“No, but you could argue that…”
Habiba pointed an admonishing finger at him. She seemed to be building up a good head of righteous anger.
“Satan also knew how to argue his way out of the Garden of Eden. You don’t argue ’cos that’s the devil in you arguing. You gotta hear and obey. Just like the angels.”
“But we’re not angels, Habiba. We’re men. Our place in the scheme of creation is higher than that of angels.”
“But the angels are flying higher than us,” she shot back, defiantly.
“That’s because they have wings. We just have our hearts,” said Musa.
He turned his head to Amma,” She can speak her mind all right.”
“She does nothing but speak her mind,” snorted Amma.
“If her words came from my mouth you would all burst with pride,” said Shabnam angrily.
“There is certainly fire in this one,” remarked Dadaji, now calm.
Habiba smiled politely at this burst of rapid Punjabi and continued her interrogation.
“What school of thought do you follow?” Her voice was solemn as if this was a question of immense significance.
“How do you mean?”
“You know Hanbali, Maliki, Shafi and Hanafi? Who do you follow?”
Musa sighed. Clearly Habiba was bursting with Islamic knowledge. He had met girls like this before. They were addicted to verbal battles. No matter what he said, he was heading for an intellectual bruising.
“Well the thing is I don’t really follow any particular school of thought. What I mean to say is that these guys were all great scholars in their time but I think that the best school of thought is your own conscience. And besides here in Britain people don’t think about the beliefs of classical scholars like they do in a place like Iran or Iraq.”
“What do people here think about?” asked Habiba.
“Money. Here Pakistanis think about money,” said Musa. “How to earn more and be happier. If you say to them stop whatever it is you’re doing because it isn’t in the rule book of Hanbali or Maliki or whoever, they’ll look at you like you’re crazy.”
Habiba considered this response carefully. She shook her head and looked speculatively at Aboo.
“You know something. It ain’t your fault. It’s the fault of your parents. Your dad when he came to this country was probably as Muslim as the Pope.” She winked.
“I bet you he was one of those guys that used to buy a bottle of whisky on the weekends and share it around with the rest of the tribe. Then when people started saying they were gay, they hit the town looking for the nearest English girl they could find. Twenty years later they get a letter from the Child Support Agency saying pay up or else your new and improved white family is gonna come knocking on your door.”
Aboo’s face turned red and he spluttered in outrage. Dadaji, his face alive with curiosity, prodded his son.
“What did she say? Tell me! Tell me!”
Aboo translated in a strangled voice and once more Dadaji rocked back in his seat, his frail body shaking with mirth. Habiba couldn’t help laughing with him. United by faith and separated by perspective they cackled in unison. The cloud of matrimony darkened the horizon no longer but slowly dispersed into ether spawned by this sense of absurdity.
“She was a black woman?” exclaimed Babarr.
“Didn’t you bother checking any of this out, Shabnam?” asked Suleiman who looked rough.
“No. I just did what I was told to do!”
“But wasn’t one of the first Muslims black…Bilal I think his name was?” asked Armila who remembered this from her studies.
“Yes,” replied Musa wearily. “Bilal ibn Rabah but some know him as Bilal the Ethiopian.”
“And does it not say in one of your scriptures that all human beings are equal?” she pressed.
“Not in those words exactly, but that is true; Islam makes no distinction between colours,” said Musa.
“So the only problem for your parents was that she was black. Are they ever likely to change their thinking?”
“No, never. Not until the camel will go through the eye of the needle,” said Musa firmly.
“So any relationship with a non-Asian is doomed then?” asked Armila pointedly.
“What the hell is this? What do you think you are? An Indian Oprah Winfrey? Point is Musa, was she fit?” asked Babarr.
Armila and Shabnam were furious.
“Why’re you girls giving me the evils for? All marriages gotta have a bit of that jazz. Confucius once said the ear of the loved one can steam the mirror that is placed next to it. So when you looked at this girl was there any fire down under?”
“No,” said Musa huffily.
“Then what the hell is all this whingeing about. Remember folks, Musa has gotta find someone in one month of days or else he’s gonna marry a yardie from back home. At this point, Musa, you wanna ask your granddaddy for an extension.”
“This is not a loan repayment scheme, Babarr. It doesn’t work like that!”
“If you could have married her Musa, would you have?” asked Armila. She leaned forward to catch the expression on his face.
“No…I don’t think so.”
“Because she was black?” queried Armila.
“No…she was too aggressive…too forward!”
“But you yourself said that you didn’t want a doormat,” reminded Shabnam.
“I know but this is different.”
“Oh right! Shall I tell you the difference Musa? For all your Islam and knowledge you are just as racist and narrow-minded as Mum and Dad. If she was Pakistani and had brown skin you’d be doing a moony in front of Dadaji right now!” said Shabnam angrily.
“That’s complete nonsense. It’s just that I have an image of the type of person I want to fall in love with and it isn’t her. That’s not racism. That’s just the way it is.”
