The Big Cover-Up...

The Big Cover-Up.

Their own mothers did not wear the veil but in the
post 9/11 era, many young Muslim women in Europe see
covering themselves as an act not of self-erasure but
of power and freedom. But how do others in the West
feel about this sign of radical Islamic identity: does
it raise uncomfortable questions for all of us?

Andrew Anthony

Sunday November 20, 2005


The Observer


Rahmanara Chowdhury is a bright, affable woman with a
charming laugh and an approachable manner. She is a
part-time teacher in Loughborough and, given her
friendly disposition, it's not surprising that her
subject is communication. What is unexpected is that
she teaches teenagers 'interpersonal skills, teamwork,
personal development' while dressed in an outfit that
conceals her whole body and face, except for the eyes.

Chowdhury is one of a growing number of Muslim women
in Britain who choose to wear the niqab, the veil that
leaves only the eyes on public view. Where once the
sight of a fully hidden woman was restricted to a few
traditionalist communities, nowadays it is not unusual
to see the niqab on high streets throughout the major
cities of England and in a number of smaller towns.
Just a decade ago, this form of enshrouding was seen
as an unambiguous sign of female oppression and feudal
custom, but now it is frequently referred to as an
expression of religious identity, individual rights
and even, in some cases, female emancipation.

Certainly, it is in such terms that Chowdhury
discusses her decision to adopt the niqab. 'It serves
as a reminder that I'm Muslim and it helps me get
close to God. Since wearing the niqab, I've become a
lot more confident. Once you're covered up, people are
forced to judge you not as you look as a woman but on
your character.'

Neither her parents nor her peers encouraged Chowdhury
to remove her face from public view. She was brought
up to wear the hijab, the headscarf that covers the
hair, neck and chest, but there was never an
expectation that she would, as it were, graduate to
the niqab. Her mother had not worn one. Whatever lies
behind the growing popularity of fundamentalist dress
code, women like Chowdhury are proof that it is not
necessarily familial or communal coercion.

Yet if wearing a niqab is an assertion of Chowdhury's
individual and human rights, what does it say about
the rights of others about her and her
responsibilities to the students under her charge? Can
they really gain a full understanding of personal
communication skills when their teacher conceals that
part of the human anatomy that is designed for
universal communication: the face? Is there not a
problem in explaining the subtleties of facial
gestures and non-verbal dialogue?

'No, not really,' Chowdhury argued from behind her
veil as we sat together in a busy hall in Loughborough
University. 'I've had to teach those things, but it
shifts to verbal skills.'

All I could see of her was a pair of brown eyes and
two delicate hands which were covered in henna in
preparation for her forthcoming marriage. As she
spoke, the material in front of her mouth fluttered
and I realised my focus was drawn to that flimsy
movement, instinctively seeking out the meagre
evidence of the person inside.

In a niqab, she told me, she elicits more respect from
her students. 'They apologise if they swear in front
of me. That's not usual.' She says that she
deliberated for a whole year before finally deciding
to wear the niqab. 'I think the main thing that was
holding me back was my university degree. I was doing
a lot of course work, a lot of group work, and so I
was constantly thinking, "How am I going to do group
work with all these people?" Then one day, I just woke
up and thought, "Why am I letting people stop me? I'm
not doing it for other people."'

Both as a student and a teacher, Chowdhury clearly
placed her own right to conceal herself above the
group's right to see her. The priority of competing
rights is a complex issue. Even today, after years of
debate, there is still no definitive agreement, for
example, on the right of a smoker to light up in
public in relation to the right of the public not to
inhale the smoker's fumes. None the less, the basic
principle of liberal society, to paraphrase John
Stuart Mill, is that individuals should be free to do
what they choose so long as it is not detrimental to
others.

Is the niqab detrimental to others? Not in terms of
health, obviously. But then nor is naturism, though it
is illegal to go naked in the streets or in public
buildings. There are, then, limits that society sets
on clothing. There remain cultural norms whose
contravention is deemed unacceptable.

