the misery and oppression in the world and bring about a lasting change, no matter how small. Every Muslim woman has aspirations, just like every other human being. The clothing we wear or the acts of faith that we carry out do not change any of that. We want to live happy, fulfilled, and successful lives.

  My aspirations were real and huge to me. They dominated how I lived my life. But there were others around the world who lived in poverty, war, famine, destruction, dictatorship, oppression, and occupation. Some of them saw acts like setting themselves on fire or killing themselves as well as others as better than living. I didn’t want to imagine the void in their lives where hope ought to have been. What terrorized me was the knowledge that these people had taken a decision that their life could be improved only through death. If their aspiration was simply to end their suffering then we had let them down. I had let them down.

  “WHY DO YOU WEAR SO MUCH BLACK?”

  I wondered sometimes if people really did look at what was in front of their eyes. With pictures of Muslim women dressed in black used as shorthand for “Muslim” or, worse still, “Muslim terrorist,” it was assumed that all Muslim women wore black all the time. This was the fashion from the Gulf countries, including Saudi Arabia, which exported its opinions on Muslim behavior and etiquette around the world. Just as women across the globe had adopted “Western” clothing, it seemed that a certain segment of the Muslim population was adopting “Saudi” style to represent the rekindling of their Muslim renaissance. When the black-clad women of the Gulf traveled to other Muslim countries, they stood out like a sore thumb. Muslim women elsewhere, and that consisted of the majority of Muslim women around the world, in countries like Indonesia, China, Malaysia, Nigeria, Turkey, and so many, many others, wore brightly colored clothes, from greens to pinks to blues to whites and every color in between.

  “I wear a pink headscarf,” I pointed out, “usually in a shade of lilac or soft rose pink. It is my signature color.”

  E-veil-uation

  I had a good feeling the day that I met Hasan for coffee. It didn’t last long.

  “I wasn’t very keen to meet you,” he confessed. “Nothing personal, but I’ve told my mum and my aunt who are both on the lookout for a wife for me, that I don’t want someone who wears hijab.”

  Oh, dear, here we go again: telling me I’m completely unsuitable in his first breath! “But they just went on and on,” he rolled his eyes in jest, “about how lovely you are. How smart, how pretty, how nice, until I could take no more!” Who were these women who thought so differently from all the other Aunties? I couldn’t place his mother or aunt at that moment, so I was unaware what I had done to impress them.

  “They finally persuaded me to meet you. I had no option to say no!” He threw his hands up in mock-protest, ridiculing the process of persuasion. He was affable and laughed at himself and his ludicrous situation.

  I smiled sweetly. It was the best I could muster for a man who was honest enough to admit I didn’t meet his requirements. I gave him some leeway. He had come with an open mind at least—well, half an open mind.

  “They’ve been pestering me for quite some time actually.”

  He seemed nice, well-mannered, and intelligent. He was very polite, willing to try new things, and open to considering new possibilities. After all the introductions that I had been through, I learned very quickly to identify someone I would get along with and with whom there was potential. Other than his resistance to my headscarf, everything else was very positive. I had also learned that it was important to be brave enough to raise the make-or-break issues sooner rather than later. The answer to the question would always be the same in the end: time rarely changed someone’s response to a critical issue.

  I plunged in: “So why do you want someone who doesn’t wear hijab??”

  “I think girls who wear hijab are probably very religious and stay at home all day praying. They must be a bit dull. I like to go out a lot, so I wouldn’t have anyone to go with.”

  I repeated his sentence back to him. “So a woman who wears hijab is someone who stays at home all day, prays all the time, and doesn’t go out. And she is very dull.” I looked at him smiling.

  He squirmed, boyish and innocent, smiling too.

  “Now, you may have noticed that I am a woman in hijab. So what are we doing here? And by the way, you called me dull!”

  “I know! I know!”

  More wriggling on his part.

  “What else?” I asked.

  “Well, there are places I want to go that I wouldn’t want to take a woman in hijab,” he offered, with a note of defiance, concern, and naughtiness.

  “What kind of places?” I asked. He wasn’t getting off so easily.

  “Places. You know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” I raised my eyebrows and took a sip of coffee. “Anywhere you can go, I can go too.” I paused to see if he would buckle. “Or are there places that you go where you feel in your heart that you shouldn’t go, and seeing me with my headscarf with you would remind you of that and make you feel guilty?”