“Falling in love is not the same as marriage, Musa!” said Shabnam.
“That is so true. If everyone married for love, none of us would be sitting here right now. Confucius once said those who marry in love will repent in passion,” added Babarr.
“You can go stick it with your bloody Confucius!” retorted Shabnam furiously.
“Calm down Shabnam. The point is where are we gonna go from here?” asked Suleiman.
“Perhaps we need to start looking at Pakistanis from Pakistan?” said Babarr. “Lots of girls from back home are looking for guys here. They want to live in a place with constant electricity and free education and benefits and shit like that! Titty Soups calls them the winter Pakistanis. They spend their summers here on the look-out. That might be the best way forward. They’re Pakistani so there won’t be any colour clash and all they want is to marry a guy who can take them away from a third world country. I’ll have a word with Titty and get something sorted out.”
Babarr winked at Musa and Armila shook her head.
15
Khadija carefully placed a Quran and a neat pile of notes on a table and waited while the women filed into the Islamic Centre’s library. They were a diverse bunch. Some of them were clearly working women. They had come from their offices, and were dressed conservatively in dark clothes that were suitably baggy to hide their figures but not so voluminous as to invite laughter from their co-workers. Khadija’s veil hid her smile when she saw them. They were the sisters who were graduates and they came from families who cherished them as though each was a fragile piece of jewellery: as a result they were both confident and opinionated. Nowadays, it was fashionable for such girls to be conversant with Islam and have an informed opinion on controversial issues.
Others were sisters who walked proudly in their splendid Islamic outfits, looking every inch the radical women they thought themselves to be. Some of them were wearing veils as she was, others were not. But apart from that there was very little difference between them.
Finally there were the housewives; some were newlyweds and others had children
. For the most part they wore colourful but slightly crumpled clothes. For them Islam was a means by which they could assert themselves, and a platform from which they could command respect and attention within the family unit.
Khadija waited some minutes before beginning. She noted that each group sat together and talked only among themselves; their preconceptions about each other stood like partitions and their opinions made opaque any reasons they might have for wanting to talk outside their circle.
Satisfied that no one else was going to turn up, she removed her veil. Instantly there was silence and as always when she revealed her face, she felt the air in front of her turn into a cold cupped hand that followed the line of her jaw and the set of her mouth. The feeling of nakedness hovered for a moment and then fell like a curtain to reveal her person. That sensation was strangely pure and it troubled her that there was no shame and it pleased her that she felt her eyes soften.
“Assalaam-u-alaikum my dear sisters. It is nice to see you all again and I am really pleased that so many of you have returned. However I was disappointed after our last meeting that not all of you responded with your thoughts and opinions. I really want every woman in this room to take part. This is not a competition and there are no winners and losers. Everyone’s opinion counts: all of you count as Muslim women.”
Khadija surveyed the faces of her audience. They stared back at her in silence.
“What I want to talk about today is the status of women in our society. And to start off I will read to you. If you agree with what I say, put your hands up.”
“Husbands should take good care of their wives.”
They all smiled and waved their hands. Khadija, amused, continued:
“God has given to some more than others and with what they spend out of their own money righteous wives are devout and guard what God would have them guard in their husbands’ absence. If you fear high-handedness from your wives, remind them, then ignore them when you go to bed, then hit them.
“Right sisters, tell me what you think of what I have just read?”
A radical girl called out,” I think it’s a load of rubbish. I ain’t ever heard of a bloke who just reminds his wife. They yell at you and say my way or the motorway. And I’m telling you straight, sister, if any guy tries to smack me one, I don’t care if he’s my husband, my brother or my father. That guy is gonna get a beating from me!”
Salma, one of the working girls, and a mentor at the local Women’s Refuge, commented, “I think what you have read is the work of some chauvinistic Pakistani man. As for the issue of who has been granted more, it depends on the context. Ask any family who does better in school, the daughter or the son? Nine times out of ten they will say the daughter. Who’s getting the higher paying jobs? It’s the girls. Who’s taking the responsibility for the children’s education? It’s the women.
“Do you know what Eleanor Roosevelt once said? ‘Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.’ That is exactly what’s happening to Pakistani women. I see it every day. We are letting men think they are in charge of us and we are letting them dominate our lives. No man has the right to hit us. We are not slaves. We were created as equals. And should our obedience be taken for granted? Doesn’t the husband have an obligation to his wife? If we have to be obedient then they have to be kind and supportive towards us. You can’t have one without the other!”
The radical girls and the working girls applauded but the housewives were not convinced. One of them, plainly nervous, stood up to speak.
“What you say is true in this country but in Pakistan a girl has no future if she is alone. The only real life a girl can experience is that with her husband. It is the responsibility of the husband to look after his wife. So you see it is true that men are in charge of women. And you also have to look at it this way. In this country, if a girl is not happy with her husband she can divorce and move on but in Pakistan that is still very difficult, so she has to make the best of what she has got. Here, sometimes husbands do hit their wives, it happens, but you learn to deal with it. If a husband hits his wife too much then yes you must do something about it but in the end you must make peace with him.”