In the post-9/11 era, the concept of multiculturalism,
which holds the validity of 'cultural norms' in
question, has undergone something of reassessment. Of
particular concern has been the means by which Islam
is integrated into Western secular societies. Last
year, in one of the most controversial demonstrations
of secular values, the French government introduced a
ban on the hijab, as well as other conspicuous
religious symbols, in the state school system.

To many Muslims across Europe, the French initiative
was not only an attack on their religion but an
infringement of their human rights. It seemed to
confirm that Muslims, by nature of their faith, were
under suspicion. Feeling increasingly embattled and
cut off from mainstream life, a number of younger
Muslims have retreated further within their religious
culture in search of a more Islamic identity. And
there is nothing more identifiably Islamic than a
niqab.

Amid the backdrop of events such as the Iraq War, the
Madrid and London bombings, the murder of Theo van
Gogh, the increased state security measures and the
ensuing social tensions, the niqab is arguably the
most visible symbol of the division between radical
Islam and secular Europe. It literally shuts out
society. In such an atmosphere, it amounts to a brave
and, in some cases, defiant stand to wear a veil.
Women in niqabs are not only regularly insulted but
have also been subject to physical attacks.

Earlier this year, Jan Cleemers, the mayor of Maaseik
in Belgium, came to the conclusion that the niqab was,
indeed, detrimental to safety. His decision was not
based on the threat posed to niqab-wearers so much as
the threat niqab-wearers posed to everyone else.
Before I met Rahmanara Chowdhury, I went to see
Cleemers in Belgium.

'About 18 months ago,' he recalled, 'six women started
wearing the veil. Some people called me to say,
"Mayor, there are different women here who scare us."
They said, "We don't know what's under these clothes.
Is it a woman or a man?"' Cleemers went on to tell me
that one old lady was so shocked to see the women in
niqabs that she had to be taken to hospital.

After various consultations, Cleemers introduced a
municipal bylaw that outlawed the niqab in the streets
and public places of Maaseik. Those contravening the
ban faced a €125 fine.

The mayor had two meetings with the women in an effort
to persuade them to dispense with the niqab. His
argument was based on two principles - safety and
identification. 'People must feel safe,' he told me,
'and I find that in our culture here in the West,
people identify each other with the face. Face to face
is an expression in our language.'

Five of the women stopped wearing the niqab, but one
continued and, as a result, she has been repeatedly
fined. The woman has refused to pay the fines and has
mounted an appeal that has yet to be concluded.

Maaseik is situated in a sleepy corner of Belgium near
the Dutch border. The birthplace of the van Eyck
brothers, it's a picturesque, 13th-century town of
24,000 people, of whom around 700 are from a Muslim
background. Its main tourist attractions are a
cobblestone market square lined with outdoor cafes and
its uncomplicated, almost bucolic way of life.

From the outside, it seems a typical case of a
conservative environment overreacting to something new
and different. Yet Cleemers is a long way from the
stereotype of the small-town xenophobe. A tall man
with a pensive character that borders on the solemn,
he spoke to me of local concerns, but his outlook was
international. He would like to see a legal debate
that went all the way to the Court of Human Rights. 'I
hope this law will be the start of a great discussion.
I think our politicians need to think deeply about the
problem of different cultures and different
religions.'

He warned against the temptation to dismiss the case
as a minor drama in a provincial town in a small
country. 'It's not the problem of one city or one
country,' he said. 'It's the problem of Europe and
it's become the problem of the world.'

It's true that other towns in Belgium and Holland have
since passed similar bylaws, and in Norway there are
plans to ban the niqab in schools. Nevertheless,
Cleemers's rhetoric sounded disproportionately grand
given that it concerned one woman's headwear. What
undoubtedly influenced his thinking was the fact that
the woman in question happens to be married to a man
named Khalid Bouloudo, who is standing trial in
Brussels on terrorist charges relating to the Madrid
bombing.

Cleemers is careful about linking the two cases of
husband and wife, though he acknowledges that the
women may originally have taken up the niqab as a
response to Bouloudo's arrest (three other men from
Maaseik are also standing trial on terrorism
conspiracy charges). 'Yes,' he replied, 'but I don't
think it's the real reason. I think the real reason is
the extreme belief in their faith.'

