“Adieu, mes amis. Je vais à la gloire!” (Goodbye, my friends, I am off to glory!)

Legend had it that these were Isadora Duncan’s last words to her friends, from the car which was to take her to her death at the age of 50 in Nice, France on September 15, 1927. It was only later that the record was set straight: Duncan had actually said “I am off to love!”

What happened next shocked all who witnessed it and those who read about it the next morning in the New York Times:

“The automobile was going at full speed when the scarf of strong silk began winding around the wheel and with terrific force dragged Miss Duncan, around whom it was securely wrapped, bodily over the side of the car, precipitating her with violence against the cobblestone street. She was dragged for several yards before the chauffeur halted, attracted by her cries in the street. Medical aid was summoned, but it was stated that she had been strangled and killed instantly.”

Upon hearing of the freak accident that claimed the life of Isadora Duncan, Gertrude Stein reportedly said: “affectations can be dangerous”.

I will be 50 in 2 months and have decided to strip myself of an affectation that has never become comfortable for me. It is the same affectation that Duncan had — the scarf — only Duncan’s was for the dramatic fashion effect and mine was for the religious piety affect. The thing is, I told myself I wore it for all kinds of reasons related to pleasing my ex-husband. In fact, I have never been convinced in my heart that the interpretation of modesty/hijaab is dependent upon covering the hair. I suspect that even when showing my hair, I am a lot more modest than most “muhajababes” in the Arab world.

I never was at ease with the scarf — physically, emotionally, spiritually. I find it hot, itchy, even stifling. My hair was thinning. I found that people focused on me more because I have an obvious non-Arab look, which inevitably started the questions about where I was from and why I was wearing the scarf. Ironically, I attracted a lot more attention than I do now.

The worst problem was dealing with it spiritually because I became hypersensitive to the back-biting and judgment Muslims pass on each other over this piece of fabric. I have heard more than one Muslim say conspiratorially to me-the-muhajaba that we are the real Muslims and those women sans scarf had removed themselves from Islam with the loss of that one little cloth. It all further compounded the growing feelings of hypocrisy that were brewing in me.

It got to the point that every time I put it on, it felt worse. It became more oppressive and felt more pretentious. I had only ever worn it for my ex-husband and now even that was not a factor. So I took it off.

And I feel great! I feel like me again — the me that had gone missing in May of 2005 when I got married. I was a Muslimah without the scarf for the first 5 years after I converted and that is the woman I rediscovered. She’s still a Muslimah and she’s still modest modest. But she likes to think for herself, as most redheads do.

On Muslimahs and Modesty

Today, I found myself pondering modesty and adornment. I must not be the only one because Sumera has a great post on the subject here. Most Arab men I know think a woman’s modesty is reflected by the fact that she wears an abaya and shayla. It’s like a check list and anything short is found to be wanting. Long outer garment (aka abaya, jilbab, etc.): Check. Head scarf (aka shayla, hijaab, etc.): Check.

Yep. She’s a modest Muslimah.

No abaya (or jilbab)? No shayla (or hijaab)?

Nope. She’s not modest. Maybe she’s not even a practising Muslimah….. hmmmmm…..

Well, as I said, today I really started thinking about this. The two Arab women directly in front of me did not wear hijaab but had simple hairstyles, and were wearing trousers and loose shirts. Some would look at their hair showing or their pants-clad forms and say they were immodest. But I was struck by the fact that they looked neat and presentable while obviously not dressing to attract male attention. Sure their hair was showing but they had minimal make-up and even though I was directly behind them in line, I didn’t even catch a faint whiff or cologne.

In front of this pair was a typical group of Khaleeji (in this case, Qatari) women. They had on richly ornamented abayas and shaylas with glass beads and sequins embellishing the flowing sleeves and filmy shaylas. Their make-up was applied very thickly, with eyes rimmed in kohl and drawn up at the corners to accentuate a cat-like quality. Their eyeshadows displayed the range of God’s own rainbows — glittery, no less!; while their lips were outlined sharply in liner and then filled in with various shades of red, with a thick application of gloss to finish them off. Naturally, I could smell them even before I saw them — that is what bathing in half a bottle of perfume will do. Purses, shoes and sunglasses ranged from Chanel to Dior to Bulgari — all labels and logos prominently displayed.

Yes, they were essentially covered in black from head to toe (and even arranged their shaylas as face veils when leaving) in what many consider the Muslim prescription for female dress. And yes, they were quite lovely — and certainly VERY alluring. But what I found myself pondering is how ANYONE can look at this manner of dress, make-up and accessorizing as modest and suitably “Islamic.” Certainly being a Muslimah and being modest doesn’t mean we have to wear burlap or trash bags, but is the typical ostentatious — yet covered — style of dress in the Gulf the definition of Muslim modesty?

So tell me, what does modesty mean to you?

Why I Wear Hijaab And Why I Support Other Women’s Right To Choose Not To

Ever since I became a Muslim I have engaged in discussions about the issue of covering hair. Lately I have come across a few discussions that got quite heated and read some statements that shocked me in their vehemence for and against hijaab. Some of the comments made by Muslims were particluraly surprising and I realized that even within our own community we are extremely polarized on this issue of a little piece of cloth. There are always Muslims who are ready to force us all undercover and would be more than willing to have this legislated and enacted by “hair police.” But what shocked me was that I discovered Muslims who felt hijaab should be banned with punishment for anyone whose daughter under a certain age of maturity (possibly around 16-1 sports a head cover. I decided it was time for me to put some of my own thoughts and experiences down on paper — or at least out in cyber space.

In the beginning when I first converted to Islam I did not cover my hair and was encouraged by many to take my time and “let it come in its own time.” I had a few friends friends who encouraged me — mostly women from the Islamic Center where I had studied — but even they were very relaxed about the whole thing. I had often worn an abaya over my clothes, mainly for ease and comfort, but had tossed the shayla around my neck and shoulders in my best Isadora Duncan manner. Occasionally when I would go out to the souk I would loosely cover my hair with the shayla and so after about a year I decided to give it a go and adopt hijaab. At first I was delighted when friends and students remarked upon how nice it looked and encouraged me to see it as a part of my life as a Muslim. But it wasn’t long before I experienced the negative aspect of this hijaab issue.

I had Muslims approaching me and telling me that NOW I had become a “REAL” Muslim — as if that time before didn’t count. Then I heard how wone Muslimah wearing hijaab would judge the other without the scarf and backbite in the nastiest ways. On top of that, I began to notice the trend of covering the hair while wearing tight clothes, heavy make-up and ostentatious abayas. The whole issue started to sicken me so I took off my scarf — and felt better than I had since putting it on.

When I got engaged my fiance told me how important he felt wearing hijaab was. He explained all the typical reasoning and spoke from the heart about his fears that I would be punished on judgment day for not wearing it. On top of that, he told me that he tthinks HE will be ;unished, too, because he didn’t “enjoin the good” in me with regard to hijaab.

I explained that it is extremely uncomfortable for me — hot, itchy, always coming undone. I explained the whole added dimension of having to coordinate it with everything. I even brought up the issue of how a healthy head of hair needs light and air. But in contrast to what he was saying my reasons were all about comfort in this life.

That’s when I thought that it would be better to take it on to please him and insha’Allah please God. Even if God doesn’t care about me covering my hair, surely he will appreciate me trying to please my husband. However, I will NEVER tell another woman to wear hijaab — especially when I am not convinced in my own heart about its necessity.

So let’s see how this work….