Grey, yes, you are right, of course. The reigning monarch has to be the supreme governor of the Church of England, a Catholic can never be a monarch, and the UK is officially Christian. I was thinking in terms of enforced religious teachings in state schools, which nowadays have abandoned purely Christian-led assemblies in favour of either no religious beginning to the school day or a sort of 'all purpose' affair. Sorry - I must stick to facts or I undermine my own case!
Jack Straw: "Take Off The Veil"
- Thread starter BrianH
- Start date
The point so far as I can see, is that veil-wearing in the West, like so many other manifestations of militiant Islam, is a symbol or a symptom of a political movement rather than a religion, just as Catholicism got hijacked by the IRA in N Ireland some years back.
I too would ban the veil; I find it opressive and in fact deeply offensive to see women subjugated in this public manner and I feel that any who profess to want to go around in this stifling garb have been either brainwashed or coerced into it. Women in this country fought hard for their emancipation and politicians are imo allowing these gains to be lost in large sections of the country because they won't face down the bullying [male] militiants. The refusal to class forced marriage as rape is a further example. It makes me very sad, and very angry, that the political class is prepared to allow such medieval attitudes to prevail in what was an advanced country, but is fast becoming one where bigotry has free rein.
The proliferation of 'Fatih Schools' will only exacerbate the slide into cultural apartheid, something the Govt has just belatedly realised. Separate Education has been the bugbear of N Ireland for generations - if you never meet kids from across the divide at home and you also don't meet them at school, they remain demonised, the 'other', the enemy
As for allowing women to teach wearing the veil - what sort of message does this send out to kids? There's a big difference in proclaiming your faith with a symbol such as a yarmulka, a small cross necklace, or a turban; that's also a kind of expression of one's individuality. The extreme forms of Islamic dress for women are on the contrary a denial or repression of the woman's individuality - she is to be hidden, kept apart, denied any pleasure in her own femininity. In effect she becomes an object, and a chatttel of her menfolk. It's abhorrent to me.
I too would ban the veil; I find it opressive and in fact deeply offensive to see women subjugated in this public manner and I feel that any who profess to want to go around in this stifling garb have been either brainwashed or coerced into it. Women in this country fought hard for their emancipation and politicians are imo allowing these gains to be lost in large sections of the country because they won't face down the bullying [male] militiants. The refusal to class forced marriage as rape is a further example. It makes me very sad, and very angry, that the political class is prepared to allow such medieval attitudes to prevail in what was an advanced country, but is fast becoming one where bigotry has free rein.
The proliferation of 'Fatih Schools' will only exacerbate the slide into cultural apartheid, something the Govt has just belatedly realised. Separate Education has been the bugbear of N Ireland for generations - if you never meet kids from across the divide at home and you also don't meet them at school, they remain demonised, the 'other', the enemy
As for allowing women to teach wearing the veil - what sort of message does this send out to kids? There's a big difference in proclaiming your faith with a symbol such as a yarmulka, a small cross necklace, or a turban; that's also a kind of expression of one's individuality. The extreme forms of Islamic dress for women are on the contrary a denial or repression of the woman's individuality - she is to be hidden, kept apart, denied any pleasure in her own femininity. In effect she becomes an object, and a chatttel of her menfolk. It's abhorrent to me.
If you see a few postings above, Headstrong, you'll see that the veil (or veils, since some madly, deeply Muslim women have taken to wearing layers of them, without eye slits) is not required by Islam. The Koran exhorts women to 'cover their charms' - arms to the wrists, and of course it was taken for granted that in those days, clothing would reach the ankle, anyway. The hair was to be covered (as one of women's 'charms') at the point of puberty, but there was no exhortation to cover the face. Again (see above), that appears to have been a Persian construct of Cyrus the Great, certainly not one of Prophet Muhammad's instructions.
