As an American Muslim, I seem to get a lot of questions from Muslims outside the USA about the fact that I do not cover my head with a hijab. It was one of the top four questions that I got from Jordanians during the time that I lived there (those being (1) What’s your name? (2) Where are you from? No, not America, where are you really from? (3) Are you Muslim? (4) Why don’t you cover your hair). For this reason, when Cindy, another group member, asked 2 young Muslim girls in Aleppo why one wore a hijab and the other didn’t, I was very interested in the answer.
Included in this conversation were two Syrian young girls from Aleppo. One was Sana, a young girl in her early 20s and her friend Fatima, in her mid 20s. Sana wore a long sleeves, black top reaching her knees, jeans, and a white hijab. Fatima had on a black top with about 3/4 sleeves, jeans and no head covering. At the question, why do some women cover and others not, Sana allowed Fatima to respond, in which she talked about the tradition in her home. As opposed to Sana, most of the women in Fatima’s house, including her mother, do not veil. Fatima comes from a household similar to mine, where there is no tradition of veiling, which makes the hijab less of a pertinent issue. This is not to say that Sana was forced to hijab or Fatima was forced not to, but it is a question of the tradition one is exposed to. In a setting where majority of the women wear a hijab, it becomes a different context when a young girl must decide whether or not to start wearing a head covering.
For Sana, the hijab was her method of covering an object of desire. The beauty of the hair can be a temptation that the hijab allows to limit to only the husband. This resonated with Cindy as well. Between the four of us conversing, each one adhered to a conscious effort to dress modestly. But this essentially resulted in four different definitions of what it means to be modest. For one that might mean wearing a hijab; for another, this definition included long skirts; and for yet another, loose tops. But each definition is based to some extent on the community and people around us. What is modest for one person may not be for another, yet each live up to “modest” in the context in which they occur. Yes, veiling or not veiling is a choice, but it has a different meaning in each context. Veiling in a context in which no one else does can be an act of rebellion just as the reverse might be the case when one does not veil in a family where most do. But to restrict any definition to one stereotypical behavior, such as all Muslims veil, or all modest dressing includes long pants and sleeves is to overlook the influence of context.
There are at least two sides to any story. Being in the Middle East feels like being caught in the middle of each one of these. It’s like the Japanese movie, Rashomon where you see the same story told through multiple viewpoints, never knowing which is true. But of course the point is that reality itself doesn’t exist. Instead you are just left with each person’s perspectives. We saw this with one of the government officials and his stance on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. He kept insisting that we read history of the conflict to learn “the truth” or “the reality”. But what he calls “reality” is essentially just a perspective of events that he agrees with. And most likely, it will not be a “reality” that the other side buys into.
Another common division in stories comes between public and private. Often the story one portrays in the open is a different version than what gets exhibited in private. Knowing that it might be impossible to get to see the private perspectives, the challenge is when the version you get aligns simply with stereotype. When this happens, one only gets the accepted and expected story. This often occurs when the important and controlling layer of tourism gets added. So on the night of our dinner at a Bedouin tent, I didn’t expect to see either public or private, but the tourist version of Bedouin life. Instead of nomadic herders, we have performers: singing playing, and dancing debka (traditional dance). Rather than gender separation, we have gender mixing, both during eating and dancing. And in place of communal eating while seated on the floor, we have individual plates eating from couches. Not to say this is wrong or bad. Many of the things portrayed about Bedouin life were very accurate and resonated with my experiences interacting with some Bedouins while living in Jordan. But, for a first time visit to the Middle East, it does portray a stereotype or exaggerated “touristy version” of Bedouin life. It would certainly be a shame to leave the Middle East with the tourist story. It may be unrealistic to get the private version, but even the public version would be important to see. It is not meeting select youth at fancy restaurants that helps us as the American counterparts understand life here. It is achieved by spending the day following Syrian youth around, paralleling their routines, entering their homes, helping them cook, visiting their neighbors, and sharing a pot of tea and a chat. This not only shows us a different story, but helps visitors develop their own perspectives based not simply on stereotypes. Even if a “reality” doesn’t exist, we still must do all we can to not only see one side, especially if it is only the touristy, stereotypical version.
-Haleema Welji, 2010 AMLN participant