I thought Muslims found it easy to look back on this stand against racism and claim credit for the equality that lies at the core of Islam. But my experience through the marriage process was forcing me to ask difficult questions about whether the ‘rules’ that we were socially obliged to follow really did adhere to the fundamentals of our faith. If they did, why was it considered almost unheard of to marry someone from a different ethnic group? If you were from the Asian community, marrying a Salman would be frowned upon, despite his excellent character. Worse still – and it would be impossible even to suggest such an idea without creating a tsunami of horror – would be the idea of marrying a Bilal.
Such contradictions finally forced me to understand that faith and culture were completely separate, and I would have to learn to deal with them as separate things. Culture was a wonderful, beautiful, textured human experience to be upheld and treasured. I wanted to hold onto all the culture that was part of me. I loved cultural traditions, processes and quirks. I found beauty and history in them, as well as simplicity and elegance. So often they found a simple solution to a complex question. Sometimes, though, culture had got it wrong. There was no shame in admitting it; culture needs adjusting from time to time, and that is why so many prophets were sent to people – to ensure that the errors of culture were corrected.
My faith as a Muslim is what created my vision as a human being. Where the two came into contact, and where there were contradictions, faith had to take priority. I could no longer ignore the discrepancies that kept coming up. The delicious irony was that the marriage process was one of the most traditional components of Asian culture, and it was the very act of going through this marriage process that had unmasked the double standards between what was said about Islam and what was actually done about it. Once I had realised this, I had to take my own steps to free myself from the ties of culture that constrained me from living my life, and from questioning, exploring and practising my faith to the full.
This decision had real consequences: I would have to brave the instruments of social compliance that culture employed to keep individuals – particularly women – in line: reputation, gossip, social inclusion and of course, access to marriage.
It is easy to damage someone socially. It is possible to use all four of these tools very quickly and in a matter of words to destroy someone, particularly a young woman. Picture this seemingly harmless vignette: two Aunties chewing paan and discussing the latest news. ‘Do you know what that girl got up to? [Insert spiced up anecdote here.] No shame, absolutely no respect for our culture. Tell your daughters not to spend time with her anymore, otherwise they’ll be tainted and their reputations destroyed. I had such a nice boy in mind for her, but how could I suggest a girl like her to his mother. No, no, she’s off my list.’
It was time for things to change. It was okay if the change was slow. But, as Gandhi had said, I had to be the change that I wanted to create. I smiled at how far I had come, and how once I would have seen my decision as courageous. Now it felt straightforward and sensible because I had embraced my faith as the most important part of me. And in using the vision of Islam to make my life and the lives of those around me better, I made a decision: in order to be the change, intelligence and humour would be my weapons of choice.
The first thing I decided to do was something that nice girls didn’t do. I decided to climb a mountain, a very big mountain. Kilimanjaro to be exact, the highest point in Africa, sitting just inside the border of Tanzania. It was a special thrill to embark on such an adventure in a country that had a close family connection to me.
‘Nice girls don’t climb mountains,’ an Auntie told me.
‘Why not?’ I asked
‘Because it’s not the kind of thing a girl should do.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not nice. And people will talk.’ The argument then changed tack. ‘What need have you got to climb a mountain?’
‘No need, I just think it will be exciting, and a challenge.’ I let the argument circle around the edges of culture and personal development.
‘There are other exciting things you can do.’
‘But God says that we should travel in the world and see His creations. In fact, He says several times in the Qur’an that we should travel His earth which He has created for us.’ Exposing the discrepancy between ‘how things had always been done’ and Islamic teachings meant that there was no argument to be made in response.
‘Don’t think you are a boy, that you can do whatever you like. You’re a girl and you have to know your place.’
I was not surprised by this turn in the discussion: it simply evoked a long-standing incredulity about what is and isn’t right for girls and boys to do.
‘Are you sure that it’s OK for boys to climb mountains but that girls should not climb mountains?’
I raised my eyebrows and smiled cheekily. I was sure that I was very irritating at this moment.
In my head I wanted to ask her: ‘You don’t want to phone a friend or ask the audience? Is it your final answer?’ Instead, I paused and slowed down my pace, adopting a more serious tone.
‘I love the stories of the Prophet, and I particularly like the story of his wife Khadijah. Don’t you? It must have been very moving for her to be married to a man of such spirituality. She was very dedicated to looking after him. Often he would go to a special place to “get away from it all” and to meditate. This place, called the Cave of Hira, is where he received the first verse of the Qur’an and where the Angel Gabriel told him that he should announce to the world that there was only One God, and that he, Muhammad, should spread this message.’
This was a moving story about the very first days of the Muslim community, and every Muslim knew the details of these moments.
‘The first person he shared this news with was Khadijah, his wife, and she accepted his message. She was one of the solid foundations at the birth of Islam.’
There was irritated coughing. ‘This is, of course, a lovely story, but this doesn’t change the fact that nice girls don’t climb mountains. You have to take care of your reputation otherwise no-one will marry you.’
