Unveiling the Veil

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W

hen I was an innocent high school senior, I decided to go to a women’s college and major in women’s studies.

Little did I know how much that decision would irreparably damage my thinking. Because when I left college and entered the big bad world, I realized that many debates that had been settled in feminist literature a long time ago were frequently issues most people hadn’t even considered.

Take, for example, the issue of purdah (the Islamic tradition of modesty, also known as veiling, burqa or hijab).

In your typical introduction to women’s studies class, you might spend a few weeks (near the end of the semester) on “women of color.” If you’re lucky, one class period will be devoted to Islam and feminism. You’ll study a typical “liberal” feminist who criticizes the institution of purdah and asserts that it doesn’t allow women freedom. Then you’ll read the Muslim feminist who waxes lyrically about how she doesn’t have to worry about having abs of steel in time for bikini season. She then goes on to conclude that purdah is just fine, as long as it’s the choice of the woman herself.

At this point, everybody in the class is in solemn agreement: It’s not the fabric that’s the issue. It’s the coercion. No one should have to wear either a hijab or a bikini if she doesn’t want to. Class dismissed.

There are many, many women out there who practice some sort of purdah. We are not oppressed, repressed or depressed.

Like I said, being a women’s studies major has skewed my perspective a little, so forgive me for naively thinking that your typical feminist defense of purdah wasn’t needed in the 21st century. It seemed to me that feminists had settled long ago that women should be able to choose what they want to wear, whatever that might be.

Imagine my surprise, then, when a friend of mine pointed me to an NPR show on Zoe Piliafas. Piliafas decided, as part of a project, to wear a burqa for a few months. Along with it, she donned the name “Zhooda” and a slight Middle Eastern accent in order to study the psychological effects the garment might have on women.

Admittedly, I was intrigued: I wear a hijab too, and mine didn’t come with an “authentic” Middle Eastern accent! Unfortunately for me, the accent is sold separately, just like Barbie’s cowgirl outfit.

Piliafas admitted that she went into her experience with a negative view of the burqa, and her own experiences “confirmed” her first judgments. She found that she spoke less, became more of a follower and was generally less outgoing in public than she usually was, and so concluded that the burqa does indeed have a psychological effect on the women who wear it.

Right: We can’t ignore Piliafas’ experience, and the fact that she actually wore a burqa for a semester is actually pretty amazing. And, let’s face it—what we wear does affect us. Otherwise we’d all be walking around in burlap bags. But I’m not clear that Piliafas’ initial impressions of the burqa didn’t come into play when she reached her conclusions.

Actually, no. Let me put it this way: I’m quite clear that Piliafas’ initial impressions did come into play. There are many, many women (including South Asian and American ones) out there who practice some sort of purdah. We are not oppressed, repressed or depressed. We do not shrivel up in our shoes; we don’t think that purdah means we must sit quietly and allow ourselves to be steamrollered over. We do not stand down. We’re educated, professional women who can speak for ourselves and speak up for others.

Many people still assume that by placing a piece of fabric on my head, I’ve pitched my brains into the dumpster, given my rights away to any male in a 50-mile radius and buried my voice in the backyard.

Listening to the Piliafas’ story reminded me that maybe Women’s Studies 101 isn’t that cliched after all. Many people still assume that by placing a piece of fabric on my head, I’ve pitched my brains into the dumpster, given my rights away to any male in a 50-mile radius and buried my voice in the backyard.

So I have to ask: Are people that naive? Am I still going to be forced to explain the obvious and point out that the burqa can actually be empowering, by offering me the privacy and anonymity to just carry on with my work instead of worrying about whether my hips look huge in that dress? Because there are psychological effects of not wearing a burqa as well—a tendency to get too caught up in trying to achieve the perfect look, for example. Women who freely choose to wear the burqa are confident, engaged, powerful women, because they feel that it in some way shields them from the outside world. So, really, it’s not a surprise that wearing a burqa may have psychological effects—whatever you wear will.

But in a world that is paying new attention to Muslim women and why they wear what they do, it’s important to emphasize that purdah isn’t necessarily a way of fading into the background—it can make you stand out instead.

In the end, that stuff you heard your freshman year in college is still true: It’s the coercion that’s the problem, not the burqa itself. Apparently, we can’t repeat that often enough. n

Nakasha Ahmad has been writing for Nirali since the very beginning. She lives in the Midwest.
Published on September 1, 2006.
Photography: Vikram Tank for Nirali Magazine.

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