Just as over-egging the Christian bit can happen, the veil is over-egging the requirements of Islam by some women. To say they feel more 'protected' is silly, since Shari'ah law makes many protective edicts in favour of Muslim women - far more than any prescribed in the Bible, which deals mostly with punishing harlots, etc. There is no more 'protection' on the street for them than for anyone else - they can be mugged, assaulted, or get knocked down by errant pizza delivery boys as much as anyone else. Once this government gets a grip on what is, and isn't, an absolute religious requirement and what is merely a matter of tribal or personal custom, the better. The edges are too blurred at the moment and it's time to take a grip.
The headscarf is more of an obviously Muslim accoutrement for women, yet even there millions don't agree on its wearing. Some have favoured it in sombre colours right down above the eyebrows, with a long drape to the shoulders, where others will wear a much simpler, more colourful item, tied at the back of the neck. And some professional women will not wear one at all. Even in restrictive countries like Saudi Arabia, several highly-qualified women did not wear them in work - I can think of a number of teachers, doctors, a lawyer and a geologist who certainly didn't and wouldn't. If the headscarf can become a personal preference, then a veil is very definitely much more of one.
Just as over-egging the Christian bit can happen, the veil is over-egging the requirements of Islam by some women. To say they feel more 'protected' is silly, since Shari'ah law makes many protective edicts in favour of Muslim women - far more than any prescribed in the Bible, which deals mostly with punishing harlots, etc. There is no more 'protection' on the street for them than for anyone else - they can be mugged, assaulted, or get knocked down by errant pizza delivery boys as much as anyone else. Once this government gets a grip on what is, and isn't, an absolute religious requirement and what is merely a matter of tribal or personal custom, the better. The edges are too blurred at the moment and it's time to take a grip.
The headscarf is more of an obviously Muslim accoutrement for women, yet even there millions don't agree on its wearing. Some have favoured it in sombre colours right down above the eyebrows, with a long drape to the shoulders, where others will wear a much simpler, more colourful item, tied at the back of the neck. And some professional women will not wear one at all. Even in restrictive countries like Saudi Arabia, several highly-qualified women did not wear them in work - I can think of a number of teachers, doctors, a lawyer and a geologist who certainly didn't and wouldn't. If the headscarf can become a personal preference, then a veil is very definitely much more of one.
I would never post on a thread like this without reading all of the thread first, Jon. And I'm quite well informed about most matters of public interest as I read lots of newspapers etc etc. I was in fact expanding on the point you and others made above - I'm well aware that Islam doesn't require the covering of the face. I was speculating on how this came about and what the implications are...
It was your penultimate sentence about 'the extreme forms of Islamic dress... ' that made me wonder if you had read the whole topic first, Headstrong. The veil isn't an Islamic requirement since it isn't decreed by the Koran. If you read that its original function was to prevent men from lusting after Persian palace favourites, then it's clear it was not demanded by Muhammad in his writings. There are a number of clear-cut Koranic instructions on correct dress and appearance for both men and women, and it's interesting to see how many of those are ignored entirely by many Muslims today, while others are trying to uphold them to an almost fanatical - and, in the case of the veil, inaccurate - way.
prince regent
Conditional
- Joined
- May 2, 2003
- Messages
- 589
You are exactly confirming the point I made in my first sentence, that the whole slide into 'covering up' is a social and political requirement rather than a religious one.
It is however particular to Islam, at least in the West. I'm not talking aobut history, I'm concerned about the here and now
BrianH
At the Start
Well worth a read:
'Even other Muslims turn and look at me'
Muslim journalist Zaiba Malik had never worn the niqab. But with everyone from Jack Straw to Tessa Jowell weighing in with their views on the veil, she decided to put one on for the day. She was shocked by how it made her feel - and how strongly strangers reacted to it
Tuesday October 17, 2006
The Guardian
'I don't wear the niqab because I don't think it's necessary," says the woman behind the counter in the Islamic dress shop in east London. "We do sell quite a few of them, though." She shows me how to wear the full veil. I would have thought that one size fits all but it turns out I'm a size 54. I pay my £39 and leave with three pieces of black cloth folded inside a bag.
