The Internet also opened up opportunities for Muslims like me who had grown up in Britain or other Western countries to explore the new multifaceted identities that we had been developing in private without knowing who to share them with. Newsgroups, bulletin boards, and blogs exploded onto the cyberscene with an exponential growth of activity, writing, and opinion. If I had once felt lonely with my British Asian Muslim woman multiversal identity, I knew now that there were other people out there who felt the same.
It was extremely exciting to find messages from different places in the world, respectful and direct approaches from men who were searching and who found your profile interesting. They were usually polite and conscious of the context of the marriage search. No longer was there the need to go through a third party; instead you could get to know someone directly. Messages would tell you unexpected things, from people who were interested in getting to know you. The sweetness and charm of receiving a message sometime in the middle of the working day are exquisite, and at some point, after the volume of e-mails exceeded a certain threshold, there came the moment of seeing a picture of that person or picking up the phone to hear their voice.
I tried not to decide too rapidly upon seeing a picture—photos were deceptive. Speaking on the phone was more revelatory. I never gave my number to anyone but asked them for theirs and then had a brief conversation. I learned that e-mails were misleading. It was too easy to read into them what you wanted to read. Even on the phone you lacked their physical presence and non-verbal cues to really know if the person had genuine potential.
Talking to someone unknown on the phone or meeting an unknown in person were skills I had already honed through the introduction process. But I felt a greater need to be cautious. These were people who had not been vetted and who I had no background information about. On the rare occasion that I finally arranged a meeting in person, I was careful to ensure that my safety was paramount. I would always have someone with me or be in a public space, and, of course, have the fail-safe of all blind dates, a get-out excuse.
GUILT
After several months, I came across Tayyab’s profile. He was American, about my age, working in the technology industry. He showed healthy humor about the online marriage process and his description made me laugh out loud. He didn’t take himself too seriously but sounded sensitive and interesting. I submitted a request to be put in contact with him and he accepted, so we began exchanging e-mails. He lived in Houston, by all accounts a cosmopolitan city with a large Muslim population. At first we just shared facts and opinions, and then slowly we talked about our hopes and dreams about getting married.
Tayyab was of Indian origin, born and brought up in the USA, and very much an active member of one of the more progressive mosques in Houston. He played sports, loved writing, and wanted to make the world a better place. And he wanted someone to share it with. He had reached his late twenties and he wanted a companion, a wife. He had discovered that he was lonely. He had some interesting political and social opinions. He loved watching the news and was clued up about what was happening around the world. We exchanged ideas about the U.S. presidency, modern science, Islamic jurisprudence, emotional intelligence. I was stimulated and challenged. And I was totally hooked. I really believed that he might be the one.
We spoke on the phone, and he was everything I imagined him to be during our e-mail exchange. He was funny, sensitive, emotional, warm, and intelligent. He sent me a photo where he was a small speck in a dark night sky. He looked like a normal twentysomething. The only thing that worried him was that he was only five foot five tall. He was small, only a couple of inches taller than me apparently, but I reassured him that was fine. I had already faced height discrimination and was not about to do the same.
“I’m going to come and visit you in London,” he told me in an e-mail one day. This was big, this was huge, this was momentous. Tayyab had never been outside America. Despite the fact that I had received several suitors who had visited London from abroad on their bride-finding tours, no one from the Internet had yet done so.
It took Tayyab some time to organize his travel arrangements. He had to get himself a passport and arrange with work to take some time off. He grew more and more excited, and I grew more and more nervous. Deep inside me was a mounting trepidation. Even though my parents had conducted some preliminary research about Tayyab and his family, we didn’t know a great deal about his background. My parents were therefore just as concerned as I was but encouraged me to give it a try. This was uncharted territory for them as well.
When he arrived he was introduced to my parents, and each day he would meet them, just as he met me, so that we could all get to know him together. His persona was sharper and more angular than when we had spoken on the phone. The mystery of absence had vanished, and instead I saw his own expressions face-to-face. The biggest challenge was to get to know him almost as a totally new person, because he was different from the character I had created for him when we spoke on the phone. I had experienced this with other people I had met, but with the epic travel across the Atlantic, and his certainty that our meeting in person was just a formality before getting engaged, the contrast between Internet-Tayyab and In-Person-Tayyab was heightened. He was also much more short-tempered than on the phone; the distance and our intermittent interactions had hidden this from me, but in person it was constantly evident, and this is what eventually signaled the end of any potential.
He started to annoy me: he seemed more excited about being in the UK as a tourist than meeting me. He jumped up and down about how our license plates were different, how we drove on a different side of the road, how everyone spoke with cute accents, how our houses were smaller, our cars were tinier, our streets were narrower. Most of all, though, he started by trying to make a show of being well paid. I was more than happy to contribute or even cover our shared expenses, especially in light of the fact he had paid to travel across the world to London. He insisted on paying but then very quickly began complaining about how expensive our coffee was, how expensive our food was, how expensive everything was! And soon his offers to pay, or even share, were deliberately and pointedly withdrawn, despite his initial showmanship about his financial liquidity and his own chivalrous qualities. It was the dentist all over again. This did not bode well for married life.
