My choice of lifestyle as a Muslim woman
I make this choice, actively, because it is my truth
IAM A Muslim woman who doesn’t wear a hijab or headscarf (there’s a difference), bhurka nor niqab. This doesn’t make me anti-Muslim. I’m a Muslim woman married to a man who isn’t. I observe Ramadaan. I celebrate Eid. I pray. Sometimes. This, too, doesn’t make me any less Muslim despite what some imams and family would say. Nor an apostate.
I am a Muslim woman with varied critiques of the Islamic faith, most of them gender-based, rooted in the still-radical idea (to all societies, not just Muslims, let’s be real) that women are inherently as free as any other to make choices for ourselves, by ourselves: I don’t believe I need a male relative when I travel, or that I should cast my gaze downwards in the presence of men, or that I should swim in bhurkinis or other modest gear. My body is mine, my own (even precious to me!) and a straight man’s sexual impulses in response to this shell housing my soul is not my business to curtail nor my responsibility to manage. Men, surely you can handle that?
These and many more make me live somewhat on the margins of Muslim faith and community (I can only guess and subsequently flail in empathy when considering how LGBTQI Muslims feel). I remember my mother saying “I’ll make duah (pray) for you” when I posed these questions as a curious teen. I remember feeling like an outsider, wrong, afraid, alone. But now I know I am not.
Every day I find more and more women, and men, who feel as I do. It doesn’t make us wrong. Or evil. It doesn’t make me Ayaan Hirsi Ali either, considering Islam a “new fascism”. I remain Muslim. It’s my choice. Yet when I voice my critiques I often find my biggest “supporters” to be Islamophobes, xenophobes, nazis (sadly, they’re not “neo” anymore) and liberal “brocialists”. They point out the domestic violence inflicted on Muslim women, ignoring the fact that prevalence rates are pretty standard across the world (a disturbing 1 in 3 women worldwide suffers some form of gender based or intimate partner violence). I get that sinking feeling they imagine me stowed away in a harem wearing some alluring belly dancer costume, sheer and silky, them riding in on a white bakkie to save me from the clutches of swarthy, bearded men. How very Orientalist. Much clichéd. It’s almost funny. And yet I do not laugh.
I bristle. I am angered when I read about French bhurka bans. When women who choose to express their Muslimness are labelled mindless drones, doing only their male master’s bidding. When all Muslim women are thought of as fodder for political cache and point scoring from all points on the post-Trump political continuum.
When the spectre of ISIS and their horrible child rapes, child abuse, macabre killings and genocidal terror are used to paint all Muslims with a billion-person-wide brush of blood, rape and murder. (An aside: to those who think all Muslims are part of a global terror network, dangerous and bent on killing, fire and destruction. If you thought that, is it then logical to antagonise us with hate speech and hate crimes?)
In all this, I go on every day, living my faith as I have come to interpret and express it. I live my truth. It is hard, I cannot deny. Painful and exhausting with moments of absurd notions that any second now I’ll be struck by lightning bolts from Old Testament Allah himself.
But I make this choice, actively, living at various intersections of Muslimness because it is my truth. A life of understanding for myself and others as long as there is no harm to another, non-judgement for choices people make. Acceptance for people, all people. Questioning everything, as Allah intended (“seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave”) and applying rationalism in the context of clear-eyed views about Islam.
In all this I am of the faith. It is my authentic life, not a show for others. It is honest and unapologetic and sincere. And this is how I will celebrate Eid-ul-Fitr.
I DON’T BELIEVE I NEED A MALE RELATIVE WHEN I TRAVEL, OR THAT I SHOULD CAST MY GAZE DOWNWARDS IN THE PRESENCE OF MEN