The next morning I put these three pieces on as I've been shown. First the black robe, or jilbab, which zips up at the front. Then the long rectangular hijab that wraps around my head and is secured with safety pins. Finally the niqab, which is a square of synthetic material with adjustable straps, a slit of about five inches for my eyes and a tiny heart-shaped bit of netting, which I assume is to let some air in.
I look at myself in my full-length mirror. I'm horrified. I have disappeared and somebody I don't recognise is looking back at me. I cannot tell how old she is, how much she weighs, whether she has a kind or a sad face, whether she has long or short hair, whether she has any distinctive facial features at all. I've seen this person in black on the television and in newspapers, in the mountains of Afghanistan and the cities of Saudi Arabia, but she doesn't look right here, in my bedroom in a terraced house in west London. I do what little I can to personalise my appearance. I put on my oversized man's watch and make sure the bottoms of my jeans are visible. I'm so taken aback by how dissociated I feel from my own reflection that it takes me over an hour to pluck up the courage to leave the house.
I've never worn the niqab, the hijab or the jilbab before. Growing up in a Muslim household in Bradford in the 1970s and 80s, my Islamic dress code consisted of a school uniform worn with trousers underneath. At home I wore the salwar kameez, the long tunic and baggy trousers, and a scarf around my shoulders. My parents only instructed me to cover my hair when I was in the presence of the imam, reading the Qur'an, or during the call to prayer. Today I see Muslim girls 10, 20 years younger than me shrouding themselves in fabric. They talk about identity, self-assurance and faith. Am I missing out on something?
On the street it takes just seconds for me to discover that there are different categories of stare. Elderly people stop dead in their tracks and glare; women tend to wait until you have passed and then turn round when they think you can't see; men just look out of the corners of their eyes. And young children - well, they just stare, point and laugh.
I have coffee with a friend on the high street. She greets my new appearance with laughter and then with honesty. "Even though I can't see your face, I can tell you're nervous. I can hear it in your voice and you keep tugging at the veil."
The reality is, I'm finding it hard to breathe. There is no real inlet for air and I can feel the heat of every breath I exhale, so my face just gets hotter and hotter. The slit for my eyes keeps slipping down to my nose, so I can barely see a thing. Throughout the day I trip up more times than I care to remember. As for peripheral vision, it's as if I'm stuck in a car buried in black snow. I can't fathom a way to drink my cappuccino and when I become aware that everybody in the coffee shop is wondering the same thing, I give up and just gaze at it.
At the supermarket a baby no more than two years old takes one look at me and bursts into tears. I move towards him. "It's OK," I murmur. "I'm not a monster. I'm a real person." I show him the only part of me that is visible - my hands - but it's too late. His mother has whisked him away. I don't blame her. Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored refrigerators, I scare myself. For a ridiculous few moments I stand there practicing a happy and approachable look using just my eyes. But I'm stuck looking aloof and inhospitable, and am not surprised that my day lacks the civilities I normally receive, the hellos, thank-yous and goodbyes.
After a few hours I get used to the gawping and the sniggering, am unsurprised when passengers on a bus prefer to stand up rather than sit next to me. What does surprise me is what happens when I get off the bus. I've arranged to meet a friend at the National Portrait Gallery. In the 15-minute walk from the bus stop to the gallery, two things happen. A man in his 30s, who I think might be Dutch, stops in front of me and asks: "Can I see your face?"
"Why do you want to see my face?"
"Because I want to see if you are pretty. Are you pretty?"
Before I can reply, he walks away and shouts: "You fucking tease!"
Then I hear the loud and impatient beeping of a horn. A middle-aged man is leering at me from behind the wheel of a white van. "Watch where you're going, you stupid Paki!" he screams. This time I'm a bit faster.
"How do you know I'm Pakistani?" I shout. He responds by driving so close that when he yells, "Terrorist!" I can feel his breath on my veil.
