Hijaab

“Lugar lang, ‘Nong,” you say to the driver.

The tricycle pulls over the corner of the street. You step out of the vehicle and walk the rest of the way toward the waiting shed outside the university. You see a few students going in and out of the school gate in their ordinary shirts and pants. You pass by some of them including a group of girls who look at you as if you have no right to be walking on that street. One of them raises an eyebrow. You could have rolled your eyes but you think better. Instead, you walk ahead, pretending not to see them.

On the corner of the shed, you see a woman in her hijaab 1 -- a white veil that is pinned under her chin, covering her hair and neck, a blue long-sleeve shirt and slacks. It is your cousin Omairah. As you approach her, you catch a couple of guys follow you with their gazes. The taller one, whom you think looks cute, smiles at you and says hi. You smile back.

You see Omairah look at the street ahead with searching eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice you coming. “Kaka Mai-mai!” you call out.

She looks at your direction. “Jamela?” she asks as you face each other. She looks at you with doubtful eyes, as if she’s meeting you for the first time.

“Sorry I’m late. You see –”

“La hul la huwa kuwata illah hillahi aaliyul azim,” 2 you hear your cousin say, interrupting your excuses. She looks at you from head to toe with obvious disbelief in her eyes.

You don’t know what the Arabic expression exactly means but you do remember that your late grandmother used to utter those words whenever she dropped something or whenever she heard some bad news. It is not really the reaction you expect from Omairah. You think she would greet you with a smile and hug you despite your tardiness. Instead, she welcomes you with foreign words and a look on her face that you couldn’t quite determine whether it’s an expression of surprise or disapproval. But something about the way her brows contract and her mouth drops a little tells you that your cousin doesn’t like what she’s seeing.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

She grabs you by the arm and pulls you toward the corner of the shed, almost bumping with one of the students passing by. “What’s that you’re wearing?” she asks, frowning.

You look at yourself nonchalantly. Seeing that there’s nothing wrong with your outfit, you say, “Why, thank you Kaka Mai-mai. You don’t look bad yourself either.”

Surely, you can’t expect your cousin to appreciate your white tank top and baggy pants as much as she would not be able to understand how it took you an hour to decide on what to wear for this occasion. You always consider your cousin as the “old-fashioned” Muslim woman who’s satisfied with her hijaab.

“Look at yourself. Your underwear is almost visible under that sando. Did Bapa Sahidin see you in those – clothes?” she says in the most worried tone you hear from her.

“Ama is in Iligan for a one-week seminar,” you assure her, “and I make sure that I would be home before Ina does. They’re not going to kill me if that’s what you’re worried about. Unless…” You cross your arms and give her a half-serious suspicious look, “Unless you tell them about it, which I know you wouldn’t. Am I right, dear cousin?” You put your arm around her shoulders.

“But –”

“Come on, Omairah,” you say. “I’m only here for the sembreak. I’ll be returning to Davao next week and there’s no way that I’m going to spend my vacation listening to your sermons.”

You turn away, leaning your back against the wall. For a brief moment, the two of you don’t speak. You face Notre Dame Avenue, taking your time watching tricycles and jeepneys pass by. You wonder where the taxis are, almost forgetting the fact that you are in Cotabato City and not in Davao. Here, taxis are rare. A chain of carenderias, an Internet café and a billiard hall line up the other side of the street. Students probably hang out there during their break. There are no malls in the city, only small department stores. You’re glad that the mall is just one ride away from your school in Davao. You can’t imagine yourself eating in a turo-turo during lunch break.

“I’m sorry,” you hear Omairah say in a gentle tone. “It’s my fault. I should have reminded you about the dress code. You see, you can’t go to the forum –”

“Wait a minute,” you say, “what do you mean dress code?”

“Well, it’s not really the right term to use,” she says, “but, what I mean… what I’m trying to say is that you can’t go to a n Islamic forum in those clothes.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll be getting everybody’s attention. You’d probably be the only one who’s not going to wear a hijaab,” she explains seriously.

You try to control yourself from chuckling at the no-nonsense expression on her face. “Will the guys be wearing hijaab, too?” you ask, trying to tease her.

“No silly,” she says, now smiling. “I think there will be no guys in the forum.”

“But I thought you said Amir’s going to be there.” Now you’re the one who’s wearing a frown. You only accepted your cousin’s invitation because you thought your crush is going to be there.

“That was for yesterday’s forum,” she says. “Today’s topic is about women in Islam. I think most of the guests will be women. So –”

“So that would mean that I no longer have any reason to join the forum,” you say, lowering your head. “Amir’s not going to be there. I dressed up for nothing. Besides, I don’t want to embarrass you with my outfit. I don’t want them to think that you have a kafiir 3 cousin.”

