It was 7:45AM, far too
early for a Saturday morning. Instead of dreaming comfortably in bed, I was busy coordinating my wardrobe. Finally, I slipped into my straight leg jeans and
long polka dot beige dress—along with the well matching scarf and shoes.
An hour later I was on my way to a marriage seminar, eager to soak up as much religious guidance and
spirituality, as well as knowledge. I arrived on
time, 9:30AM sharp, just like the Facebook invite requested, with giddy
excitement. Only three people were there and absolutely nothing was setup. It wasn’t all too surprising really, Muslims
unfortunately are not known for being prompt or prepared, but it became utterly
frustrating when the program apparently got changed to start at 11:00AM instead
of the listed 10:00AM.
The day continued with
elements similar to this and a great deal of irony. The one thing my fiancé and
I were sure of was the existence of irony in our lives and our relationship
from day one—and day one dates back to about eight years ago for one of us! We
sat in the middle of prayer room, which was converted into a multi-purpose
room, and felt the new atmosphere of attending such events as an official
couple. We were no longer confined to being seated on opposite ends of the room
beneath the invisible labels of “Brothers’ Side” and “Sisters’ Side.” Rather we
were now seated in the “Couples’ Section” and it added an interesting new
flavor to the day.
However, nothing was more
interesting than what I experienced during the first break at lunchtime. It
started with a call to the noon worship—the second of our five daily worships
(often known as prayers). Men were asked to enter the downstairs prayer hall
and women were asked to enter the side prayer rooms because of the crowd and
setup. We (the women) made our way across the hall to the side rooms, gathered
close together in our straight lines and stood there waiting, and waiting, and
waiting. The Imam (leader of the worship prayer) was inaudible on the
microphone downstairs due to technical difficulties.
One woman leaned over to
catch a glimpse of the men downstairs through the window and said, “Yes, they
are praying we just can’t hear them. What do we do?!?!” It was utter panic.
Frantically the women started murmuring to each other, almost like a flock of
chickens in complete chaos when the answer was simple: We elect a woman from
amongst us to lead the worship prayer on our own. Each woman turned to her
sides to see who would do it and everyone refused in complete anxiety.
It was truly the most
depressing sight I had ever seen. No woman felt strong enough, courageous
enough, and eager enough to lead us? In prayer? To God, the Most Merciful and
Forgiving? It’s not like we were asking for a new national president—just
someone to repeat the words we have repeated for years of our lives, five or
more times a day. I couldn’t take it anymore and so I stepped up. Moving from
the second row to the first I exclaimed, “I’ll do it!” And as I straightened my
dress, closed my eyes, and prepared to enter my five minutes with God, along
with the 25 ladies behind around me, I was interrupted.
“Excuse me! No!” a woman
cried out from behind me. “Your shadow! It’s unacceptable. We can’t be led by
someone dressed like that. We need someone else.” A slap in the face filled
with five fingers of irony, but I held my tongue and gave a bow of the head,
giving her the notion to come lead us since she was so keen to believe that my
flowing attire would not serve worship well enough. She panicked. “No, no not
me!” despite her being fully clothed in layers and layers of black, which made
her face look like a floating pinkish white glow.
I turned to the woman
beside me, who was an older Indian woman, wearing a see through green shawl on
top of her head and she immediately shot me a “Heck no!” look so I continued to
look around until another young girl volunteered. She was wearing a well-kept
scarf, a cotton long sleeve shirt, a turquoise skirt and no socks. I wanted to
laugh and cry and speak my mind but we had already wasted so much time being
too cowardly and ignorant.
I won’t lie. It was near
impossible to concentrate on my worship, not when I knew that Islamically a
woman who comes to pray must be wearing the attire of a woman who chooses to
wear the “Divine Outfit” (most commonly known as hijab), and that entails
covering the entire body, except for hands and face (as clarified in the saying
of the Prophet Muhammad{pbuh}). And not really because it was me, but I found
it so interesting that the woman who yelled out at me because my dress wasn’t
floor length enough to cover the lower half of my shins and ankles (that were
encompassed in cloth—not bare) was perfectly content praying behind someone
whose feet were entirely uncovered.
It also intrigued me as
well that that same woman refused
completely to lead herself. But then again it was also intriguing to realize
that none of those 25 women had faith in themselves or their abilities to lead
and I felt low, so very low, that nothing our Muslim people and world was going
through shocked me.
We judge by the littlest
of things and neglect the biggest. My inner capabilities were devalued because
my shins were covered in denim instead of a skirt. And the irony hit me again:
Apparently I will forever be confined to being judged by my looks both inside
and outside the Muslim community. For outside, I’m strange to consider myself
American beneath a headscarf and long sleeves and inside I’m strange to
consider myself viably religious beneath a floral print scarf and Paige jeans.
This reminded me of a
time when I was working at an agency my friend wanted to apply to. She had
asked me to put in a good word. My boss called me in the day after my friend’s
interview to ask me some follow up questions. At first, all seemed well as I
complemented my friend’s sincerity and hard working nature, then it went
downhill when my Muslim boss asked
about my friend’s attire. “Does she always dress like that?” he asked me with
clear resentment towards my friend’s wardrobe—which quite strongly resembles my
mother’s, a headscarf and flowing dress like robe. “For as long as I’ve known
her she has, yes.”
He clicked his tongue,
“Well I’m not sure that would fit our image here because see we don’t want the
public to assume we are religious and Islamic.” I raised my eyebrows in
surprise and confusion. “Um, doesn’t my mom often volunteer here, dressed in
the exact same manner?” He nodded slowly but followed it up with, “Well, your
mom’s different. She’s got a reputation in the community and is known.” I
didn’t see the difference and so I continued. “You can’t really judge her and
limit her because of how she dresses. It does not relay her abilities as an
employee and it really shouldn’t impact your clientele and image. I mean I wear
a scarf and walk around the office and the community representing the work,
doesn’t mean I’m smearing Islam paint all over.”
My friend was hired
elsewhere but that incident remained forever engrained in my mind and
resurfaced after this last event. It’s only the tip of the iceberg to what we
face, and although the seminar gave us just a tiny taste of beneficial
knowledge for our marriage, it left me with a lot more confusion to contemplate
upon. So many other “religious” pieces of information were given that seemed so
un-Islamic to say the least that I remembered why I had refrained from
attending anymore of these seminars for the past five years.
I felt bad for the people
who were single, being almost reprimanded for it, although one speaker did
finally inform the general public to get off the case of single people for
their status. That God has not yet given them the green light to marry and
therefore must carry patience. My inner feminist kicked in when other speakers
emphasized that God naturally created us to desire partnerships and marriage
and that when choosing otherwise purposely we are almost sinning. And that
these people are just “faking” that because it hurts too much to be alone. I turned
to my fiancé, gave him a look, and whispered, “That’s so false and ridiculous I don’t
know where to start.”
In the years leading up
to meeting my fiancé I was truly and completely content in my singlehood. When
people asked I meant it when I said no. I wasn’t trying to create a false
statement and deny myself something out of rebellion. It was disappointing to
see that our leaders and scholars were trying to tear that out of our young
single people. People who were actually confident and content in their lives,
following ambitions and dreams without feeling incomplete. People who weren’t
dwelling on this ideology that you need to be with someone to really be
someone, but rather that you can be yourself and when you are blessed enough to
find someone who loves all of you (whether you’re in jeans or a skirt), you’ll
be able to welcome them in to your heart and life. And their place won’t be in
a hole in your heart—that’s too small. Their place will be a part of your heart
that you’ll create upon meeting them.
