Author: Zaiba Malik
Publication: The Guardian
Date: October 17, 2006
URL: http://www.guardian.co.uk/religion/Story/0,,1924101,00.html
Muslim journalist Zaiba Malik had never worn
the niqab. But with everyone from Jack Straw to Tessa Jowell weighing in with
their views on the veil, she decided to put one on for the day. She was shocked
by how it made her feel - and how strongly strangers reacted to it
'Idon't wear the niqab because I don't think
it's necessary," says the woman behind the counter in the Islamic dress
shop in east London. "We do sell quite a few of them, though." She
shows me how to wear the full veil. I would have thought that one size fits
all but it turns out I'm a size 54. I pay my £39 and leave with three
pieces of black cloth folded inside a bag.
The next morning I put these three pieces
on as I've been shown. First the black robe, or jilbab, which zips up at the
front. Then the long rectangular hijab that wraps around my head and is secured
with safety pins. Finally the niqab, which is a square of synthetic material
with adjustable straps, a slit of about five inches for my eyes and a tiny
heart-shaped bit of netting, which I assume is to let some air in.
I look at myself in my full-length mirror.
I'm horrified. I have disappeared and somebody I don't recognise is looking
back at me. I cannot tell how old she is, how much she weighs, whether she
has a kind or a sad face, whether she has long or short hair, whether she
has any distinctive facial features at all. I've seen this person in black
on the television and in newspapers, in the mountains of Afghanistan and the
cities of Saudi Arabia, but she doesn't look right here, in my bedroom in
a terraced house in west London. I do what little I can to personalise my
appearance. I put on my oversized man's watch and make sure the bottoms of
my jeans are visible. I'm so taken aback by how dissociated I feel from my
own reflection that it takes me over an hour to pluck up the courage to leave
the house.
I've never worn the niqab, the hijab or the
jilbab before. Growing up in a Muslim household in Bradford in the 1970s and
80s, my Islamic dress code consisted of a school uniform worn with trousers
underneath. At home I wore the salwar kameez, the long tunic and baggy trousers,
and a scarf around my shoulders. My parents only instructed me to cover my
hair when I was in the presence of the imam, reading the Qur'an, or during
the call to prayer. Today I see Muslim girls 10, 20 years younger than me
shrouding themselves in fabric. They talk about identity, self-assurance and
faith. Am I missing out on something?
On the street it takes just seconds for me
to discover that there are different categories of stare. Elderly people stop
dead in their tracks and glare; women tend to wait until you have passed and
then turn round when they think you can't see; men just look out of the corners
of their eyes. And young children - well, they just stare, point and laugh.
I have coffee with a friend on the high street.
She greets my new appearance with laughter and then with honesty. "Even
though I can't see your face, I can tell you're nervous. I can hear it in
your voice and you keep tugging at the veil."
The reality is, I'm finding it hard to breathe.
There is no real inlet for air and I can feel the heat of every breath I exhale,
so my face just gets hotter and hotter. The slit for my eyes keeps slipping
down to my nose, so I can barely see a thing. Throughout the day I trip up
more times than I care to remember. As for peripheral vision, it's as if I'm
stuck in a car buried in black snow. I can't fathom a way to drink my cappuccino
and when I become aware that everybody in the coffee shop is wondering the
same thing, I give up and just gaze at it.
At the supermarket a baby no more than two
years old takes one look at me and bursts into tears. I move towards him.
"It's OK," I murmur. "I'm not a monster. I'm a real person."
I show him the only part of me that is visible - my hands - but it's too late.
His mother has whisked him away. I don't blame her. Every time I catch a glimpse
of myself in the mirrored refrigerators, I scare myself. For a ridiculous
few moments I stand there practicing a happy and approachable look using just
my eyes. But I'm stuck looking aloof and inhospitable, and am not surprised
that my day lacks the civilities I normally receive, the hellos, thank-yous
and goodbyes.