‘Oh, but this does change everything, Auntie. This story changes absolutely everything if we take it to heart. This Cave of Hira is at the top of a very steep mountain which it is no easy task to climb. Khadijah would climb this mountain every day to visit the Prophet as he sat and meditated. The wife of the Prophet climbed a mountain. And I’m going to do the same.’
There was only one path I could choose that would let me look back on myself and have no regrets, and that was to choose the rules that I believed were the truth and to live by them. I had made my choice: it was Islam. And then, no matter what people said, there was only one overarching principle: To thine own self be true.
I stood at the highest point of Kilimanjaro at midday one October morning. The first three days of the journey had been a gradual climb, first through tropical forest, then into watery clouds and then a rest day to acclimatise to the altitude. The fourth and penultimate day was a long unending trek across an almost lunar landscape to the base of the crater. We camped at the foot of the great peak, agitated by the lack of oxygen at this height, hungry, but not wanting to eat in case we were sick.
At midnight we began the final ascent up the steep crater wall to reach the rim of the volcano. It was dark and our feet stumbled on the rocks wedged invisibly into the almost sheer mountain face. As dawn was breaking, we arrived exhausted at the rim. There, at the top, I met two English men with a thermos flask. ‘Tea?’ they asked.
After climbing through the night, and now at 19,000 feet, every step was an unimaginable effort. First my legs refused to participate and I had to focus all my determination on placing one foot in front of the other, one by one. I took off my gloves so that I could pull out a bar of chocolate from my rucksack and found that the temperature at minus 25 degrees had turned my hand deep blue. The cold and fatigue were affect
ing my resolve to reach the peak. I had made it to the rim; would it make any difference if I got to the highest point or not?
I will never know where the inner determination came from, but inch by inch I dragged my legs, my body and the entirety of my being to Uhuru Peak. I made it to the top of Africa. I was padded out like a teddy bear with six layers of thermal clothing, two hoods and a baseball cap over my headscarf, my hands Prussian blue in the cold as I handed over my camera for a photo to be taken of me standing exhausted, elated and proud at 19,314 feet. I had made it to the very highest point. It was a glorious and unforgettable moment. I did it.
We prayed at the top of the mountain through sheer joy and thanks for arriving safely at this most amazing place and for being blessed enough to experience something that so few people could enjoy. We looked out over peaceful snow caps and majestic glaciers that shone with an other-worldly aura underneath the immanent sun.
It was no easy task to have achieved this and I felt proud of myself. It was an exercise of both mind and body. I had climbed uphill physically and metaphorically to a goal which ‘people’ believed I should not set myself. During the four days of gruelling climb I had been in awe of the creation of the Divine and learnt that I could achieve things beyond what even I myself believed I was capable of. I could push my body harder than I ever had. I could push my inner being further and with more focus than I could have ever imagined.
Through the encouragement of my faith I had seen the beauty of creation, something I would never have done otherwise. The experience had revealed the obvious: nice girls can achieve whatever they want.
After climbing the mountain, I decided to buy a convertible racing car, a glamorous James Bond-style model with va-va-voom. Boys were allowed to buy exciting cars, in fact they were supposed to buy an out-of-the-ordinary car. Nice girls were not supposed to. People might get confused and think it was the girl that was racy, not the car.
I was advised not to take the car to the mosque because people might get the wrong impression of me. They had known me my whole life, but the small matter of owning such a car would completely wipe out my previous nice reputation.
Girls who wore headscarves ought particularly to avoid such cars. It was not seen as befitting their piety, nor suiting the reputation of sobriety that they were forced to maintain. I should be aware that people would talk.
‘Let them,’ I shrugged. ‘If the most interesting thing that these people have to talk about is my car, then I feel sorry for them. If it helps to spice up their gossip and make their lives more enjoyable, then consider my new car to be an act of public service.’
I pulled my sunglasses out of the glove compartment, put the roof down and va-va-voomed into the sunset.
Hijab Marks the Spot
It was an average Tuesday at work. In the office our row of desks looked out of the full-height glass windows of the fifth floor. We were perched above the Thames and could see the Houses of Parliament at one end, and past several bridges and into the blurry, crowded money-scape of the City at the other. Behind us was a busy London street.
The weather was averagely autumnal; dry, crisp leaves colourfully littering the streets; collars now upturned on the city types who click-clacked their smart city shoes on the gritty pavements as they rushed home on the ever-so-slightly-closing-in September evenings; thicker and longer than average coats on the slick all-in-black media women.
I sat next to Emma, an unpredictable Anglo-German woman of highly strung intensity and brow-furrowing naivety. Behind me were Elaine and Nicola, two women, about my age, who were excited about moving to London after graduating from university. Opposite me was handsome, well-travelled, courteous Jack. He was a tall, affable all-American college boy who charmed effortlessly and unknowingly, pulling wonky faces at managerial nonsense and participating in peer-to-peer banter with good will and kind heart. Jack was optimistically American and realistically New York savvy. His humorous self-deprecating cynicism meant he had blended in nicely in London.
