Love in a Headscarf (23 page)

“That all sounds very promising,” I responded. “So we should meet him, no? Sounds like the best interest we’ve had in quite some time.”

My mother frowned.

“What is it this time?” I asked, hesitant. After engaging with optimism and hope through numerous matches and introductions, I’d finally learned to confront “the catch” at the start. When I first noticed myself doing this, I had tried to put a stop to my increasing pessimism and stay positive. But with more and more introductions under my belt, and less and less fantasy to cling onto, I concluded that it was better to face reality up front—that there was always something that wasn’t quite right. After all, wasn’t that the point of arrangements and introductions: to think with the head and make a reasoned decision about whether reality could support the feelings and emotions someone evoked inside you?

“He doesn’t want someone who wears hijab,” she continued. I’d heard this one before. Surely the simple answer was for him to be introduced only to women who did not wear the hijab
?
That seemed the obvious next step in this scenario. I said as much to my mum.

“Perhaps you need to consider him, he is everything you need. He is intelligent and intellectual, he has a forward-looking outlook on life, he’s active and sociable, and his family are very open and easy-going, all of which you are having trouble finding elsewhere,” she advised.

Her analysis was right. I
was
having difficulty finding these qualities. I sighed. “So what are you suggesting?” We’d been through this before, this process of being introduced to men who had specifically stated that they wanted a non-hijab-wearing woman in the hope, or taking the calculated risk, that having seen me they would be overwhelmed with my good looks, charm, and endearing personality and would immediately say yes. They always said no.

“It’s not
me
suggesting this,” said my mum with audible italics. “It’s just that Auntie has asked me to put this to you to consider. I have to give you the option to make your own decision.”

“I don’t really want to be put up in front of another man for him to measure my looks on a ten-point scale and decide if I am pretty enough to be a trophy wife for him or to judge if my clothes are trendy and stylish enough to ‘compensate’ for my hijab
.
”

There was a bittersweet irony in the suggestion that I should be
told
that I should
not
wear a headscarf. The request to
not
wear it was repressive.

“Auntie is saying that he doesn’t mind you wearing hijab in the long term; in fact he says that he would probably want you to wear it. He says he likes the idea that you are interested in religion and he thinks he could learn a lot from you.”

“So then I don’t understand what the problem is.”

“Before he gets to that point, he is asking if you would stop wearing hijab …”

My eyeballs pinged straight out, then off the wall, and bounced on the floor. I picked them up, put them back in, and let her conclude.

“… for a year,” finished my mother.

“Wow.” I was astonished. Was this a gracious compromise on the prince’s part?

“So let me get this straight, he wants me to stop doing something for a year, which he thinks is probably the right thing to do anyway? And which he agrees is part of our faith.”

“Yes.”

This was puzzling indeed. And what was most puzzling was that his parents would have discussed this with him, and then with the Auntie, all of whom would have agreed that they thought there was sense in this proposition. In the interest of getting the boy married, they were willing to ask someone to
not
do something which they all agreed was the right thing to do and to make it seem that I, the poor passive, accepting woman, was inflexible and lacking in kindness and understanding, and unwilling to show a commitment to the ideal of getting married if I didn’t do it. If I sounded cross, it was because I felt cross.

I had made a choice about my faith and the way that I wanted to live my life. I had based these decisions on careful thought and what I believed was right. I realized that I didn’t have to shape my faith in order to subsume it to this false god of social and cultural acceptability. I didn’t have to accede to the trump card of the boy’s superior cultural position and the marriage-at-all-costs attitude.

Marriage was important, but it was supposed to complete my faith, not destroy it.

I had changed my own world, and that meant I was ready to push back and change the world itself. I grinned at my mother. And at that, my mother’s worried frown turned into a small, conspiratorial smirk and then into a wide, proud grin at the daughter she had raised who had finally learned to call things as they were. She didn’t want her daughter—and by extension herself—to be bullied by an age-old custom where the boy’s family held all the cards and where they would insist on incomprehensible requests, even when they knew that they contravened all faith standards.

I blamed the gatekeepers—the mothers-in-law, the Aunties, the matchmakers. They were supposed to be upholding the sanctity of marriage. They had told the girls that it was important to look beyond the superficial, that love would grow with time, that marriage was about more give than take. They told us to be religious and uphold our faith, and yet here they were promoting and encouraging young men to ask Muslim women to stop practicing their faith so that they could get married.

“If they really want me to stop wearing hijab, which they agree is something that a Muslim woman should do, then I think you should tell them that I will be happy to do so if they will take the responsibility of me giving up my prayers and my fasting in Ramadan for a year as well.”

SEVEN
Love

From a Single Soul, Created in Pairs

L
ate in the summer I traveled with Sara and Noreen on a tour of Jordan and Egypt. I was excited. Egypt straddled Arabia and North Africa, at the center of Muslim dynasties that had spanned hundreds of years. I couldn’t wait to see the architecture or to wander through its bustling and famous bazaars. Its history stretched back to the great civilization of Ancient Egypt, which included the Bible and Qur’an stories of Joseph and Moses. Ever since I was a child I had wanted to see the Pyramids, walk on the sands that had witnessed the pharaohs, El-Alamein, and the building of the Suez Canal. It was not just its history that I wanted to experience, but also its natural beauty: to travel through its wildly beautiful desert, to take a sunset boat ride along the Nile, the artery of this great nation. I felt a connection to Egypt through the river Nile, as it originates on the borders of Tanzania, my parents’ place of birth. I had seen with my own eyes out of the window of the airplane on my travels to East Africa the way that the water transformed the desert, winding through it like a thick verdant snake.