After a few hours I get used to the gawping
and the sniggering, am unsurprised when passengers on a bus prefer to stand
up rather than sit next to me. What does surprise me is what happens when
I get off the bus. I've arranged to meet a friend at the National Portrait
Gallery. In the 15-minute walk from the bus stop to the gallery, two things
happen. A man in his 30s, who I think might be Dutch, stops in front of me
and asks: "Can I see your face?"
"Why do you want to see my face?"
"Because I want to see if you are pretty.
Are you pretty?"
Before I can reply, he walks away and shouts:
"You fucking tease!"
Then I hear the loud and impatient beeping
of a horn. A middle-aged man is leering at me from behind the wheel of a white
van. "Watch where you're going, you stupid Paki!" he screams. This
time I'm a bit faster.
"How do you know I'm Pakistani?"
I shout. He responds by driving so close that when he yells, "Terrorist!"
I can feel his breath on my veil.
Things don't get much better at the National
Portrait Gallery. I suppose I was half expecting the cultured crowd to be
too polite to stare. But I might as well be one of the exhibits. As I float
from room to room, like some apparition, I ask myself if wearing orthodox
garments forces me to adopt more orthodox views. I look at paintings of Queen
Anne and Mary II. They are in extravagant ermines and taffetas and their ample
bosoms are on display. I look at David Hockney's famous painting of Celia
Birtwell, who is modestly dressed from head to toe. And all I can think is
that if all women wore the niqab how sad and strange this place would be.
I cannot even bear to look at my own shadow. Vain as it may sound, I miss
seeing my own face, my own shape. I miss myself. Yet at the same time I feel
completely naked.
The women I have met who have taken to wearing
the niqab tell me that it gives them confidence. I find that it saps mine.
Nobody has forced me to wear it but I feel like I have oppressed and isolated
myself.
Maybe I will feel more comfortable among women
who dress in a similar fashion, so over 24 hours I visit various parts of
London with a large number of Muslims - Edgware Road (known to some Londoners
as "Arab Street"), Whitechapel Road (predominantly Bangladeshi)
and Southall (Pakistani and Indian). Not one woman is wearing the niqab. I
see many with their hair covered, but I can see their faces. Even in these
areas I feel a minority within a minority. Even in these areas other Muslims
turn and look at me. I head to the Central Mosque in Regent's Park. After
three failed attempts to hail a black cab, I decide to walk.
A middle-aged American tourist stops me. "Do
you mind if I take a photograph of you?" I think for a second. I suppose
in strict terms I should say no but she is about the first person who has
smiled at me all day, so I oblige. She fires questions at me. "Could
I try it on?" No. "Is it uncomfortable?" Yes. "Do you
sleep in it?" No. Then she says: "Oh, you must be very, very religious."
I'm not sure how to respond to that, so I just walk away.
At the mosque, hundreds of women sit on the
floor surrounded by samosas, onion bhajis, dates and Black Forest gateaux,
about to break their fast. I look up and down every line of worshippers. I
can't believe it - I am the only person wearing the niqab. I ask a Scottish
convert next to me why this is.
"It is seen as something quite extreme.
There is no real reason why you should wear it. Allah gave us faces and we
should not hide our faces. We should celebrate our beauty."
I'm reassured. I think deep down my anxiety
about having to wear the niqab, even for a day, was based on guilt - that
I am not a true Muslim unless I cover myself from head to toe. But the Qur'an
says: "Allah has given you clothes to cover your shameful parts, and
garments pleasing to the eye: but the finest of all these is the robe of piety."
I don't understand the need to wear something
as severe as the niqab, but I respect those who bear this endurance test -
the staring, the swearing, the discomfort, the loss of identity. I wear my
robes to meet a friend in Notting Hill for dinner that night. "It's not
you really, is it?" she asks.
No, it's not. I prefer not to wear my religion
on my sleeve ... or on my face.