We sat punching away at our keyboards, post-lunch, pre-home time. E-mails flew backwards and forwards, the internet was surfed and digital decisions were made. On the other side of the room there was a whisper.
Heads lifted across from me and I heard a voice shout, ‘A plane has crashed into the World Trade Center.’
I looked up. The room was full of agitated rustling, eyes squinting, eyebrows rising. Everyone was restless but there was as yet no sense of shock or fear.
I heard the words again: a plane has crashed. I imagined it to be a small glider and wondered how it could have entered a well-monitored area like Manhattan and then lost control. I didn’t imagine it to be anything other than a horrible accident.
I carried on typing. Suddenly, there was a loud, frantic shout: ‘Oh, my God, I think we should watch this on the large screen in the canteen.’
Chairs scraped, shoes clattered and bodies moved hurriedly. We raced to the open space where we sat and ate our lunch every day. As we ran, our eyes remained glued to the large television screen above us that was playing a live news feed. The camera was static on the stark image of two of the world’s most famous buildings standing tall against the autumn blue sky. We were stunned: the World Trade Center had swathes of menacing black smoke billowing out of it.
We remained frozen with horror. It was completely unbelievable; we couldn’t understand exactly what was happening. Then, before our eyes, a second plane came into view and crashed into the second tower.
I was in shock as they kept replaying the second crash. This can’t be true, I thought, this is just a sick Armageddon Hollywood blockbuster.
No-one knew what to say. The events were inexplicable. Nothing like this had ever happened before. This was the first attack of its kind on America that we could remember during our lifetimes. After we could no longer bear to see the same crash scenes anymore, we returned to our desks. We couldn’t make sense of what had happened.
Jack and I searched the internet in a frenzy to find out more, something, anything. The BBC website was down, CNN was down, CBS was down, Fox News was down. They had all been broadcasting from the Twin Towers, and those that hadn’t were just unable to cope with the number of visits to their websites and their servers froze up. We were among millions of people looking for information, and right now we didn’t have access to any at all. Jack had friends who worked in the building. My friend’s fiancé worked there, too. There was panic on our floor as everyone recalled a friend or colleague who worked at the Twin Towers.
Who could have done this? A Palestinian group claimed responsibility, seeing an opportunity for raising awareness of their organisation. Then they withdrew, realising that the pretence was more than they could handle.
I returned home, and stayed glued to the television screen, like all of my friends and colleagues. London fell into a stillness that none of us were used to. The minutes ticked by and still we had no news, nothing was clearer. We sank into a chasm of fear and distrust. Which city would be next? There was so little information about who had carried out this attack or what their motivations were that we assumed London would soon be a target.
George W. Bush announced the culprit was Al-Qaeda. Al-Who? I had never heard of them. The world’s most wanted man was suddenly Osama Bin Laden. I’d never heard of him either. We were told that Bin Laden and his associates had carried out the attacks. They were Muslims and had declared jihad on the West. Nine days later George W. Bush announced his own war in response, the ‘War on Terror’. It felt like it was declared on me, on us as Muslims. I felt stigmatised and cornered. It was not the autumnal air that gave me chills.
Just like the rest of the public I felt angry and frightened. It was easy for people to lash out in fear, and ordinary Muslims like me, despite sharing the same panic and dread as everyone else, became cast as murderous, hateful, barbaric villains. Double whammy, I thought to myself. We now faced fear on two sides.
My headscarf was suddenly a neon fl
ashing light as I walked along the wide-eyed fearful streets. The horrific tragedy in New York and the thousands of innocent deaths were, it seemed, my fault.
Every channel was full of discussion, debate and analysis. Jack returned from a short visit he had made to New York to ensure his friends and family were OK after the attacks. He described how groupthink patriotism had spread itself over the tragic remains of Ground Zero. ‘Why do people hate us?’ was the question Americans were asking, he told us. He also said that to do what he was doing now – questioning, analysing, wondering what could have led to this awful situation – was socially forbidden. People first needed to grieve.
We were told that the perpetrators had been inspired to carry out their hideous actions ‘as jihad’, based on the belief that they would become martyrs for their faith and then reach paradise. I was horrified. As a result of this, the whole world seemed to think Muslims believed their religion encouraged killing innocent people. This was incomprehensible to me and to most other Muslims, whose fundamental belief is to ensure peace and harmony in the world around us. Even the very name ‘Islam’ means peace. It was hard for us to come to terms with the question: how could people who called themselves Muslims do something like this?
Jihad had been terribly mistranslated by Western commentators as ‘holy war’. It had been terribly twisted by the criminals who claimed that they were Muslims and that their violent acts were jihad against their ‘enemies’. Jihad actually meant ‘spiritual struggle’. It meant doing your best to live the highest moral and ethical life. It had its own place in religious terminology because it was an activity in its own right, and a tough one at that. It was a fight to stop the dark side of your conscience from behaving in a way that prevents you from being fully human. The only time jihad was allowed to become a physical struggle was if you were required to defend yourself from attack. Jihad did not permit the killing of innocent civilians.
Love in a Headscarf Page 14