“Jamela,” she says, holding your hands and looking you in the eyes, “you’re already here. Let’s not waste your effort for coming today. The forum is for your own good. And don’t worry about the hijaab. I have an extra shirt and tundong 4 in my locker.”

As if you’re interested with the forum, you think. And what does she mean ‘for your own good?’

You don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.

You clutch your hands away from her and ask, “How about Amir?”

Omairah smiles. “We’ll probably run into him along one of the hallways.”

***

Room 216 is already closed when you reach James Burke Building. A poster is attached on the wall. In bold letters, it reads: Forum on Women In Islam, August 25, Monday, 9:00-11:30 A.M. You hear a woman’s voce inside. The forum has already started. Omairah opens the backdoor.

“Kaka Mai-mai, wait,” you say. “Are you sure I look okay?”

Omairah heaves a sigh. “Jamela, you look fine. Don’t make such a fuss about it.”

This is your first time to wear a hijaab. Your parents are not so strict as to oblige you to wear one though your father would be very furious if he sees you wearing sleeveless shirts and short shorts. Good thing they don’t visit you very often in Davao City and whenever they do, you make sure your ordinary shirts and pants are ready.

Earlier, Omairah let you use her black tundong and insisted that you keep it. You put on a plaid sweater over your tank top. Since your pants don’t cling to your legs, you need not change them.

You enter the room and take the vacant seats at the back row. There are about thirty people in the room and sure enough, everyone is wearing her tundong, save for the three guys to your left. You look around and notice that each woman has her own style, her own way of wearing her veil. Only a few, including your cousin Omairah, pin the cloth under their chin. Others tie their tundong to the front, revealing their neck while others just throw the edges of the fabric to their back, not really putting their tundong properly that oftentimes they slide, exposing their hair.

“I’m very much glad to see that all of you girls are wearing your hijaab,” a woman says. It must be the speaker. She stands in front of the room, a small woman who’s probably in her forties. She’s wearing a black hijaab that reminds you of the ones worn by women in the Middle East. The same color of cloth covers her head and the rest of her body leaving only her face and hands exposed. It looks like a tundong attached to a loose gown.

“I pray to Almighty Allah that you do not remove your hijaab the moment you step on another land,” the speaker continues.

“Oh no,” you think. “This is not a forum. This is like a priest’s sermon.” You look at the door, wishing that Amir would enter any moment.

“There are women,” says the speaker, “who only wear their hijaab in places where they feel forced to do so. But the moment they step on a place that doesn’t adhere to Islamic rulings, they remove their cloaks, as if wearing them is not a religious duty.”

You expect Omairah to glance your way but it looks like she’s seriously paying attention to the speaker. You look around and realize that everyone does the same. You cross your legs and lean restlessly against the chair.

“I feel sad for these women. They don’t know what they’re doing. They must fear Allah and the Last Day,” the speaker says, walking to the center of the room. “Does anybody here know why these women do such things?”

You hear people whisper around you but nobody raises her hand. Your cousin seems to be lost in her deep thoughts.

“Maybe,” you say, loud enough that all heads turn to your direction including Omairah whose thoughts probably snap back to reality. Just then, you feel like a lump has formed inside your throat.

“Speak up, Bai,” encourages the speaker, probably sensing your agitation.

“Maybe,” you say, sitting up straight, “these women fear that they wouldn’t fit in with the foreign people. That wearing hijaab would identify them with the rest of the individuals and that they would be treated differently.”

“You have a point,” says the speaker. You feel relieved when all eyes turn to her. “But if these women think that way, may Allah have mercy upon them.”

You see others nod their heads while others murmur words of approval. Omairah nudges you and says, “Nice going. Your reasons sound familiar.”

You’re so interested to listen to the speaker who is about to tell a story that your cousin’s last statement doesn’t reach your ears. You totally forget about Amir.

“It’s a parable that my late father who was an ustadz,5 peace be upon him, used to tell the young ladies in our barrio. The story is about a man who’s about fifty years old and his teenage son. They own a camel as old as the father himself but they still use it because it is the only property they have.”

Silence fills the room after a few hushes.

“On their way to the market one hot morning,” the speaker goes on saying, “the father decides to let his son ride the camel while he is walking. They pass by people who look at them strangely. One of them says, ‘Poor old man, why won’t his son show some respect and let his father ride the camel?’ The young man hears this. Feeling ashamed of himself, he insists his father to ride the animal while he does the walking. Not wanting to add to his son’s embarrassment, the father agrees.”

