Wednesday, August 20, 2008

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.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Returning to Jeddah

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

Utter, total desolation.

And I realize the bankruptcy of my own heart. After all, a believer should carry within them a garden of rememberence.

Instead, my feelings, this time around, are of anxiety, uncetainty, malaise. These feelings have been slowly washing over me, creeping up an otherwise clear coastline that is to be submerged.

* * *

The cartoon image of an airplane's zig zag line is about to land on the triple-circled dot that is Jeddah. The neon monitor announces our flight's progress towards King Abdul Aziz International airport in excruciating detail:

Ground speed:
295 MPH
263 MPH
220 MPH

911 metres,

0:05 minutes remaining

We circle the circles and the wheels of the plane are noisily lowered. A phone call (why is that guy's cell phone on?) interrupts the hum that steadily mutes the voices around me into one monolithic baby cry.

A nearby passenger's incessant gaze has prompted me to once again don the wide black cloth, tied around my head beneath the like-coloured scarf. His impertinent darting glances are reminiscent of the crouching Bedouin whose similar stare long ago greeted me on arrival to this Kingdom's other airport.

Just like the passenger now, the Bedouin's unabashed looks removed all doubts that remained about this contentious article of clothing that I finally tied around my head in the middle of passport control. This time, I didn't wait for the arrivals lounge and because of that scurrilous man, wished I hadn't waited until 10 minutes before touchdown to once again assume the non-identity that becomes the obsession for the "liberated" Western mind whenever thoughts of this oil kingdom occur.

And now, buddy glances over and realizes there's nothing more to see. My space is once again secure and, in my non-identity, I am wholly my own.

Too bad it has to be this way but such is the reality of certain places.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Unforgettable moments from time away

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

Journal entry: July 25

In the middle of a shiny expanse of grass, a family is led in quiet prayer.

Around them, families of two, three, four or more come and go, as children gallop from attraction to attraction in this giant water theme park in Toronto.

Another family stands to watch this odd sight as the father in prayer whispers just loud enough for the three women behind him to hear. . .

Allahu Akbar. God is Greater.

They bend at the knees, bowing towards Mecca which seems painfully far away, both physically and spiritually, and then prostrate, foreheads nestled in the long stems of green.

Though puzzling to others, it is a sight that comforts my troubled soul, trapped between two worlds and unsure of where to go.

The other sight that soothes the heart, is that of the Beluga whales gliding through water as children press noses and hands up against the thick glass to watch. The gray mammals and their offspring circle the water tank gracefully despite their containment, which is a reminder of something Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, once said:

"The world is a prison-house for a believer and Paradise for a non-believer."

The key is to live with dignity and thankfulness despite feeling as though you are under house arrest. Hope I can keep that in mind.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Setting sun

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

The sky is resplendent in the glory of the past few moments.

Our window displays a crystal sky obviously protected by an invisible hand that pushes away gathering storm clouds that appear, disappear and re-appear over and over again.

A vision that is reflective of our internal battles, as we struggle to find 'home'.

And truly, the home is with God, the Everlasting. But how do we get to that home, and where do we set up shop in the meantime?

Living in Saudi, though for only a short while before this impromptu visit to Canada, had not necessarily brought me any closer to figuring anything out but it did serve as an opportunity to reflect on many assumptions that had almost prevented me from making the trip at all. Here is an entry from my journal on the flight back (with some later modifications).

July 17, 2008:

"It wasn't that long ago that I was taking a similar flight, in the opposite direction. Just three months separate that other journey and this one and in the process, dozens of realizations.

How was it possible that I, a person who sees herself as educated, open-minded and tolerant, had shrunk from the thought of moving to a country where I had come to believe represented the failure of modern-day Islam to participate in a global village which represented - at least theoretically and in varying degrees - thinking that had evolved inadvertently towards reflecting a traditional Islamic ethos, ie. human rights, justice, equality, fairness, honesty, consensus, consultation, scientific discovery, tolerance, etc.

After all, the mantra that Islam had once been a beacon of light to a (Western) world which had been shrouded in the dark ages way back when, has become stale, no matter how true it remains. And of course, with the media constantly telling me how backward everything to do with Islam has become, it is perhaps no wonder that I saw in Saudi Arabia all that was wrong with the global Muslim community, termed the 'Ummah'.

Moving through the marble expanse of a typical sparkling shopping mall in Jeddah, I would permit myself a chuckle at the common cartoon of a woman dressed in black being warned of letting her long gown, abaya, get caught in the escalator. It was slowly dawning on me that living life differently from the West did not necessarily mean that life would be completely hopeless.




Besides, it is not that Saudi Arabia had chosen not to participate in the world -- on the contrary, inter-faith discussions were held in Mecca in June, not insignificant as Mecca is the symbolic heart of the faith. Not to mention the King's overtures towards representatives of a flurry of faiths during a specially convened conference in Madrid, Spain in July.

But from the very beginning, I refused to see anything positive emanating from the desert land (except the Holy places, of course) because dark, monolithic shadows haunted my mind. The shadows of those shrouded women who were indistinguishable from one another in their black flowing robes brought out the amateur, radical feminist inside me and threatened to destroy any moment of wait . . . that moment before passing judgment, allowing the senses to absorb all that assails it and calmly, with dignity, intellectualize and even appreciate God's magnificent plan:

"O humankind! We have created you from a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes, that you may know one another. Verily, the most honourable of you with Gos is that (believer) who has strong faith. Verily, God is All-Knowing, All-Aware." [Quran, 49:13]

. . . more on that to come.