Inside the Gender Jihad: Women's Reform in Islam (44 page)

220 inside the gender jihad

to cover my underwear when I sat down. I had to remain standing to “look cool” in this skimpy outfit. Meanwhile, I must admit that my eldest daughter taught me something unexpected about such choices. They could also be self-motivated, with no connection to the weak provocations of male libido. It is my oversensitivity to men’s inability to control their lust that influenced both my choices of exposing or modest garb. Such lack of

control exists despite women’s choice of dress. If

men respected women

as equal human beings and not as objects of their

sexual fantasies, then

even a naked woman should be safe from male abuse. Furthermore, with regard to the particular items of Muslim women’s dress styles, including the
hijab
, when a Serbian soldier in the rape camps can rip a two-year-old girl’s body apart by raping her, it is obviously naive to assume that any amount of head covering would have made any difference or created any real change in deep-seated male sexual aberrations. Furthermore, when African men, Muslim and non-Muslim, who have A.I.D.S. accept rumors that sex with a virgin is a cure, and then rape a female infant, talking about head coverings does not lead us very far toward arresting this violation.

The Agency and Cost of Choosing
Hijab

As a descendent of African slave women, I have carried the awareness that my ancestors were not given any choice to determine how much of their bodies would be exposed at the auction block or in their living conditions. So, I chose intentionally to cover my body as a means of reflecting my historical identity, personal dignity, and sexual integrity. When I entered a mosque the first time to inquire about the Islam of books I had been reading, I was already dressed in long clothes and my head was covered. I suspect this influenced the (only) men present to skip over giving me infor- mation and instead say, “If you believe that there is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his Prophet, you might as well state the
shahadah
, first pillar of Islam, the declaration of faith.” The particular mosque I had chosen to visit was one block from my mother’s house in Washington, D.C. It was convenient to me although I had no way of knowing how heavily influ- enced they were by the works of the Pakistani scholar Maulana Mawdudi, and all the women associated with the mosque wore face veils as well.

Caught up in the momentum that Thanksgiving day in 1972 at the age of twenty, I agreed to become a member in a global collective with an intel- lectual legacy and complex multiple cultural manifestations although I was really too ill-informed to actually make a fully conscientious transition.

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Once I made the declaration, however, I began to follow the ritual practices as described in a booklet they provided me. I also continued my independent reading and research.
5
At that time, I begin to wear only the traditional

hijab
style as head covering to identify this transitional moment.

My preference for
hijab
has also exposed me to other aspects of its debate. In academic and conference settings, women have avoided me, perhaps with preconceived notions about the relationship between
hijab
and intellectual competence. The
hijab
means silence and conformity, so I could not possibly have any independent thoughts to contribute to the upcoming forum. It was unnerving after my presentation how frequently the same women who had avoided me would clamber around me to engage in con- tinued dialogue. In Egypt and Jordan I also experienced how
hijab
in the Arab world carries some class implications. The women of established wealth and inheritors of liberal discourse during the days of nationalism did not dress in
hijab
. When I encountered them at foreign gatherings before, during, and after conference or workshop events there was a note of condescension in their voices. Class privilege was associated with Western-style dress.

Likewise the allure and exoticism of the invisible beauty is also asso- ciated with the veil, as so well articulated in eighteenth and nineteenth century
harim
literature.
6

A former dean of the School of the Art, and a well-known black artist, once told a non-Muslim friend that he would like to paint a picture of me – wearing a bikini. Undressing the covered woman still lingers like Holly- wood images from the sitcom
I Dream of Jeannie
. Meanwhile, other threats are even more ominous and violent. On September 11, blaring car

horns harassed me while returning to my office from class.
7
Since that

time, I have had a multitude of airport double and triple security checks – supposedly random. Once, in Pittsburgh, I sat on a small plane while the captain announced that a security breach in the airport would delay all flights. Not two minutes later, I was escorted off the plane for a special search by the head of security. I was told a tale fabricated by military officers at the airport from my point of origin. Muslim men had blown up the buildings – overtly dressed Muslim women receive the backlash. Finally, after I led the New York congregational prayer on March 18

2005,
8
several learned traditional scholars made extensive commentary

that a woman leading congregational prayer was a distraction to the men’s ability to control themselves sexually and thus impeded their ability to concentrate on the prayer performance. Unfortunately this is true, but not because of the woman herself; rather, because of distorted masculine

222 inside the gender jihad

sexuality, which public discourse insufficiently targets for improvement – instead, it is accommodated, by forcing women to assume the responsibility of curtailing male temptation. This is another all too common double standard with insufficient attention given to correcting men about their own impro- priety and lack of human dignity. Personally, I worry what that says about Muslim men if even in worship they cannot keep their minds on Allah and away from their lust.

Even though dress may seem coincidental, it is laden with significance in the gender
jihad
. Women observe or ignore the traditional head covering or
hijab
with or without full intention or volition. Despite my
choice
, wearing
hijab
has
never
been free of the tremendous symbolism given to it within and without Muslim communities over the past several decades. It is not coincidental. Dubbing it the
sixth pillar
only shows its ability to divert attention from the issues of substance regarding modesty and relations between the sexes, like unrestricted male libido. The
hijab
is also a signi- ficant marker for community approval and disapproval. The paradox of my choice and devotion to wearing
hijab
without considering it obligatory means a significant duality of some strategic consideration for my various roles and experiences in the gender
jihad
.