Things don't get much better at the National Portrait Gallery. I suppose I was half expecting the cultured crowd to be too polite to stare. But I might as well be one of the exhibits. As I float from room to room, like some apparition, I ask myself if wearing orthodox garments forces me to adopt more orthodox views. I look at paintings of Queen Anne and Mary II. They are in extravagant ermines and taffetas and their ample bosoms are on display. I look at David Hockney's famous painting of Celia Birtwell, who is modestly dressed from head to toe. And all I can think is that if all women wore the niqab how sad and strange this place would be. I cannot even bear to look at my own shadow. Vain as it may sound, I miss seeing my own face, my own shape. I miss myself. Yet at the same time I feel completely naked.
The women I have met who have taken to wearing the niqab tell me that it gives them confidence. I find that it saps mine. Nobody has forced me to wear it but I feel like I have oppressed and isolated myself.
Maybe I will feel more comfortable among women who dress in a similar fashion, so over 24 hours I visit various parts of London with a large number of Muslims - Edgware Road (known to some Londoners as "Arab Street"), Whitechapel Road (predominantly Bangladeshi) and Southall (Pakistani and Indian). Not one woman is wearing the niqab. I see many with their hair covered, but I can see their faces. Even in these areas I feel a minority within a minority. Even in these areas other Muslims turn and look at me. I head to the Central Mosque in Regent's Park. After three failed attempts to hail a black cab, I decide to walk.
A middle-aged American tourist stops me. "Do you mind if I take a photograph of you?" I think for a second. I suppose in strict terms I should say no but she is about the first person who has smiled at me all day, so I oblige. She fires questions at me. "Could I try it on?" No. "Is it uncomfortable?" Yes. "Do you sleep in it?" No. Then she says: "Oh, you must be very, very religious." I'm not sure how to respond to that, so I just walk away.
At the mosque, hundreds of women sit on the floor surrounded by samosas, onion bhajis, dates and Black Forest gateaux, about to break their fast. I look up and down every line of worshippers. I can't believe it - I am the only person wearing the niqab. I ask a Scottish convert next to me why this is.
"It is seen as something quite extreme. There is no real reason why you should wear it. Allah gave us faces and we should not hide our faces. We should celebrate our beauty."
I'm reassured. I think deep down my anxiety about having to wear the niqab, even for a day, was based on guilt - that I am not a true Muslim unless I cover myself from head to toe. But the Qur'an says: "Allah has given you clothes to cover your shameful parts, and garments pleasing to the eye: but the finest of all these is the robe of piety."
I don't understand the need to wear something as severe as the niqab, but I respect those who bear this endurance test - the staring, the swearing, the discomfort, the loss of identity. I wear my robes to meet a friend in Notting Hill for dinner that night. "It's not you really, is it?" she asks.
No, it's not. I prefer not to wear my religion on my sleeve ... or on my face.
'Even other Muslims turn and look at me'
Muslim journalist Zaiba Malik had never worn the niqab. But with everyone from Jack Straw to Tessa Jowell weighing in with their views on the veil, she decided to put one on for the day. She was shocked by how it made her feel - and how strongly strangers reacted to it
Tuesday October 17, 2006
The Guardian
'I don't wear the niqab because I don't think it's necessary," says the woman behind the counter in the Islamic dress shop in east London. "We do sell quite a few of them, though." She shows me how to wear the full veil. I would have thought that one size fits all but it turns out I'm a size 54. I pay my £39 and leave with three pieces of black cloth folded inside a bag.
The next morning I put these three pieces on as I've been shown. First the black robe, or jilbab, which zips up at the front. Then the long rectangular hijab that wraps around my head and is secured with safety pins. Finally the niqab, which is a square of synthetic material with adjustable straps, a slit of about five inches for my eyes and a tiny heart-shaped bit of netting, which I assume is to let some air in.