It was Tayyab’s unpredictable temper that finally sealed the decision for me. I felt enormously guilty that he had traveled so far to see me, but I told myself that I had no reason to feel guilty. I had not forced him to come. Every individual did what they had to do to find a partner. And Tayyab had taken a calculated decision to make this journey, knowing that things might not work out.
Was it my fault that it didn’t work? Should I have tried harder? After all, everything else seemed to fit so well and my parents were already tracing further references. I ought not to feel guilt—after all I had been the catalyst for Tayyab to do something he had never done before and might not have done if the prospect of marriage had not enticed him. I ought to have felt satisfied with my contribution.
Instead, everything I did made me feel guilty. And it wasn’t just about Tayyab; it was with my family too. They wanted so much for me to be married and live happily that I felt guilty I was unable to fulfill their wishes. It would have made them overjoyed if I had got married, and it was almost worth getting married to anyone who seemed broadly suitable just to see the happiness they would have felt. Not to give them that made me feel guilty. But if I had married any old Mr. Mediocre, they would have known that I had compromised my hopes and ideals, and in that process compromised the hopes of my family, too. They had supported me in my search through the difficulties, the heartbreak, and the loneliness, and if I gave up now, I would also feel guilt.
After so many years of my parents supporting me to make my own choices, it was only fair that I kept up the search. So many Muslim women were denied the free choice and support that I had been offered by my family, which they gave
me based on their Islamic principles that every person has the free choice to marry whom they wish and not be forced to marry against their will. I tried to uphold those values, and yet a bitter voice inside sent droplets of guilt running through my veins. Was it all my fault? Had I deluded myself with dreams of Prince Charming and happily ever after? Had I put myself and my whole family through this misery for nothing? Had I missed out on any opportunities? The answer was clear: no. Regret was definitely not on my shelf menu.
Marvelous Mary
I began to imagine that if I couldn’t find a man, then I would have a wedding anyway. I hadn’t lost hope—just started to prepare myself for the idea that it might not happen. Pretty dress, romantic venue, lots of good food, wonderful company. It was time for me to be the center of attention. Without Prince Charming I may not be able to reap the benefits of marriage, but at least I could have a lovely wedding. Did I need a groom? I was tempted to buy my dream wedding dress because what if I never got to wear one otherwise? I pictured a long, white flowing robe, encrusted with sparkling crystals all over it, and a translucent ephemeral veil to reveal my smile of pure happiness. I imagined ivory silk and hand-embroidered beads.
Mary, the mother of Jesus, was a wonderful inspiration to me during this time. She was mentioned with great reverence in Islamic traditions and was considered to be one of the “women of paradise.” Even a chapter in the Qur’an was named after her. Mary’s father had desperately wanted a child and prayed to God that if he was blessed with one, he would dedicate his offspring to serving God in the temple. Mary’s father was delighted when his wife gave birth to a child, but he was surprised that it was a girl. He pointed out to God that being given a girl rather than a boy was an unexpected turn of events. He had made a vow to dedicate the child to God, but only boys used to serve in the temple.
God was fully aware of this fact, obviously, as God knows everything. In His wisdom He had created a girl, to be dedicated in His way, and this challenged people’s ideas at that time, establishing that a woman was equally worthy in the eyes of God. Her presence destroyed the cultural traditions that a female was a subservient creature and not worthy to worship the Divine. Those who excluded women from the act of worship did so because they believed only “real” human beings could worship God, and women were not considered to be fully human. Mary’s birth itself was a stand for equality for women, and established by divine decree that women were of equal value and spiritual worth.
Despite the traditions of that era, Mary was given to the temple and grew up to be a woman known for her exemplary character and immense spirituality. Her being was entirely focused on creating a strong relationship with the Divine. Her uncle would come to visit her in the temple, and was surprised to find her eating delicious fresh food. When he inquired as to its provenance, she told him that while she was engaged in prayer, the food was brought to her by an angel, as a gift from God.
Since Mary was considered among the purest of all women, God chose her for the most amazing of miracles—a virgin birth. But in Islamic tradition, there is no Joseph involved in the story of the birth, no man to diminish the central role of the woman in this story. Instead, she is in her own right a shining independent icon, a woman leading her own life.
