Author: Nadia O. Gaber
Publication: FaithFreedom.org
Date: November 19, 2006
URL: http://www.news.faithfreedom.org/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=713#2
I went to Egypt this summer to learn how to
speak Arabic. What I learned instead was how to cover up, to be invisible,
to preserve my "moral reputation."
All I wanted was to learn the language that
would let me break through the barrier that separated me from my grandparents
and extended family. But I quickly discovered that the streets of Cairo had
other lessons to offer, whether or not I was willing to learn them.
In the Egyptian capital, a wardrobe malfunction
is not an accident-it's a sin. My public crime-by which I mean three centimeters
of exposed hip-was apparently atrocious enough to warrant a complete stranger
yanking my t-shirt down and proceeding to shoot me a look of disdain that-at
one fell stroke-dismissed me based on nothing more than the clothes I was
wearing.
But the Egyptian taboo against baring even
the smallest bit of skin runs much deeper than mere cultural norms; it is
rooted in religion. One does not need to travel to Cairo to witness it-the
hijab, or headscarf donned by millions of Muslim women throughout the world,
including close family members of mine, is increasingly visible in Western
cities, even Cambridge. Scholars, feminists, and Muslims have grappled with
the necessity and advantages of veiling, but I had never been forced to truly
consider the issue in a personal light until this summer.
The Arabic hijab, which literally means "veil,"
"curtain," or "partition," refers both to the covering
itself and the practice of decent living associated with the Muslim belief
that modesty is venerable in all facets of life. Although the ideal is a standard
to which both men and women are held, the physical covering of the hair and
body is almost exclusively required of women.
Dressing modestly was always a practice espoused
in my house, but the decision about what to wear was a personal matter that
was settled when I walked out my front door. How promiscuously I chose to
dress was between me and my God (although my parents rarely resisted commenting),
and had never before become the business of the anonymous public. Dealing
with a country where the opposite is true was the defining challenge of my
summer, and prompted a period of self-reflection that has become a turning
point in my spiritual life. Before this summer, I was too afraid to sincerely
question something as holy as religion or second guess the personal choices
that people make based on religious beliefs, but I have of late decided that
I not only have the right to question Islam, but an obligation to do so when
I think it is necessary.
As to the question of wearing the hijab, my
answer is, simply: no.
What I may have "lost" in literal
religiosity, I have more than won back from engaging with the tenets of my
faith. The granddaughter of a veiled woman but thoroughly Tennessean in birth
and rearing, I often struggle-here in America-to reconcile a system of doctrinal
conventions with the modern life of a twenty-something college student. Striking
a balance between parents' expectations, peer pressure, personal desires,
and the judging eyes of a global religion on everything from alcohol to sex
to appropriate clothing is a constant and unresolved internal "jihad."
Religion is a mutable concept in the Gaber
household. Having one Muslim and one Christian parent-each from very religious
but significantly different backgrounds-meant that the issue was polarizing
and thus, rarely forced. Religion was a guidebook for living morally but never
a checklist for acting "correctly." While a headscarf was therefore
never on my parents' agenda or even on my radar when I was growing up, I realized
this summer that the hijab is omnipresent in many peoples' lives, whether
they like it or not.
It's ironic-though the justification for the
hijab is to make women less preoccupied with their looks, I have never been
more conscious about my appearance than I was in Egypt. Because I am of Arab
descent, foreign eyes gazed more keenly at me-at how much skin I showed and
how much makeup I wore-than they did at my white friends, although their U.S.
passports were no bluer than mine. Equally perceptible were the unabashed
stares of lust, constant catcalls, and unsolicited conversations, winks, and
even physical contact, as if choosing to show an inch of skin-i.e. my ankles-entitled
men to unwanted advances and women to judgmental looks. I could never walk
down the street alone without a constant, infuriating paranoia that had me
counting down the hours until my flight home. It made me resent Egypt and
Islam in general, but I always had the comfort of knowing that I would eventually
return home. For millions, that paranoia is an inescapable daily reality,
and the consequence of a sad social phenomenon that has long been due for
reform.