I look at myself in my full-length mirror. I'm horrified. I have disappeared and somebody I don't recognise is looking back at me. I cannot tell how old she is, how much she weighs, whether she has a kind or a sad face, whether she has long or short hair, whether she has any distinctive facial features at all. I've seen this person in black on the television and in newspapers, in the mountains of Afghanistan and the cities of Saudi Arabia, but she doesn't look right here, in my bedroom in a terraced house in west London. I do what little I can to personalise my appearance. I put on my oversized man's watch and make sure the bottoms of my jeans are visible. I'm so taken aback by how dissociated I feel from my own reflection that it takes me over an hour to pluck up the courage to leave the house.
I've never worn the niqab, the hijab or the jilbab before. Growing up in a Muslim household in Bradford in the 1970s and 80s, my Islamic dress code consisted of a school uniform worn with trousers underneath. At home I wore the salwar kameez, the long tunic and baggy trousers, and a scarf around my shoulders. My parents only instructed me to cover my hair when I was in the presence of the imam, reading the Qur'an, or during the call to prayer. Today I see Muslim girls 10, 20 years younger than me shrouding themselves in fabric. They talk about identity, self-assurance and faith. Am I missing out on something?
On the street it takes just seconds for me to discover that there are different categories of stare. Elderly people stop dead in their tracks and glare; women tend to wait until you have passed and then turn round when they think you can't see; men just look out of the corners of their eyes. And young children - well, they just stare, point and laugh.
I have coffee with a friend on the high street. She greets my new appearance with laughter and then with honesty. "Even though I can't see your face, I can tell you're nervous. I can hear it in your voice and you keep tugging at the veil."
The reality is, I'm finding it hard to breathe. There is no real inlet for air and I can feel the heat of every breath I exhale, so my face just gets hotter and hotter. The slit for my eyes keeps slipping down to my nose, so I can barely see a thing. Throughout the day I trip up more times than I care to remember. As for peripheral vision, it's as if I'm stuck in a car buried in black snow. I can't fathom a way to drink my cappuccino and when I become aware that everybody in the coffee shop is wondering the same thing, I give up and just gaze at it.
At the supermarket a baby no more than two years old takes one look at me and bursts into tears. I move towards him. "It's OK," I murmur. "I'm not a monster. I'm a real person." I show him the only part of me that is visible - my hands - but it's too late. His mother has whisked him away. I don't blame her. Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored refrigerators, I scare myself. For a ridiculous few moments I stand there practicing a happy and approachable look using just my eyes. But I'm stuck looking aloof and inhospitable, and am not surprised that my day lacks the civilities I normally receive, the hellos, thank-yous and goodbyes.
After a few hours I get used to the gawping and the sniggering, am unsurprised when passengers on a bus prefer to stand up rather than sit next to me. What does surprise me is what happens when I get off the bus. I've arranged to meet a friend at the National Portrait Gallery. In the 15-minute walk from the bus stop to the gallery, two things happen. A man in his 30s, who I think might be Dutch, stops in front of me and asks: "Can I see your face?"
"Why do you want to see my face?"
"Because I want to see if you are pretty. Are you pretty?"
Before I can reply, he walks away and shouts: "You fucking tease!"
Then I hear the loud and impatient beeping of a horn. A middle-aged man is leering at me from behind the wheel of a white van. "Watch where you're going, you stupid Paki!" he screams. This time I'm a bit faster.
"How do you know I'm Pakistani?" I shout. He responds by driving so close that when he yells, "Terrorist!" I can feel his breath on my veil.
Things don't get much better at the National Portrait Gallery. I suppose I was half expecting the cultured crowd to be too polite to stare. But I might as well be one of the exhibits. As I float from room to room, like some apparition, I ask myself if wearing orthodox garments forces me to adopt more orthodox views. I look at paintings of Queen Anne and Mary II. They are in extravagant ermines and taffetas and their ample bosoms are on display. I look at David Hockney's famous painting of Celia Birtwell, who is modestly dressed from head to toe. And all I can think is that if all women wore the niqab how sad and strange this place would be. I cannot even bear to look at my own shadow. Vain as it may sound, I miss seeing my own face, my own shape. I miss myself. Yet at the same time I feel completely naked.