  He changed the subject. “I just don’t feel comfortable with a woman in hijab.”

  “Really, I make you feel uncomfortable?” I laughed at him.

  “No! No!” More squirming.

  I couldn’t contain my laughter any longer in response to his elusive answers.

  “I’ve just never met anyone like you. I don’t know any women who wear hijab. I just thought that’s why they would all be dull.”

  I wondered how Hasan would respond to a tougher line of questioning. I decided to be blunt.

  “Is it that you want to show your wife off to your friends to point out how pretty she is? If I wear hijab then you can’t exhibit me.”

  Some boys had brazenly admitted to me that they wanted a pretty wife to show off to their friends so they could compete to see who had the most luscious partner. A woman in hijab would never meet that expectation. A woman in hijab would never want to.

  He looked at me, unsure of this turn in the conversation.

  “Or maybe you are worried that they will know that you are a Muslim? Or they will stop being your friends because your camouflage will be blown?”

  As Muslim women who wore a headscarf, our faith was obvious to those around us. We were clearly marked out and we had to learn to establish our identities as Muslims who were confident in our faith. We took the brunt of recognition as Muslims. The way we appeared in public was used to epitomize Islam. Stories in newspapers to do with Muslims—even if Muslim women were not involved—invariably carried pictures of Muslim women wearing headscarves or veils.

  For some Muslim men, who did not want to wear their faith so openly or who did not want people to know that they were Muslim, it was easy for them to hide their faith. They did not have to carry any outward signs; the beard indicating they were a practicing Muslim was deemed by some to be optional—a recommended action, but not obligatory. For Muslim men who were embarrassed by their religion and did not want to be associated with it, my headscarf was extremely conspicuous, as though a big sign was appearing over our heads flashing “Muslim! Muslim!”

  I looked him straight in the eye. I was trying hard not to label him unfairly based on my experiences so far of men who did not want to marry a woman who wore hijab. I had to fight my own preconceptions.

  “You’re really nice, and I never knew that Muslim women went out or traveled or worked or could dress fashionably and still look attractive …” He blushed, and then I did. “I didn’t realize. It’s just, just … I’m sorry, I just don’t feel comfortable.”

  We talked further, and slowly Hasan’s real feelings were revealed. My hijab fully publicized my faith to the wider world, and Hasan’s conclusion was that I must therefore be totally consumed with instituting a highly visual public statement of religion, which would destroy his efforts to keep his own religion private. I explained that even though a woman may have taken the huge step to dress
modestly and wear the headscarf, it didn’t mean that she was perfect or pious in every, or even in any, way. She was just as human as everyone else. However, his reflexive reaction was that I was forcing him to expose what he had consciously and subconsciously spent so much time hiding.

  The different responses I received to my headscarf had revealed how these men felt inside themselves. I remembered my Funny Valentine card and thought about how different men react to women who wear hijab, and how a woman’s dress can change someone’s perception of who she is so dramatically. Hasan had an idea of himself that he kept very private. He was honest in describing that he had a seed of faith that lay in his heart but that he wasn’t ready to bring it out into the open and expose it yet.

  He and I were at different stages in our journey through life. We were in such different places that we did not even have the language to talk to each other about what was important to us.

  I liked the fact that he had his own ideas about the world but that he also understood there was space to learn and to grow. Most of all, I was impressed with his honesty and willingness to challenge his own preconceptions. He made me challenge my own and ensure that I saw each person with individuality and humanity.

  I had started my search looking for a man who would abide by the choice I had made to wear the headscarf; after all, it was my own decision as a woman as to how I should dress. But the more I had to fight the preconceptions of what a Muslim woman who wore hijab should be like, the more I wanted a man who understood why I wore it and supported me. I wanted him to want me to wear hijab. I wanted him to have a vision of a better future for our society, and to understand that the reason that I had chosen to wear hijab was a small contribution to that future.

  If someone was tied to literal or cultural ideas about Islam and being Muslim then we would never be able to improve the status quo. Instead, we had to create new possibilities, and to do that I needed someone who was magical enough to free himself of the preconceptions that held all of us back.