This was too much for many of the women and they all began to talk at once. Khadija shouted above them and asked one of the radical group who seemed particularly angry to speak.
“Sister, that ain’t you talking, that’s your husband and your dad. If you had more faith in Allah and in your religion you wouldn’t be so afraid to stick up for yourself. You think your husband is the only guy that can look after and support you? Do you know why that is? It’s because no one’s told you that you’ve got a head on your shoulders. No one’s ever said to you sort your own shit out and because of that you’ve gone running to everyone else. It may help you in Pakistan but it sure ain’t gonna do much for you in this country!”
One of the working girls cut in. “I think you’re being a bit harsh on her. It doesn’t matter where you are or what you are. It is not easy for any girl to defy her family and culture. The only reason you’re talking like that is because you know that there are a crowd of people around who will support you. What if you were in Pakistan? There are very few support groups for women there.”
An older woman sitting in the front row asked,” Excuse me, Khadija, but who wrote those words? Where do they come from?”
“The Holy Quran.”
The women were silent, uneasy.
“As you now know that verse comes from the Holy Quran, put up your hands if you agree with it,” said Khadija.
The housewives put up their hands as did the radical girls, albeit reluctantly, but it was clear that the working girls would not follow suit. One of them, a tall girl wearing a beautifully tailored suit and whose name was Sofia, said imperiously, “One thing you seem to be forgetting Khadija is that the Quran was revealed fifteen hundred years ago. Circumstances for married couples were different and so was the status of women.”
“Sister, the word of the Quran is true for all ages,” argued one of the radical sisters.
“Are you then saying it was acceptable to beat your wife a thousand years ago?” asked Sofia.
One of the housewives broke in. “Listen sisters! Fifteen hundred years ago there were no divorce lawyers or marriage agencies. Marriage was meant to be for life and if something is for life you have to be prepared for everything, the good and the bad.”
Khadija interrupted: “Before anyone answers, I would like to quote another verse from the Quran.”
“‘Men are the maintainers of women because Allah has made some of them to excel others and because they spend out of their property.’ Could you please raise your hands if you agree.”
Everyone did so. Khadija smiled, pleased by their unity, and went on.
“‘The good women are therefore obedient, guarding the unseen as Allah has guarded; and as to those on whose part you fear desertion, admonish them, and leave them alone in the sleeping-places and beat them; then if they obey you, do not seek a way against them.’”
“I agree wholeheartedly with the first part. Men should maintain us and keep us. But they should never, never dominate us or beat us,” emphasised a working girl. Turning to the radical group she smiled sardonically and said,” By the same token, I don’t think it’s a good idea for girls to try and dominate men.”
“I ain’t dominating no one sister. I just stick up for myself and for my religion,” came the retort.
Khadija broke in with a gentle reminder. “Sisters, we’re not living in a war zone and when it comes to Islam the best defence is not the best offence.”
The calmness with which she spoke these words spiralled into the minds of everyone present like a vial of crystal reason.
“Let me read a slightly different version of the verse. ‘Therefore the righteous women are devoutly obedient and guard in their husband’s absence what God would have them guard. As to those women on whose part you fear disloyalty and ill-conduct admonis
h them first then refuse to share their beds, and lastly chastise them. Seek not against them means of annoyance.’”
“Refuse to share their beds – that’s something the men need to be told!” said a housewife, and the others laughed raucously.
“That last bit’s the same as before, where it says do not try to annoy your wives, I didn’t know that was in the Quran,” said another. “I swear to God, guys get mean when they don’t get their own way in marriages. My husband deliberately pisses me off!”
“But where it says chastise them – that was different before – chastising a woman could mean something completely different to hitting her,” said a working girl.
Khadija paused. “The interpretation is not the same. In the first version that I recited the translator commented that hit was just a single slap. So you cannot equate that to beating. Some of the greatest Islamic scholars such as Imam Shafi say that beating is a symbolic act and it should be done in such a manner as not to cause pain. The Holy Prophet (Peace be upon Him) hated the idea of anyone beating their wives and was personally very much against it.”
“I don’t get this at all. If the Holy Prophet (Peace be upon Him) was so very much against it then how come men are instructed to beat their wives?”
“You need to adjust your concept of the word beating. Like I said, a single slap is not the same as beating,” replied Khadija.
One of the radicals laughed: “If a guy is pissed off with his woman and slaps her you can guarantee it’s not gonna tickle.”
“It may not tickle but at the same time it’s not supposed to cause any injury or pain. It’s not supposed to be done in anger. And there are a number of stages that need to be followed prior to that act. You need to tell your wife off then refuse to share a bed with her. And also bear in mind that there are different degrees of intensity in a slap,” said Khadija.
The Reluctant Mullah Page 16
