That the hijaab provokes such violent, misguided reactions, that fact I do not doubt. Just try taking the Northern line during peak hour and having the misfortune of wearing a black winter coat and carrying a large tote bag (filled with magazines and books you'd planned on reading) and observe the cold blue, green and brown eyes that keep shifting from your headscarf, to your face (for later identification) and, of course, to your tote (which you now which you hadn't toted to Central London).
However, this reaction also makes me proud of the fact that we have such a strong symbol of faith. Inside of our faith, we all tend to be engrossed in the finer details of what constitutes 'good' and 'bad' hijaab i.e. how thin a cloth, how tight a shirt and how short a pair of trousers we can get away with wearing without bumping into one of those well-intentioned, yet completely out of line fellow Muslims (usually the ones with beards cascading over their bellies) and either being given The Look or inciting them to impose an earful of their views on you.
But, at the end of the day, once the philosophy of hijaab is realised, it becomes one's strongest identification. You wear the hijaab, no one questions whether or not you are a Muslim. Well, some people have, and I've just given them The Look. You see someone else wearing it, and you automatically smile in camaraderie. Furthermore, I just adore the fact that when I wear the hijaab, the BNP supporter or shiftless-looking hoodie wearer walking in my direction is more scared of me than I am of him!
We've been trying to defend our right to wear the hijaab by claiming that those Anglo-Brits, Anglo-Americans and Europe in general have some really strong and unjustified negative reactions to what is basically a square or rectangle piece of cloth on a woman's head, which she wears out of choice and with the desire to express her devotion to God. And that there is an entire tradition of modest clothing in the Judeo-Christian history.
The Irani chador is a familiar piece of hijaab, we see it on the television when the news channels are, yet again, slamming their nuclear programme. It constitutes a single piece of cumbersome black georgette material, which constantly needs adjusting of the elastic band that holds it in place over your head and any amount of clever manoeuvring so that what's underneath it is properly hidden.
I became one of the Caped Crusaders. Or The Penguin, depending on which Gotham City character I most identified with during those three weeks in Iran last summer.
Visiting Iran, I thought it would progress what little faith I have. The place, doused in sense of holiness and purity, would somehow rub off on me and allow me to make the right decisions for the continuation of my journey towards Life with my Lord. It was a completely voluntary experiment to test my endurance under pressure, with relative strangers and on a tight schedule, in a country in which I didn't speak the language ot understand the customs.
In Qom, the customs are quite strict regarding the wearing of a chador and, since that is where we were stationed for the better part of three weeks, all of us thirty-odd girls were required to wear it.
Being a novelty for most of us, wearing the Irani chador was a lark in the beginning. And I made sure I wore it properly whenever it was required to do so, as per the contract I was made to sign before being accepted for the trip.
... to be continued.
However, this reaction also makes me proud of the fact that we have such a strong symbol of faith. Inside of our faith, we all tend to be engrossed in the finer details of what constitutes 'good' and 'bad' hijaab i.e. how thin a cloth, how tight a shirt and how short a pair of trousers we can get away with wearing without bumping into one of those well-intentioned, yet completely out of line fellow Muslims (usually the ones with beards cascading over their bellies) and either being given The Look or inciting them to impose an earful of their views on you.
But, at the end of the day, once the philosophy of hijaab is realised, it becomes one's strongest identification. You wear the hijaab, no one questions whether or not you are a Muslim. Well, some people have, and I've just given them The Look. You see someone else wearing it, and you automatically smile in camaraderie. Furthermore, I just adore the fact that when I wear the hijaab, the BNP supporter or shiftless-looking hoodie wearer walking in my direction is more scared of me than I am of him!
We've been trying to defend our right to wear the hijaab by claiming that those Anglo-Brits, Anglo-Americans and Europe in general have some really strong and unjustified negative reactions to what is basically a square or rectangle piece of cloth on a woman's head, which she wears out of choice and with the desire to express her devotion to God. And that there is an entire tradition of modest clothing in the Judeo-Christian history.
The Irani chador is a familiar piece of hijaab, we see it on the television when the news channels are, yet again, slamming their nuclear programme. It constitutes a single piece of cumbersome black georgette material, which constantly needs adjusting of the elastic band that holds it in place over your head and any amount of clever manoeuvring so that what's underneath it is properly hidden.
I became one of the Caped Crusaders. Or The Penguin, depending on which Gotham City character I most identified with during those three weeks in Iran last summer.
Visiting Iran, I thought it would progress what little faith I have. The place, doused in sense of holiness and purity, would somehow rub off on me and allow me to make the right decisions for the continuation of my journey towards Life with my Lord. It was a completely voluntary experiment to test my endurance under pressure, with relative strangers and on a tight schedule, in a country in which I didn't speak the language ot understand the customs.
In Qom, the customs are quite strict regarding the wearing of a chador and, since that is where we were stationed for the better part of three weeks, all of us thirty-odd girls were required to wear it.
Being a novelty for most of us, wearing the Irani chador was a lark in the beginning. And I made sure I wore it properly whenever it was required to do so, as per the contract I was made to sign before being accepted for the trip.
... to be continued.
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