We spent several days in Cairo, the capital of Egypt. Despite the incredible whirlwind of activity in the city and the utter majesty of the Nile that dominates its center, there was one thing that constantly surprised us: the number of marriage proposals we received. We compared notes at the end of each day to tally up our offers. We notched up several proposals from taxi drivers—they had car journeys in which to make and explain the value of their offers; two from shopkeepers and a handful from the owners of the horses that took us for rides around the monuments.

Sulaiman owned a tour company that provided horses and guides for tourists to ride around the Pyramids. All three of us took a horse each, and Sulaiman elected to accompany my horse on foot. I had never ridden a horse before and wondered what the risks were if the horse broke into a gallop. Sulaiman laughed at my feeble urban nerves, chuckling at these soft female tourists who couldn’t do a basic thing like ride a horse. The hooves padded rhythmically in the sand and the small dots in the distance turned into high-rise Pyramids. We continued past them and the swarming tourists, and circled around to the other side as the sun slowly dropped toward the horizon. The hot red streaks in the sky reflected on the sand.

We stopped directly in line with the Pyramids and waited for sunset, admiring the ancient vista before us. Sulaiman was diligent in exercising his guide duties by allowing us to fully enjoy the sights.

We chatted about tourists, life in Cairo, his work, London. And then abruptly, and uninvited, he looked directly into my eyes and declared: “You are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I muttered, and fell silent. I wobbled on the saddle as the horse swished around to drink from a shallow puddle.

“I have a good business,” he continued. “Many horses.”

“How lovely,” I answered insipidly, worried now at the direction this conversation was taking.

“And many camels, too.”

“That is very good,” I said unenthusiastically, keeping my gaze fixed on the Pyramids.

Sulaiman strode off and came back a moment later with another horse, and swung himself up onto it. He had been disadvantaged on foot but now he sat eye to eye with me, separated emphatically by two well-behaved horses.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” He paused and looked over at me. “Wouldn’t a human being want to survey this kingdom every day?”

I thought about his suggestion, far away from rainy London, the daily commute by dirty, crowded train to sit at a stagnant desk job, which led to more commuting and different desks as life progressed. Just because that was how it had always been, it didn’t mean that was how it had to be. Why wait until I was creased and battered by life to have a vacation home in a warm relaxed climate? I could throw out those parameters that I held myself back with and have that joy now. I was already asking myself challenging and unorthodox questions every day about what I was really looking for in a person who would be my companion. I ought to ask the same type of challenging questions about the way I lived my life.

“I have twenty thousand camels.”

I pointed to a gold ring that I was wearing especially for an occasion such as this. Even though it was on the wrong hand, I left him to draw the conclusion that I was married or at the very least engaged.

If only I had known that each camel was worth a thousand pounds, I might have agreed, or would I? Could I have spent so many years searching for someone who would complete me and hold my hand on a spiritual path, only to give it all up for a stranger with a large pot of cash?

I was quick to decline: there were too many other things to consider in this case. I would be facing a new country and a new culture with a man who I had known for barely an hour. I saw the risk of being stranded in an unknown place with so many new people. Most of all, and thinking clearly, I had to question whether he really did have this enormous reserve of wealth, and if his intentions really were genuine. I’d heard too many horror stories.

At the papyrus shop, I admired the varieties of tourist memorabilia made from one of Ancient Egypt’s most well-known symbols: reed papyrus. The intriguing painted paper made for ideal presents—light, small, and cheap. I found myself browsing through the different paintings on my own, but not for long. One of the shop staff came to assist me, and without hesitation spoke to me with frank emotion.

“You are very beautiful.”

Here we go yet again
, I thought. I continued to look at the papyrus.

“The men where you come from must be blind not to see how exquisite you are.”

I paused and gazed at a traditional painting of the Tree of Life.

“I would defend you, and look after you. I would show you how a woman like you should be appreciated. You should be accompanied by a man who treats you as the most important thing to him. I would not let you be on your own like this. I would carry your bags and take care of you wherever you go.”

It was an eloquent and touching speech. I smiled, opened my mouth several times, but could find no suitable words. What could one say to such an outpouring of emotion?

What motivated these men to approach us so directly? Perhaps they saw us as a game of statistics and believed that if they asked enough women, one might succumb. Or were we an easy target to drum up business through flattery? It was possible that we were entertainment for them, as they laughed among themselves at the gullible female tourists.

I wondered, what if one of us had actually said yes? Would he have married her, and then would she remain behind in Egypt? Or would the newly married couple have moved to London? We were skeptical: we assumed that they found our passports more beautiful than us. In this context, we thought love was being played as a game.

Was this all part of the tourist service? Despite our complaints about the unwanted attention, did female visitors enjoy the compliments and flattery? I had never been told so often how beautiful I was. I had never been proposed to so often. All that these men were doing was exposing and then feeding the beliefs that we had about ourselves that we were desirable women with status. We had let their compliments go to our heads and it revealed an unpalatable truth: we thought we were somehow superior because we were from the “West.”