Fade to black

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

In a nondescript bookshop full of boring old textbooks, my husband started flipping through one that caught his attention, set up on a book holder quite apart from all the rest.

As I was unfurling two ten riyal bills to pay for the paint sets my bouncy girls had pulled off the colourful shelves and handed to me for purchase, my guy motioned me over to look at the glossy pages.

The first image was of an old sandal that had belonged to the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him. I leaned over, pulling my face veil up against me to widen the slit around my eyes and get a better view. It was dark black and ratty and we tried to imagine in it on the foot of a man who had led one of humanity's most amazing transformations of a region's ideology; a man who "was the only man in history who was supremely successful on both the religious and secular levels," according to historian Michael Hart who ranked Muhammad as the number one most influential person in history.

And he wore sandals.

But it wasn't the Prophet's footwear that made me stop in my tracks. It was a following image of a long beige gown, said to have been worn by the Prophet's daughter, Fatima, may God be pleased with her.

"It wasn't black, it wasn't black," I started repeating to an amused hubby who nonetheless looked around nervously. "Don't get us into trouble," he said, half joking, half serious.

"Maybe she wore it inside," I said, as I held on to my children's slippery hands as we exited the store. After all, every single woman in this land is "required" to wear black - something that bugged me to no end considering how sunny this place is. And yet, I found it in me to give the rule makers the benefit of the doubt.

For once, the man was on my side. "Actually," said hubby, "that is a gown that is worn outside."

So!

I DON'T HAVE TO WEAR BLACK!?!



Okay. Let's take a step back. I've actually gotten quite used to wearing black. And, as I alluded to before, I actually appreciate the calming effects it has on the female ego. Of course, there are many ladies who get their kicks from the diamond swirls that are woven into shiny materials, or the leopard designs that seem ready to pounce from beneath long black scarves. Not me, though. Little black dress goes big here and simplicity is the name of the game. So is equality and an abolition of visible manifestations of class. In the end, it's all black.



I'm telling you, I really don't mind it. Not only do I not have to colour coordinate every last detail of the outfit I'm wearing, but the black gowns, abayas, are probably more comfortable than pajamas (well, many young ladies are wearing pajamas under them, anyway, and why not?)

But the point is, at least now I know that it is a cultural trapping and not a religious dictate. Like the ban on women drivers (oooh, I've got news for you....but let me confirm it first . . .). Anyway, I can live with it, even embrace it, but it is so good to know that beige and any other colour (okay, neon pink is out) is perfectly fine.

As for the face veil - yes, I wear it out of choice, and because of the guys who stare - and no, I wouldn't wear it if guys didn't stare but I doubt that will ever change. So, in accordance with human nature - at least that which is not yet refined of human nature as the Quran clearly tells both men and women to "lower their gaze" - I gladly assume the non-identity that liberates me - not only from the stares of strange men, but from the jealous looks of ladies who think that white skin is more valuable than their own olive complexions. Sigh.

"The women were taking up the sanctuary of the black robe as a defense of their personality, in the same -- yet apparently contrary -- manner as Western women were disrobing in defense of their personality," observed that American lady reporter, Georgie Anne Geyer, whom I've quoted before. She was talking about Iranian women adopting the chador, a variation of the Saudi gown. Now, I have no experience with Iran, other than to say that the Iranians I've met in Mecca and Medina love my kids' curly hair, but what she says holds some truth.

I do not feel oppressed in the black, but in fact, safe in my own sanctuary -- an extension of the point that covering up means that it is only those who truly know me and love me who see me. There is a certain kind of value in that, though of course, I've given it some thought and made the concious choice to go along with it. Not everyone has that luxury.