Now that I am past the age when the Qur’an says women can lay aside their outer garments (24:60), I am less inclined to wear my
hijab
at all times – especially when cutting the grass in 90 degree summer heat! No longer do I grab for that 45 inches of material whenever the doorbell rings, when I walk to take mail out of the box at the end of my driveway, when taking a ten-minute drive to transport one of my children, or running a local errand. I still prefer to wear
hijab
as part of my more public partici- pation and do so whenever I dress for campus, for professional or public engagements, business meetings, community affairs, and interfaith forums. I also might remove my
hijab
, say, at an informal dinner that might follow a more formal conference, to avoid the stigma of rigidity. Now, my quest is to achieve modest integrity over formulas and symbols. I once thought that by simply wearing modest dress, especially styles explicitly identified with Islam, like the
hijab
, I would be addressed for my mind and my overt humanity. Too many experiences to the contrary have stripped me of this narrow sense of security. It is just as easy to be reduced to my sexuality while wearing the
hijab
as when not wearing it.

Despite this, in context of Muslim confessional collectives, the
hijab
is still the primary marker that allows a woman to speak her voice. She is still too often prejudged by this symbol. Although I prefer to wear the
hijab
, it

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223

has never made the articulation of my radical observations more palatable. It did afford me opportunities to be heard. At the International Muslim

Leaders
’
Consultation,
9

those who heard

my voice and recognized the

radical nature of my observations actually called me a “devil in
hijab
” and demanded that I take the
hijab
off. On several occasions that week, I did wear hair wraps other than the traditional
hijab
, allowing my hair to be exposed.

Interestingly, as a woman of African descent, wearing the traditional

hijab
has increased my ethnic anonymity in many countries, including the

U.S.A. It has hidden my African origins, allowing others to identify me with several Muslim ethnicities. When I began exposing my dreadlocks, I was more readily identified as African-American. This has gained greater

personal and political significance.

It affirms both my cultural history

and my transitional status. Despite global notoriety, it is surprising to some Muslims from generations of Muslim culture, who still assume that “Islam” is explicitly and rigidly non-Western. Hence Muslims from the West or of Western origins cannot be major players in the movement to reform Islam, with due respect for the traditions, as well as astute reflec- tions and obvious experience in modern pluralism and current conflicts.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

The events of September 11 have changed our world forever. The compla- cency of American citizens in ignoring the ever-present human tragedies of intercultural political devastation and even their country’s own foreign pol- icies was violently shaken.This exposed them to the fear and vulnerability continually experienced by many of the world
’
s population. The arrogance of safety replaced by the reality that many people already know or directly experience on a regular basis could have led to awareness that no one is safe until we alter our quest for global hegemony. The official American response to this fear has been to multiply the perpetuation of violence.

The

consent

of the

general American population to retaliation is

only slightly less abhorrent than the profiling and acts of terror perpetu- ated against Muslims living in America. Therefore, feelings of safety and security have become even more distant in the face of global havoc, chaos, and brutality. Unfortunately, the escalation of violence since the end of colonialism has not been a symbol for the necessity of working more radically for peace and reconciliation. That day not only negatively affected American victims and their families, it caused latent disrespect to become

224 inside the gender jihad

more overt for Muslims both in the U.S.A. and abroad. That event caused displacement and pain to be permitted in the public space without the etiquette of reciprocal respect for citizenship or of shared humanity. I wrote one short story about 9/11 as an African-American Muslim woman, dressed in a manner openly recognized for its association with Islam. Who I am inside the veil became subject to what others wanted to ac- knowledge or ignore based on the media frenzy to provide exotic news coverage and tidbits of info bites. I live in Virginia, the state whose pos- ition as capital of the Confederacy bears the burden of past evils and cruelty it inhabitants have done little to transform. Richmond was also the landing place of the first Africans to be forced into slavery. Racism and xenophobia is still so thick, it seems displaced at this time in America his- tory. Since coming here with my children, in 1992, from multi-ethnic, multi-religious, multi-lingual Malaysia, I have begun to feel what it is like to be on the auction block. If I should step at the wrong time, in the wrong place, or with the wrong attitude, all of my inherent being and human dignity will be stripped base, and new forms of chastisement have whipped me.

This is the only essay I wrote about 9/11.

ERASURES

I chose the title from a
khutbah
, or sermon, delivered at a local mosque a few weeks after the event. The
khatib
(orator) referred to the way that the “identities of the victims as loved ones had been erased” for those left behind in bereavement. They would never call again, no matter how recently their voices might have had been heard. They would never visit anyone again, no matter how recently they had been in the company of family and friends. At the end of the
khutbah
, the main point was to challenge the faithful to persevere in the face of adversity, and to remember Allah’s presence at all times – not just during those moments when one feels Allah’s glory and grace in good times. Part of belief is to remain grateful, even in the face of tragedy.

I understood this metaphor of erasure since certain boundaries of my own being had been shifted and reconfigured from that day of destruction. I had to struggle to retain my dignity and regain wholeness. I recog- nized the particular metaphor of erasure in the collective experience for African-Americans and Muslim women in the immediate aftermath of 9/11. As the unique consequence of extreme forms of ethnic profiling became

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standardized, defended by verbal justification, the modern movie-going re- sponse to the evil and violence practiced by the bad guy is applause when the hero, or good guy, turns and beats the bad guy to a bloody pulp. Movies ending in reconciliation do not make blockbusters. They are not good entertainment. How can Americans aspire to intense conflict reso- lution when the major images generated in popular culture justify extreme revenge?