Aside from the lady in the third row who is busily using her cellphone, everybody seems to be in all ears. The speaker’s voice echoes in the small room.

“Still on their way, they reach the desert where they meet a caravan. ‘God have mercy on the poor boy!’ they hear a woman say. ‘Shameless man! How could he punish his son and let him walk?’ Both father and son hear this and decide to ride the camel together.”

All eyes follow the speaker’s direction as she walks to the right corner of the front row. She stops in front of a woman and properly puts her tundong in place. The woman is probably so engaged in listening to the story that she doesn’t realize her tundong fell on her shoulders. Everyone’s attention is now on her. Unable to look into the speaker’s eyes, the woman looks down on her lap, blushing.

The speaker continues with the story, diverting the guests’ attention back to her. “So they both ride the animal until they reach an oasis. They pass by a woman walking hand in hand with a child. ‘Mother, look!’ the child says, pointing to their direction. ‘That is a poor camel. Those men look heavy. Don’t they feel pity towards the camel?’ The woman hushes the child. Realizing the thought, both father and son pity the animal and decide to walk the rest of the way to the market.”

A cellphone beeps in an ascending tone, interrupting the speaker. Heads turn to the woman seated on the third row. She hurriedly turns off her cellphone and apologetically smiles to the speaker who seems to be indifferent with the interruption.

“At last,” says the speaker, “they reach their destination. Everybody looks busy trading with each other. When both father and son think they’ve had enough of the people’s comments, one of the merchants looks their way. ‘Stupid people!’ the merchant says, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘They have a camel and yet, they crossed the desert on foot!’”

The speaker walks to the teacher’s table and sits on the chair next to it. “That’s how the story ends,” she says.

“Wow,” you think. “That was a good one.” You lean forward, resting your chin on your right hand, eager to hear more from the speaker.

“You’re probably wondering why I told you the story,” the speaker says. “Who has an idea?”

Everyone looks at each other, waiting for someone to speak up. You glance at Omairah who shrugs her shoulders.

Sensing the silence, the speaker begins to say, “The point of the story is that no matter what you do, you can never impress everybody. It may be that you remove your hijaab in a foreign land and decide to wear western clothes. Most people there would like it but there will always be that someone, not just your fellow Muslims, who would not like how you look.”

The words hit you. You feel like somebody just poured a glass of cold water on your head. You lower your gaze, dreading the speaker’s next words.

“Tell me, which do you fear more: people’s comments or the Words of Allah?”

“The Words of Allah!” everyone says in unison. You don’t answer.

“Chapter 33, Verse 59 of the Holy Qur’an, Allah said: ‘O Prophet! Tell your wives and your daughters and the women of the believers to draw their cloaks all over their bodies,” the speaker says, memorizing each word.

You uncross your legs and cross them again, starting to feel uncomfortable. You don’t know about how the others feel but it’s getting hot inside the room. You shake the fabric under your chin, fanning your neck.

“Have fear in Allah and the Last Day,” continues the speaker. “Wear your hijaab and protect yourselves from evil glances and desires…” She walks over the table, reaches a small green book, flips the pages and reads, “Women who are dressed but appear to be naked, who would be inclined to evil makes others incline towards it. Their heads would be like humps of the fat camel. They will not enter Paradise and they would not smell its odor. And men with whips like the tails of the bulls with which they beat the servants of Allah…” 6

Your heart beats faster with each word you hear from the speaker. You feel your tundong tighten around your face. You can’t take the heat any longer. You stand up and excuse yourself from Omairah. You pass through the back row and out of the room, closing the door behind. You need some air and decide to remove your veil but you’ll do it in the Ladies’ Room where no man can see you. You walk the way to the comfort room, passing by a familiar looking guy.
“Assalamu Alaikum,7 Bai,” he says. You realize that it is the tall guy you passed by outside the university though he is walking alone this time. You stop walking after hearing the guy’s kind words. Strangely, everything feels light. You no longer feel strangled by your tundong. A light breeze embraces you, fanning all the heat you feel.

“Just give it a try, Jamela,” you whisper to yourself. “If things don’t work out… well, you have the whole vacation to think about it.”

You take a deep breath. Feeling a lot better, you decide to go back to the forum.

***

It is five-thirty on a Sunday afternoon. You step out of the taxicab and walk straight into the mall. You just arrived in Davao City and your butt still aches after five long hours of bus ride. You see a few a schoolmates going in and out of the mall in their latest get-up. You pass by some of them including four classmates who don’t seem to notice you. One of them looks past your way. You could have called their attention but you decide not to. You walk ahead.