According to Cleemers, who has become known as 'the
burqa man of Belgium', the women supplied two reasons
why they did not want to abide by the ruling. 'The
first was, "We think we are the only traditional group
of real Islam." And the second was, "We think that it
is up to the woman to show her beauty where and to
whom she wants."

'I'm a man who likes the multicultural society,'
Cleemers continued. 'There is no culture that can
isolate itself. But the moment a religion says we are
the only and real one, then we have a problem. I don't
think this ban is against human rights because the
personal freedom of one person cannot be stronger and
higher than the freedom of a group. Personal freedom
includes also for me responsibility for yourself and
your society in which you live.'

Cleemers insists that the majority of Moroccans in
Maaseik support his decision. He said that community
relations were very good and that there was no poverty
or social discrimination to speak of. All of which
made it a mystery to him why Bouloudo, who was born
and brought up in Maaseik, 'a well-dressed man who was
part of the city', appeared to have become utterly
alienated. Bouloudo's sister, Samira el-Haski, who is
married to another of the defendants, disagreed. 'No
matter what,' she told reporters, 'we Moroccans have
always been dirty aliens for them.'

There was a final point that Cleemers made and it's
one that is often heard but which remains the subject
of ongoing dispute. 'There is no place in the Koran,'
he said, sounding like the schoolmaster he once was,
'that says she must wear the burqa. No place.'

In fact, the burqa, the grilled mask that is popular
in Afghanistan, is a relatively modern item, but it's
true that there is no mention of the hijab, much less
the niqab in the Koran.

There are two key passages that deal with the
correctness of women's clothing:

'Prophet, tell your wives, your daughters, and women
believers to make their outer garments hang low over
them [adna al-jilbab has also been translated as 'wrap
around them'] so as to be recognised and not
insulted.' (33:59).

'And tell believing women that they should lower their
gaze, guard their private parts and not flaunt their
charms beyond what [ordinarily] shows.' (24:31).

Over the centuries, various Islamic scholars have come
to interpret these words as directives to cover the
'pudendal' nature of women in its entirety, which,
they argue, is everything, including, in the most
strict rulings, at least one eye. I had hoped to speak
to the woman in Maaseik about her reasons for defying
the ban. But Cleemers warned me that she would not
speak to the press and, despite waiting around, all I
got to see was the outside of her apartment. It was
above a shop called Casual Chic.

Back in England, I visited London's Central Mosque in
Regent's Park to establish what the current teaching
was on dress code. My meeting with Chowdhury not yet
arranged, I also wanted to see if perhaps the mosque
might be able to put me in touch with a niqab-wearer.
I was keen to hear a woman explain in her own words
her reasons for covering herself. This was proving
very difficult. A number of Islamic groups failed to
respond to my requests and, by definition, it was not
appropriate to walk up to a woman on the street.

The main aim of the niqab is to deter contact between
women and men who are not married or related. To
approach an unknown woman and ask about her clothing
might, therefore, be seen as an act of provocation or
even aggression. I checked the etiquette on a Muslim
website that detailed the requirements of a woman
wearing a niqab. 'Do not engage in social conversation
with persons of the opposite sex,' it instructed.
'This is simple, just don't do it. When a kaffir
[infidel] of the opposite sex asks you, "Did you have
a good weekend", look down and say nothing in return.'

I did try one couple. The husband was a tall, elegant
man of Asian origin and his wife, judging by her
hands, which were all that was visible, was
Anglo-Saxon white. I told him about the situation in
Maaseik and he described the law as 'racist'. I then
asked permission to speak to his wife. He looked at me
as if I were mad and referred me to the Central
Mosque. Would I be able to speak to a woman there? I
asked. 'No, of course not,' the man said. 'But there
will be men there who will be able to tell you why it
is best for Muslim women to be covered.' His wife
remained silent.

At the mosque, a cleric named Nasser Ibrahim told me
that there were two schools of thought. 'Some scholars
say that it is an obligation to cover all of the
woman, but others say it is only preferable, except,'
he added with an expression of judicial gravity, 'if
she is very beautiful, because then she may be liable
for people to attack her. She is more safe with the
niqab.'

