The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  “So to you, a veil is what? A symbol of modesty or empowerment?” asked Khadija.

  Another radical girl continued the theme. “I don’t wear the veil to cause arguments but because I want the world to know that I take my religion seriously. When I wear the veil, I know that thousands of Muslim sisters around the world dress in the same way and it makes me feel good to know that I am a part of them.”

  “But you see that’s all wrong. You’re not wearing the veil because you want to be modest but because you want to be part of a tribe. That’s not what it’s all about!” said a working girl.

  “Who are you to say what the veil is all about sister? Do you pray five times a day?”

  “The fact that I don’t pray doesn’t mean that I’m not a Muslim and it doesn’t mean that I don’t have the right to an opinion,” said the working girl.

  “But that’s all it will ever be! Just an opinion,” said the radical girl triumphantly.

  Khadija intervened. “That depends on what your opinions are about sisters. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that women who live their life as practising Muslims have more of an insight into what Islam is really all about than women whose only connection to Islam is their culture.”

  “But wearing the veil is about female modesty. Every female has the right to have their say about their modesty,” said another working girl.

  A housewife got to her feet. “When I was in Pakistan, I never wore the hijab. When I got married and came here, my thinking changed. Before marriage, I used to like it when men would look at me. Which girl wouldn’t feel happy knowing she is attractive? But all that changed after I married and, like my friend here, my beauty as a woman is for my husband only. I chose to wear the veil out of respect for my husband.”

  “If that’s the case why don’t you wear the nikab – that way no man alive will be able to see you,” shot back a working girl.

  “You would be surprised at the impact the hijab can have. It does diminish the impact of a woman’s appearance,” remarked Khadija.

  “I have a confession to make,” said one of the radical girls who hadn’t spoken before. “I never wore the veil until after 9/11 when I saw how Muslims were treated. I wanted to be a visible Muslim because I wanted people to know that I am proud of my religion and culture.”

  “Again that has nothing to do with modesty. You are wearing the veil as an act of solidarity not as an act of modesty!” said a working girl vehemently.

  “But that is not contrary to the spirit of Islam. Isn’t empathy for your fellow Muslims just as important as modesty?” asked Khadija.

  “Look at me sisters,” said a working girl. “You can see I have long black hair, fair skin and big green eyes. Every man I pass in the street gawks at me. Now I’m not stuck up about that because ultimately the way we look has nothing to do with us but it is part of who we are and everybody should be proud of who they are. When you wear the veil or the hijab or the nikab you know what you’re doing? You’re agreeing to put a chain around your neck. When you’re in the home the man will tie you to the kitchen sink and when you’re outside his way of tying you down is the hijab. Think about it! Does the man have to do anything to protect his modesty? Isn’t Islam supposed to be a religion that’s equal for both men and women? Do guys wear long beards to stop women looking at them or have you ever heard someone say, ‘My son used to eye up women all the time but since he grew a beard he stopped doing that’? No. In the end there’s only one way of looking at it. The hijab is just a piece of cloth on top of someone’s head.”

  Khadija studied her carefully. She was indeed beautiful and her willowy frame seemed to grow taller as she spoke. There was something strangely familiar in the way her eyes shone as she developed her argument, the way her voice started low and ended up high and strained. A housewife cut across her reverie.

  “But if you think about it sister, every woman is a slave. Look at yourself. You can tell a mile off that you’re starving yourself to keep thin. Doesn’t that make you a slave to fashion? Western women who pride themselves on how liberated they are are really slaves themselves! They eat nothing and exercise all the time so they can show off their trim bodies!”

  “I would like to explain why I wear the nikab,” said Khadija. “I don’t consider myself to be a slave or to be repressed in any way. I choose to cover my face because I believe that Islam is about our relationship with our creator. You cannot, in my opinion, separate your person from your appearance. I choose to conceal my appearance for the sake of my spirituality. In Islam, seclusion and spirituality go hand in hand.”

  A pretty girl stood up. “My brother told me that there is an Islamic saying that the best veil is behind the person’s eyes. That’s what a lot of people don’t realise. I’ve seen plenty of girls who wear the hijab or the nikab and they’re in your face, you know really aggressive. I don’t see how that is acceptable. If you wear a veil for modesty then shouldn’t your behaviour be modest as well?”

  A housewife spoke excitedly. “I absolutely agree with you. There are so many women who wear the veil just so their voices can be louder. The tighter the veil the louder they are. I’ve seen girls wearing the nikab with tight jeans. What the hell is that all about? These girls take that bit of Islam that makes them feel as if they’re important and forget about the bits that don’t suit them.”

  “But a lot of Muslims do that. Men and women,” said her neighbour.

