My headscarf is not a symbol of male authority… it liberates and empowers me
A proudly British Muslim politician and writer explains why she chose to cover her hair after a brush with death
FOR THE first three years of my 30-year-long marriage, I was a modern Muslim woman who prayed five times a day but did not wear a headscarf in public. But after I nearly died during the traumatic birth of my first daughter, Zakia, I wanted to give thanks for her safe arrival.
I felt a strong draw to start to wear the hijab. Now, I am a modern Muslim woman who prays fives a day and wears a headscarf in public. Contrary to popular belief, no man has ever asked me to cover my hair.
A Muslim woman exercises freedom of choice in her attire in the same way as a white British woman or a woman from any other culture. It is a way to honour one’s faith – in the same way that some Christians wear a crucifix and Hindu women traditionally wear saris. It’s completely my choice and it feels very liberating.
My husband Aminur, a driving instructor, loved to see my hair loose. So after I decided to cover my hair at the age of 24, he would ask: “Do you want to loosen the scarf, just a little bit?”
“No, I’m fine,” I would reply. “It’s special like this.”
I’ve explained that it gives me confidence, both professionally and personally, and a sense of who I am. If I am happy, so is my husband. Wearing the headscarf has nothing to do with my family, my father, my brother or the imam at the mosque. I have never been forced to wear it and I am not – and never have been – repressed, stifled or subjugated. The scarf enriches me, but it doesn’t change who I am.
And it is not a male authority, symbol of as many
Rabina Khan, 48, is an influential Liberal Democrat councillor in east London’s Tower Hamlets. A former House of Lords special adviser, she came to the UK from Bangladesh aged three with her parents. The mother of three has delivered lectures at the University of Cambridge and on BBC Radio 4, and has just been nominated for a National Diversity Award
Westerners seem to believe. For me, it’s a personal choice of modesty.
For others it might be a political, cultural or fashion statement or, for some young Muslims, simply a way to look like their mums or to feel more grown up.
But there was more to my decision than this act of gratitude for the safe arrival of my daughter. I wanted to make a stand against the stark inequality that I witness on a daily basis; to represent women who do not have my public platform. Many people are probably still unaware why Muslim women wear a hijab in Western society, so I decided to write a book about it, My Hair Is Pink Under This Veil, to explain my rationale and correct some mistaken assumptions. The title was conceived after a gentleman asked me one day what colour my hair was under my hijab. In order to intrigue him, I told him it was pink, but one of my aims was to quash the notion that hijab-wearing women have no interest in hairstyles or vibrant colours. And humour helps to diffuse an awkward situation.
Of course, what I would like to have said is: “And what colour was your hair before you went bald?” but I wouldn’t be so insensitive.
“Aren’t you hot under that hijab?” is another question I and many other Muslim women have been asked on countless occasions, when the reality is that it is no hotter than wearing a sun hat, or a baseball cap.
My decision to start wearing the hijab was also a political one. During my first pregnancy in 1996, I was concerned about how women with headscarves were treated during prenatal appointments at my GP’s surgery in east London. I watched as Somali and Bangladeshi women were overlooked and left waiting much longer than their white counterparts.
ONE Muslim woman, who asked to see a female member of staff, was more or less told to go home. With my headscarf worn around my neck at that time, as I had since I was a child, I felt incensed witnessing this discriminatory treatment. I’m extremely proud of being British, so how can a woman be treated differently purely because of a headscarf?
I went through a period of intense reflection and felt a sense of frustration. I asked myself:What can I do to make this better?
When I went into labour, my husband took me to the hospital, and a really lovely nurse discovered I had protein in my urine and put me on a drip. I was being well cared for, but I had this image of the other Muslim women I had seen being treated poorly.Why didn’t I
‘For me it’s a choice of modesty. For others it might be a political, cultural or fashion statement’
defend them? I quickly realised that I had to stand with them. As a senior consultant helped me through my very difficult labour after being diagnosed with pre-eclampsia, I made the decision to start wearing the scarf – not to please anyone else, but to give me strength and to amplify the support I could give to other Muslim women, particularly those who felt they had no voice.
My daughter Zakia is now 25 and a devout Muslim who chooses not to wear a headscarf; she fasts, gives a lot of money to charity and is very humble.
Her sister Nabila is 21. She chooses to wear a headscarf, although she is less devout than her sister. She says she feels stronger by wearing it, and it also gives her confidence and pride in who she is. For my mother’s generation, the rules on headscarves – as with most other customs – were more straightforward. They did what their fathers and husbands instructed.The use of the hijab today can be read more as personal choice than a mandate. Similar to wearing full traditional dress, it’s not a requirement.
My home in east London may be diverse and multicultural, but I know that there are parts of the UK that still have no black or Asian residents. In writing my book I want to reach out to women in scarves, and to people who might not understand why some of us choose to wear it.
As Muslims, we might follow a different religion, but that doesn’t mean we are not British. Many young Muslims feel more British than the British, and have been raised with British values – saying thank you, working hard, sharing dinner and helping those less fortunate than ourselves. These are the values that we also learn from Islam.
In our home, as in many others, we also love a roast dinner on a Sunday, with Yorkshire puddings and roast potatoes. We adore cake and custard, fish and chips. We enjoy Christmas dinner on Christmas Day, and like to take trips to the seaside.We are at one with our own identity and our strong sense of Britishness. Muslims have often been accused of being too conservative, with justification.
We have been slow in making changes. But now, with the third British Muslim generation coming of age, the wheels are turning faster. According to a 2018 Ipsos MORI poll on Muslim social attitudes, UK Muslims are becoming more liberal without becoming more religious. Some 79 per cent of young Muslims aged 16 to 29, want to be fully integrated in all aspects of British life. They have ethnically diverse friendship groups and believe it is correct that homosexuality is legal in Britain.
Young Muslims do not see the choice as being either more British by becoming less Muslim, or being more Muslim by becoming less British. According to the poll, they are finding ways to reconcile the two.
I feel lucky to have grown up and been educated in England. I was determined to serve, contribute and put something back into the country and people who have nourished and embraced me. I wanted to do so as a British Muslim woman, proud of who I am.
IWANT people to understand that in our modern, multi-ethnic, rich and diverse nation, the headscarf is not a barrier between us; it is simply part of my heritage, as a Scotsman wearing a kilt is a part of his. I had to sing for my supper: to earn my right to participate in British politics.
For many that challenge would have been insurmountable but it was not new to me: as a Muslim woman, I had always been required to justify myself, and disassociate myself from people, organisations or ideologies I’d never heard of, in order to participate.
I would read one of my favourite poems, the enduring words of Still I Rise by Maya Angelou; reach out to my brother and sisters, my husband, children and mother. And seek within myself for strength, resilience and that ultimate belief I could keep going. As women we all face our struggles, but if we can stand on each other’s shoulders we can always achieve more.
●●My Hair Is Pink Under This Veil by Rabina Khan (Biteback Publishing, £16.99) is out now. For free UK delivery, call Express Bookshop on 01872 562310. Rabina Khan was talking to Jane Warren