So by this reading, it was at the very least
preferable to wear a niqab, and always necessary in
the case of particularly attractive women. Ibrahim
himself did not seem particularly bothered either way.
'We can't force all women to do this,' he said. 'Islam
is an open culture and religion. The important thing
is to cover the body, not the mind.'

In this spirit of openness, I asked if he could
arrange for me to talk to some veiled women. He shook
his head and thought. 'I am scared,' he said finally.
'Some of them are very hard.'

So I tried instead to meet Na'ima B Robert, the author
of From My Sisters' Lips, an account of becoming a
Muslim and wearing the niqab. Robert describes herself
as a 'revert' rather than a convert, because in
following Islam, she is simply reverting to the true
nature of all humans.

Despite a number of attempts, it proved impossible to
meet Robert, partly due to her need for a chaperone,
though we did eventually speak on the phone. In the
meantime, I was put in touch with Rahmanara Chowdhury
by an extremely helpful woman at a pressure group
called Protect Hijab.

Chowdhury is anything but hard. When not working as a
secondary school teacher, she is a sports and
education development worker at Loughborough
University. She says she has received nothing but
support from her workmates, though there was some
surprise when she started to wear the niqab.

She is not a member of any Islamic group, radical or
otherwise. What prompted her to take up the niqab was
a period of ill-health. 'I just felt like I needed
something extra,' she told me.

Chowdhury thinks that wearing the niqab does entail
certain social responsibilities. 'You need to take the
first step,' she said, referring to her dealings with
people. She is not too sensitive about kids calling
her 'ninja' in the street - 'You have to laugh it off'
- and she feels that despite wearing a niqab, it is
possible to convey friendliness to people. 'You can
still smile with your eyes.'

All the same, to the outsider, wearing a niqab can
seem like an act of self-erasure. It's hard to imagine
Western history with the female face removed. From the
legendary attractions of Helen of Troy, through the
enigma of Mona Lisa to Julia Roberts's smile, culture
and technology have been intimately bound up with the
manifold representations of the feminine image. It's
partly about the celebration and, indeed, exploitation
of beauty but it's also about our need to see, to
understand, to record. To conceal that aspect of a
woman's identity is, to some extent, to forget her.

In From My Sisters' Lips, Robert complain: 'Many
people no longer make eye contact, extend a friendly
hello or start up casual conversation.' What she
actually means is 'many women', because her belief is
that, even within the confines of a niqab, it is still
not safe for a woman to talk to an unknown man and
that they should, in any case, lower their eyes. But
that pedantry aside, in some sense the niqab does
encourage the onlooker to depersonalise and even
dehumanise the wearer. Because she can't be seen, she
can be discounted.

'Covering is just a physical covering,' Chowdhury
protested. 'It doesn't mean that you can't be a
person.' She noted that she had no problem talking to
me, though she acknowledged that the conversation had
to be in a public place with lots of people.

The conflict that had arisen in Maaseik, she thought,
stemmed from a lack of understanding of and respect
for different cultures. In this sense, she appreciated
the more laissez-faire attitude in Britain. 'Here, you
can live as you want and make your own choice. The way
we see it is that our creator knows us better than
ourselves and that's why he has commanded this.'

But the key point about the command to dress modestly,
regardless of whether or not it means covering the
face, is that it was supposed to ease tensions between
men and women and, therefore, prevent social strife.
What if the niqab, as was the case in Maaseik,
actually caused tensions between different
communities?

'Is that tension or is that the perception and
attitudes of people?' she asked.

Surely, the same question might be posed about the
relationship between men and women. Is it not simply
the attitudes of men that need to be changed rather
than women hidden?

'No,' Chowdhury replied, 'because it's the way men and
women were created. That's why it helps enhance that
relationship. The whole thing about the hijab is to
protect the family unit, the core of society.'

But it's not only a belief that men and women should
be kept apart, much like it's a belief that it's
natural to want to see someone's face. Chowdhury is
convinced that there is no reason that both beliefs
cannot be accommodated in the same society. She finds
it hard to comprehend how a piece of cloth could be
construed as in any way a threat.




wa Salaam o 'alykum warahmatulahi wabarakatuh.