  “Do you know that the Quran forbids women from drawing attention to themselves by jingling their jewellery?” Khadija asked. “So if a woman is wearing an anklet and others hear it jingle, that would be considered a sin. The solution is not to ban jewellery or to stop women from being in the same room as men: the solution is to think about the principle behind the commandment. And the principle is one of modesty. Muslim women have a code of conduct. There’s nothing restrictive about that as long as you realise that no code can be absolute. The code of modesty must always be an individual one and it must always start from a personal choice.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If you are brought up in an Islamic environment then the desire to wear a veil will be as natural as lowering your gaze. Covering your face would be a natural step in the evolution of your identity as a Muslim woman.

  “If you have lived your life as a liberal Pakistani who only has a loose connection to Islam, maybe you’ll never want to wear the veil. But if you then decide to wear the veil you’ve got to remember, as the sister has just said, that the outer veil enhances the inner veil, the veil behind your eyes. That requires not just a change in appearance but a change in attitude. And that’s something that can’t be done very easily but, if you can change your attitude you can change your life. It says that in the Quran:‘God does not change the condition of a people unless they change what is in themselves.’”

  The meeting came to an end and, as the women prepared to leave, Khadija made her way towards the beautiful girl with green eyes. She put her arm around her shoulder and said,” Change is never easy. Wearing the veil may mean something to the world but it means nothing to Allah if you are not willing to make that journey to change yourself. As in all journeys we may sometimes lose our way or even forget the reason why we started it but as long as our intention is to become a better person then eventually we’ll reach our goal. That’s the promise of our creator and you can only trust in that promise.”

  Khadija returned to the office, absent-mindedly arranging the veil across her face as she went and wondering if anyone would still be in the building. She had found out by chance that late in the evenings Babarr helped the elderly caretaker in cleaning the Centre and she guessed he would be mortified if this became public knowledge. She smiled to herself.

  The door was open but it wasn’t Babarr who was sitting behind the desk.

  “Assalaam-u-alaikum Musa,” she said softly.

  He tilted his head and looked into her eyes which she considered inappropriate.


  “Waalaikum assalaam Khadija,” he replied after a moment’s silence.

  “Another meeting with another prospective bride?” asked Khadija.

  Musa nodded dismally.

  She sat down and asked,” What happened this time?”

  “Nothing. Another non-starter.”

  “Why?”

  “The family was good. But…”

  “The face didn’t fit the dream,” finished Khadija.

  Musa flinched.

  “You need to let go of this fantasy. You need to grow up,” she said firmly.

  “It’s not about growing up. It’s a life choice. I want to make the one that suits me. Everyone does.”

  “In the real world people compromise. I don’t think you understand that. You can’t cling to a dream, hoping it will become real. You think you’re the only one out there who’s looking for the perfect face with a matching personality? Everybody starts out like that. I’ve spoken to plenty of sisters who were looking for Mr Right in the exact same way. They wanted handsome and rich but at some point they grew up and realised it’s what’s inside that counts and money comes and goes. They took a few knocks, learnt their lesson and after that life was much better for them. Why haven’t you learned your lesson after the knocks you’ve taken?” Her eyes blazed as she spoke. “I’ll tell you why not Musa. It’s because you think it’s giving in, but it’s not a war.”

  “It’s always a war,” he disagreed.

  “Then you’re fighting the wrong battle. If you’d put all the effort you have spent in defiance on making the best of what’s in front of you, you’d be a happier man. Does it not say in the Quran that a hundred people, patient and persevering, can overcome a thousand? That’s what you have to be, patient and persevering.”

  “But what if you don’t know whether it’s worth the effort? There is no prescribed way to change people. Change can only be effected by Allah. There are plenty of broken people in our community who wasted their lives waiting for their husband or wife to turn over a new leaf. If you were to ask them whether they would have made a different decision if they could go back in time, would they have taken a risk and gone against the tide? I bet you many of them would say yes.”

  “You have this idea that there is something great and glorious about disobedience and rebellion. That’s the whisper of Satan presenting you with an illusion that all things wonderful happen to people who go it alone. That is not true. Your father’s displeasure is the Lord’s displeasure; you must have heard that saying before. If those words were not true, they would not have been uttered by our Holy Prophet, Peace be upon Him,” said Khadija.

  “Here’s a different saying: ‘The Son of Adam became decrepit and corrupt. All that remained in him were hope and avidity for life’As long as you have those two things, you do what you have to do.”

  “Which is what exactly?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know but you are certain that it involves you disobeying your elders?” queried Khadija.

  Musa sighed and shook his head. He walked out of the office.

  Khadija gazed for a long time at the empty chair. Musa, crazed by his chase, was a fireball consuming all that could relieve him but she knew that no such fire rages forever. Like happiness and sorrow, it roared and spluttered and then died out.

  Dadaji slowly lifted his head from the prayer mat. With his eyes still closed, he moved his head right and left, still deep within his trance. He remained still for a few moments until slowly he felt the presence of the physical world return.

  Aboo opened his mouth to speak, but Dadaji raised his hand and in peace he took out his rosary. Aboo and Musa listened to the sounds of Dadaji’s meditation, seeing him with mindsets a generation apart and both seeking clarity in a troubled time.

  Dadaji broke the silence. “Musa, your journey has cut across many paths. With each crossing you have bled.”