The women I have met who have taken to wearing the niqab tell me that it gives them confidence. I find that it saps mine. Nobody has forced me to wear it but I feel like I have oppressed and isolated myself.
Maybe I will feel more comfortable among women who dress in a similar fashion, so over 24 hours I visit various parts of London with a large number of Muslims - Edgware Road (known to some Londoners as "Arab Street"), Whitechapel Road (predominantly Bangladeshi) and Southall (Pakistani and Indian). Not one woman is wearing the niqab. I see many with their hair covered, but I can see their faces. Even in these areas I feel a minority within a minority. Even in these areas other Muslims turn and look at me. I head to the Central Mosque in Regent's Park. After three failed attempts to hail a black cab, I decide to walk.
A middle-aged American tourist stops me. "Do you mind if I take a photograph of you?" I think for a second. I suppose in strict terms I should say no but she is about the first person who has smiled at me all day, so I oblige. She fires questions at me. "Could I try it on?" No. "Is it uncomfortable?" Yes. "Do you sleep in it?" No. Then she says: "Oh, you must be very, very religious." I'm not sure how to respond to that, so I just walk away.
At the mosque, hundreds of women sit on the floor surrounded by samosas, onion bhajis, dates and Black Forest gateaux, about to break their fast. I look up and down every line of worshippers. I can't believe it - I am the only person wearing the niqab. I ask a Scottish convert next to me why this is.
"It is seen as something quite extreme. There is no real reason why you should wear it. Allah gave us faces and we should not hide our faces. We should celebrate our beauty."
I'm reassured. I think deep down my anxiety about having to wear the niqab, even for a day, was based on guilt - that I am not a true Muslim unless I cover myself from head to toe. But the Qur'an says: "Allah has given you clothes to cover your shameful parts, and garments pleasing to the eye: but the finest of all these is the robe of piety."
I don't understand the need to wear something as severe as the niqab, but I respect those who bear this endurance test - the staring, the swearing, the discomfort, the loss of identity. I wear my robes to meet a friend in Notting Hill for dinner that night. "It's not you really, is it?" she asks.
No, it's not. I prefer not to wear my religion on my sleeve ... or on my face.
Euronymous
Senior Jockey
Yeah - give me a muslim over a fucking white van man anyday. Vermin.
I'm glad there's the quotation about 'garments pleasing to the eye', because there is no exhortation to wear black and nothing but black! At weddings, the black covers come off and there are often quite daring often highly-expensive, glittering dresses underneath, as I found out when I attended a couple of Shi'ite weddings in the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia, some 20 years ago. While the men and women didn't dance together, they all hullaballooed and clapped their hands to the music in a courtyard, while the groom and bride were displayed on garlanded, but ordinary, lounge chairs on a dais. Everyone rushed up and posed with them, grinning widely, while the bride kept her eyes downcast modestly. (Even though up until her public display, she'd been giggling and joking with her sisters.)
What I did find rather curious was that we (British guests, along with family members) were all ushered in to see the marriage bed: covered with rose petals and strung around with fairy lights! Even there, there was a lot of risque humour as young lads ran in to sit on the bed and pose, laughing, while photos were taken.
The weddings were great fun and I and the other Europeans felt madly over-covered in our long-sleeved kaftans, while the Saudi ladies besported themselves fairly wildly in sleeveless, backless dresses, with a fair display of their 'charms'!
What I did find rather curious was that we (British guests, along with family members) were all ushered in to see the marriage bed: covered with rose petals and strung around with fairy lights! Even there, there was a lot of risque humour as young lads ran in to sit on the bed and pose, laughing, while photos were taken.
The weddings were great fun and I and the other Europeans felt madly over-covered in our long-sleeved kaftans, while the Saudi ladies besported themselves fairly wildly in sleeveless, backless dresses, with a fair display of their 'charms'!