On one of the tables near the ice cream stand at the Food Court, you see a lady sitting comfortably in her semi-sleeveless red blouse and pedal pushers. Her long raven hair hangs loosely on her right shoulder, revealing a smooth nape. It is your best friend Bianca Marie. You see her take out her cellphone. You approach her but she must be too caught up with texting or with playing games on her phone that she doesn’t notice you coming.

“Hey, Bianx!” you say, tapping her shoulder lightly.

She looks up to you. “Jam!” she says, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, what have they done to you in Cotabato?” She looks at you the same way your Kaka Mai-mai first glared at you last week.

“It’s a long story,” you say. You take the seat before her, putting your knapsack on the table.

“Is that your outfit for the day?” she asks. “Or are you planning to dress like that for the rest of your life?”

“It depends,” you say. “Do I look that bad?”

She looks at you intensely as if doing a close study on a newly discovered species. “Well,” she starts to say, “I wonder what happened to your fashion sense?”

Ouch, that hurts.

“Your scarf,” she continues, “what do you call that?”

“In Maguindanaon, we call it tundong.”

“Tun—whatever. I know that black matches with any color but it sure looks unpleasant with your red sweater. Dark colors absorb heat easily. And seeing that you’re all covered up, you’re surely going to stink ten minutes after you step out of this building. You’re going to sweat all over, and in no time you’ll discover that your back is full of allergies. And how about your hair? Didn’t you just have it rebounded last month? What—”

“Bianca Marie,” you finally manage to interrupt, “I get the point.”

You already had Bianca Marie’s reaction played at the back of your mind before you meet with her today. Three years of sharing fashion magazines and beauty tips, doing make-over and giving out pieces of advice, she surely helped you become a new person without leaving any trace of the unsophisticated girl from a small town in Cotabato. Now that you’ve transformed into a religious-looking person with your hijaab, you sense that your friend is trying to convince you to go back to your usual self, the one that everybody likes.

“I don’t mean to offend you, Jam,” your friend says, gently this time. “But the way you dress now doesn’t show who you really are. We both know that you’re not the religious kind of person.”

You look down and nod your head. You don’t want to meet her eyes.

“But it’s your choice,” she says. “Think about it. You’re beautiful. I just don’t want you to hide your beauty under those clothes.”

You prefer to listen than to say anything.

“What will Josh say?” she says.

You look up. “What has Josh got to do with this?” you ask. Josh is one of your suitors. He is the gorgeous Sports Editor of the student publication and you really, really like him.

“He’s been looking for you yesterday,” Bianca explains, “so I texted him to meet with us today. Here. In five minutes.”

“No, you didn’t!” you say, hoping that your friend is just kidding around. You don’t want Josh to see you now. At least not in a dress like the one you wear.

“Yes, I did,” she says. “I wonder how he’s going to react the moment he sees you.”

Josh has become your biggest crush after Amir. You waited three years for him to notice you. It was only last month when he finally asked you out and actually started courting. There’s a chance that he wouldn’t like your new look. What will people say in case he stops courting you?

“Excuse me,” you say, rising from your seat.

“Where are you going?” Bianca asks.

“I’ll be back,” you say. You carry your back bag and walk away.

You face the mirror inside the Ladies’ Room and see a woman in a tight fitting black shirt; her hair, neatly brushed, is clipped on one side. You drive away the words that keep echoing in your mind. They keep you from appreciating the woman you see in the reflection. In less than ten minutes you are able to change your outfit, powder your nose and apply your lipstick. You fold your sweater and tundong neatly and put them inside the bag. After washing your hands, you take one last look in the mirror and force a smile.

You rub your arms uneasily as you walk the way back to where Bianca Marie is. Strangely, you feel naked walking around without your hijaab. When a guy you pass by winks at you, you feel goose bumps rise all over your arms and nape that you want to run back to the comfort room and hide. But you keep on going until you see Bianca Marie. Sitting before her is a guy in blue polo shirt. You can only see his back but you’re sure that it is Josh. You take a deep breath before approaching them. Your heart beats fast with each step. It is as if you can hear the flowers crying when you pass by the flower shop. But you can’t. You already forgot what your late grandmother used to tell you: “The trees, birds, the grass and everything that Allah has created… they feel deep sorrow the moment a woman removes her veil.”

Footnotes:

1 [Arabic] Any object that conceals a woman from the sight of men who are not members of her family
2 There is no source of power but from Allah, the High and the Mighty.
3 [Arabic] A disbeliever of Islam
4 [Maguindnaon] veil, head scarf
5 a scholar, teacher or professor in Islam
6 Al-Fauzan, Dr. Saleh Fauzan, Rulings Pertaining to Muslim Women. Ministry of Islamic Affairs, 2000.
7 [Arabic] Peace be with you.