I question why I still hide myself
For years, Sumeera Dawood has tried hard to fit in as a Muslim in the West. It took the horror of last week’s attacks to make her feel the warmth and comfort of being a Kiwi.
Disclaimer: I don’t wear a scarf. I’m a practising Muslim woman, but you may not be able to tell that just by looking at me.
I wear this season’s Kate Sylvester, I blow my pay cheque on Mecca cosmetics and I keep a close eye on Deadly Ponies slingbag auctions on Trade Me, like the next Cantabrian girl.
I’m just like you – mainly because I’ve made a concerted effort to be.
About 20 years ago, I made the conscious decision to stop wearing a scarf. Among the many (and complex) reasons for doing so, I didn’t want to make things more difficult for myself. Hell, I was already brown and female living in a eurocentric city at the time.
But after the Christchurch terror attack, where Muslims where gunned down at two mosques, I find myself questioning all the little things I do to hide facets of my full identity in order to be more accepted, to be more mainstream. And, more importantly, to not be packaged as just one thing when, as many don’t realise, there are so many ‘‘faces’’ of what a Muslim looks like.
Being Muslim on a personal level is easy. You have a set of outer rules – including modest wear, a daily set of prayers and a month of fasting – to help you govern your inner self. But in the face of the world, being Muslim is somewhat harder.
You’re either a terrorist with archaic ideals about the world, or you’ve ‘‘integrated’’ and flipped to the Aziz Ansari end of the spectrum, wolfing down bacon and getting pissed with the boys.
As a Muslim woman, you’re covered in ethnic garb depending where you’re from: cloaks and niqab if you’re Arab, long burqas if you’re from Somalia, punjabis with dupattas if you’re Pakistani or Bengali, or . . . well, there aren’t that many alternatives for women. Finding your way to a place where you can be both modern and Muslim is a harder path to navigate.
In Christchurch, though, we’re a little bit of everything: Somali, Malay, Arab, Iranian, Afghan, Pakistani, Indian, Syrian, Kuwaiti, South African, Ma¯ ori and Kiwi. The majority of the Muslim community have either come to New Zealand as refugees escaping dangerous situations or immigrants trying to carve out something better for themselves. Harmless. Peaceful folk. Finally safe, or so they thought.
As a Muslim in Christchurch I may not have always felt included, but I have never felt discriminated against.
In fact, the only incident of anything remotely scary I’ve experienced – a guy pulling up at a red light and shouting through my rolled down window, ‘‘Go f ...... back to India, you c...’’ [side note: I’m not from India] – was more a result of me being an immigrant than a Muslim.
All the other more subtle nuances – not being catered for in terms of halal food when someone with a gluten intolerance is, or not being given time off to pray at sunset during Ramadan when you’re working shifts – are harder to voice.
Since the attacks last week, however, we’ve never been more loved up with the outpouring of support and heartfelt sincerity; as a colleague pointed out, it has never been a better time to be Muslim. It feels like finally being seen, headgear aside, just human being to human being. It feels like we’re finally being picked for the proverbial high school dodgeball team.
Police demonstrated that we were a valuable part of society when they raced down Brougham St to catch the alleged shooter within half an hour of the first emergency call.
Jacinda Ardern proved that we, too, are important enough to defend when she used the words ‘‘terrorist attack’’ for white-onbrown violence – and frankly, by doing every amazing thing she’s done in response to the attacks. Egg boy, I don’t condone violence of any kind, but thank you.
If the shooter’s intention was to divide, to make us ‘‘cockroaches’’ other, he did anything but that.
I can’t say I speak for all Muslims in Christchurch, but I think we finally understand the full extent of warmth and deep comfort that comes with being part of a Kiwi community. Whiria te tangata – I get it now.
Sumeera Dawood is a writer based in Christchurch. Born in South Africa, she made New Zealand her home three years ago and is a mum to two boys.