  “Yes Dadaji, I know.”

  “You have tried so hard to carve your path among the stars that dazzle you, yet they have swerved not at all for you.”

  Musa hung his head, unable to reply.

  “And your time draws closer. All that is to happen shall happen.”

  Dadaji rose to his feet and looked down at Aboo.

  “Call Iram here.”

  Khadija sat on a prayer mat, her head bowed and her face covered to hide any evidence of expression from her father. Abdel sat cross-legged on a prayer mat next to her. His face was proud and angry for no reason other than that was the way he was in front of his father. Khadija felt pity for him. So empty, she thought and so much of their father in him.

  Their father sat facing them. He gave Khadija a sideways look and slowly stroked his beard. He often did this but today there was a difference, there was something ugly in his appraisal and she was terrified at what he might say. At least he could not see her terror.

  “Khadija, next week you will go to Pakistan. You are to marry Zahoor and you will stay there for one year. That will make it easier for his visa to be accepted. Understood?”

  “What about me?” asked Abdel.

  “You will also attend the wedding but will return with me.”

  As their father began to intone a prayer, Khadija focussed on a practice she had perfected: the calm induced by the words of the prayer slowly changed to indifference. She had no power over events but she did have the power to control herself and it was this self-control that so frustrated her father. He longed for her to show some outward sign of terror. He needed that. He always had. She was sure it was the reason why her mother had left when she was a child.

  Khadija knew he hated her because she resembled her mother and she thought how strange it was that hatred was accepted among the threads of family ties. Part of his hatred for her came from a loathing of himself. For her father was teased by the flesh of the women he so passionately denounced. In the presence of women she would see him become strained as though he was inwardly savouring a lusty memory.

  Khadija had learned to recognise lust in his eyes when she was a child. Just after their mother had left he would have that look. Then he would disappear at night, returning the next day. When he discovered Islam, his appetite for women and alcohol changed into one for terror and power. Abdel was the first casualty.

  She was distracted by sounds in the street. When the weather was good an elderly neighbour would sit on a bench and play catchy tunes on his mobile phone, his head bobbing to the rhythm. It was absurd she thought, an old man so happy, enjoying the tunes of the young. Trusting in the mercy of Allah just as a bird would. That was what it said in Surah Mulk, only the grace of Allah holds the birds in the sky. Why couldn’t that same grace be available to her? What if she were to leave now, taking nothing but the clothes on her back?

  And for the first time in her life she cried, she who had withstood her mother’s desertion, had raised her baby brother by herself and who had endured the loneliness and fear without shedding a tear. Her father stopped praying and was satisfied at last. Her brother stopped pretending and was frightened. The loss of her calm had unearthed the truth. Khadija had so wanted to be like her mother and now she knew that she was.

  24

  The reflected sun lay at the centre of a white quilt embroidered with flowers covering a huge bed. Shadows radiating outwards formed dark spokes that led to four cousins united by concern about the future of one of them, Iram.

  Crickets were vocal in the glare of the fierce sun whereas the intense heat drowned the village in slumber. Men and women slept fitfully under a torrent of warm air that spewed from the blades of unsteady fans. The cousins, however, were safe from the oppressive heat and rickety electric appliances. Cool draughts of air circulated the room, powered by a generator that hummed quietly.

  Farrah spoke first, her small eyes flashing with anger.

  “Who does he think he is? To summon you for marriage as though you were an animal selected for breeding!”

 
Iram was pleased to hear the ire in her voice.

  Farzana, her tongue sharp and her eyes sly, asked,” Why do you think he has waited until now to call for you? He went to England to arrange your marriage and he could not get everyone to agree with him. People in England are not like us, they argue with their elders.”

  “Why don’t they keep on arguing then? Why stop now? Have they suddenly learnt respect and decency for their elders?” asked Farrah indignantly.

  Farzana settled back on her cushion and scowled as her mother often did when declaring an edict.

  “People over there have no moral values. They have no character. No principles. They can easily be persuaded. All Dadaji had to do was to use emotional blackmail. He probably said something like, ‘If you don’t agree to this I am going to die’ and they fell for it.”

  “It is a pity he does not die. He has too much control over people. This is why Iram has spent her life in this…this toilet. It is only by the grace of Allah that she has not picked up the low habits of village women. The problem is that Dadaji sees her as a village girl. Here in the village girls are so simple. They will do anything without even asking why. He is probably telling them in England that he already asked you and you said yes.” Fozia was by nature stolid of mind and leaden of heart.

  The cousins contemplated Iram’s disagreeable future.

  “They think we are stupid and obedient like our aunties, that all they have to do is to shout at us and we will faint. We are not like our aunties, however. We have education. We have class and intelligence. We can do things they cannot do,” said Farzana.

  “All you have to do is to say no, Iram,” said Farrah sternly.

  “No!” said Farzana sharply. “That is stupid. All the blame will fall upon her if she says no directly. Then her parents will forever be angry and upset with her. She has to be cleverer than that.”