When Mary is about to give birth, she finds a quiet place under the shade of a tree. Her response to being in labor is described in the Qur’an through words that all women can relate to. She is not a distant unattainable figure, but shares the same experiences of womanhood as the rest of us. During the pain of giving birth, she cries out, “I wish I was dead.” Many women seem to say the same thing in the agony of labor. My mum says she wished it as well, right up until the second she saw me in her arms, and then forgot about the pain. Mary holds on to the tree and squeezes it with all her might to be able to get through the pain.
Despite her unblemished reputation, the gossiping Aunties of her time accused her of immoral behavior and they are supported by the power-wielding patriarchs. In order to protect her character, the little baby speaks by a miracle to explain that Mary is pure and untouched, and that he is the baby Jesus, sent as a prophet from God to deliver the truth and the scripture, and the message that people should pray, give charity, and worship God.
I don’t believe Mary ever married but in fact brought up Jesus on her own. I admired her because she was the very embodiment of the equality of women in worship and in social life. God had deliberately sent her as a sign of the worth of women. Her challenges were also very real, living with the people around her as a single mother, as a woman being talked about, as a human being living the best life she could. And if she brought up an amazing child like Jesus, then she must have been quite some mother.
I particularly liked the story of Mary and her role as a mother because my own mother’s name, Maryam, was the Arabic version of Mary. She, too, had been unperturbed by the gossiping of those around her, and had supported me through my search and given me inspiration. Both of them gave me hope that as a woman, whether a man was present or not, I could still pursue magical dreams and be a marvelous human being.
The groom-less wedding was never to happen. Instead, I kept hoping that the new methods of meeting someone that were blossoming would eventually deliver a companion to me. And that is how I found myself one evening, with Noreen, at a speed dating event. We decided that if on arrival it was too awful, we would leave together. The speed dating event organizers promised us something that we couldn’t get elsewhere: men in the flesh, and plenty of them. The event was due to have twenty men and twenty women, and every participant would spend three minutes with each person of the opposite gender to decide if that person might be the one.
We eventually located the obscure address for the venue, only to discover it was a nightclub-cum-bar. This immediately made us feel uncomfortable. Were we in the right place to find a suitable husband? As teetotal Muslims we did not spend time in bars. And since we were both looking for practicing Muslim men, we were dubious as to whether the men who attended would meet our expectations. The room was large and low lit, with red and orange lanterns and luscious exotic fabrics giving the whole place a sensual feel. It immediately made the whole speed dating concept even more challenging than we had anticipated.
The organizers handed each of us a card. Down the left-hand side were the numbers one to twenty. Then there were three columns: definitely, maybe, and no. Finally there was a column for notes. We wrote our own profile numbers in the top right-hand corner. All participants had a sticky label that they attached to their lapel with their profile number in big writing. No one was permitted to share their own name.
Each woman was given her own table, and every three minutes the men would stand up and move onto the next table. Eventually each of the twenty men would have spoken to each of the twenty women. We were advised to take any notes on the card to remind ourselves about a particular person, and then to decide if that person was a “definite,” a “maybe,” or a “no.” The cards would be collected at the end, and if a two-way match of “definite” was detected by the organizers, they would swap e-mail addresses and leave the participants to continue their conversation directly. If one was a definite and one a maybe, they would investigate with the “maybe” to see if he or she wanted to pursue an e-mail address exchange.
Eventually a critical mass of participants had arrived: twenty women and sixteen men. As always, there were fewer men. The women sat by the tables that formed a perimeter around the room while the men hovered nervously around the closed bar in the center. I noticed that I was the only woman in the room wearing a headscarf. Some of the women looked as though they had come after work in their suits, others looked dressed up to attend a Bollywood awards ceremony. After an introduction from the host, the men were dispersed randomly to take their places, one at each table. We were advised not to ask the usual “what is your name and where do you come from?” questions but rather to open with conversation pieces so we could get a feel of person
ality rather than vital statistics.
The first few men who came to my table looked superficially enthusiastic. The next girl on from me was a glamorous, curvaceous entity who had caused a mass sweep of eyes as she had entered the room. The boys who sat at my table had to scoop their tongues into their mouths in order to maintain even a courteous conversation with me. At first they tried, but it was obvious that my headscarf had turned them off completely. And besides, with the Bollywood star Aishwarya Rai look-alike next to me, they didn’t have much blood flowing through their heads. As the evening wore on, it became plain—because I eventually decided just to ask them directly—that they had come to find a wife who was Muslim for cultural or family reasons, not for reasons of faith. Therefore I was not an option they would consider. As an experiment, I ticked every single “definite” box to see if anyone had shown any interest in me. I got no responses.
Although disheartened, I told myself that I would not have chosen any of the men who attended. However, the pit of my stomach was sore from disappointment, no matter how irrational that feeling was.
Inspired by Mary’s determination, I picked myself up and decided to try again. I assumed that this was the wrong speed dating event for me, as it was aimed at a different audience. Perhaps others might have more appropriate suitors for me.
Shelina Janmohamed Page 23