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Friday, January 25, 2008 1:49:52 AM
Young and Muslim and not who you think I am.
By Isra Bhatty, University of Chicago
This piece was originally published in Diskord, a Campus Progress sponsored publication.
suppose I look a bit threatening to the conservative eye, which more often than not considers the uncommon as a threat to the prevailing social order. In my oversize football jerseys, eight-year-old cargo pants, and tie-dyed hijaab, I look pretty original – like a misplaced Pakistani girl whose ordinarily white shawl got lost somewhere in the sixties, whose body got stuck in the wardrobe of an impressionable white suburban teen, and whose identity is neither Pakistani nor American, but, instead, a mix of black, white, and brown. I am just some as of yet unidentified type of Muslim. But a Muslim, and a rather obvious one, nonetheless.
My parents immigrated to America in 1983, the year of my birth. Although I wasn’t born here, this is the only country I’ve called my home. That is not to say that I’ve always felt at home here, though, because I haven’t. I don’t feel at home when I’m told to be more Pakistani, and I certainly don’t feel at home when I’m told to be more American. I remember the kids who decided to call my house the day after 9/11 to cuss out my mother and tell us to go back “home.” I suppose they were implying that we’re not American enough for their nation. Perhaps they thought, as many do, that there is an inherent conflict in being both Muslim and American. I haven’t yet found one. I don’t really know how to prove “Americanness.” But I think a lot of Muslims tried to prove just that during the post-9/11 “backlash” by plastering American flags all over their property. My dad made sure to stick a flag in our yard, one on each door, and two on the car. Just in case.
In my opinion, trying to prove a cultural identity is near impossible, especially to people who already think that they know what a Muslim is supposed to look like, or dress like, or talk like. I have never tried to prove that I am American. I just assume that my American social surroundings have been responsible for forming parts of me, the parts that are seen as foreign or “Amrikan” to my fellow immigrants such as my taste for hip-hop and oversize jerseys. That’s not very Pakistani, and to some, it’s not very Muslim either. But as I see it, anyone who believes as such fails to realize that it is impossible to be raised as an un-American, or non-American, in America. I am annoyed when cultural behaviors are confused with an already misconstrued and misunderstood religion, and I’ve made some feeble attempts on various occasions to clarify the tenuous connection. By now, I’m accustomed to conservatives making statements that constantly conflate religion and culture. I’ve almost given up trying to argue with them; it is an exercise in frustration. As I’ve said, the uncommon is threatening.
Well-meaning liberals are the ones that really get to me, however, probably because I’ve set my expectations too high for them. At a women’s history conference a month ago, a speaker referred to Islam’s oppression of women. My initial reaction was one of embarrassment, but that quickly turned into agitation, and I made it a point to announce publicly the fact that she was confusing cultural and political representations of “Islam” for the religion itself. I think I also gave a word of caution about treating religion as a monolithic force, but I limited myself. I know I could’ve gone on ranting, maybe making allusions to the likes of Samuel Huntington and Edward Said and Levi-Strauss so that my educated audience wouldn’t think I was some oppressed little Muslim village girl talking out of the side of her neck. At the time, I wish I had had a Venn diagram with me to make it easier for them to distinguish what is the religion of Islam and what is the cultural or political influences of a particular region. The oh-so-oppressive face-veil: not religion. A lack of women’s rights: not religion. Economic stagnation: not religion. Political corruption: not religion. Terrorism: not religion. Sigh.
Of course, there are certain manifestations of “Islam” that are genuinely religious. My tie-dyed hijaab is religious. I have had many a liberal try to convince me of the oppressiveness of my hijaab. The way I see it, wearing the hijaab is liberating. I want people to look at me and see a woman who doesn’t conform to popular culture, who’d much rather be judged on her voice and her mind than on her body, and who prefers an outward expression of the religious legacy and commitment to justice that she holds at the center of her life. Many of those who assert the hijaab-is-oppressive argument fail to recognize that Islamic guidelines for dress are not just for women, and often confuse cultural or political “limitations” experienced by Muslim women living under certain regimes’ Islamic mandates. In the end, I place dress as secondary to more important manifestations of the freedom of expression. And hijaab has never held me back from pursuing goals that I feel are truly important.
Then there’s that issue of gender segregation in the mosque, also religious. I’ll be blunt: when I’m praying, I really don’t want to be distracted, and frankly, men can be distracting. Of course, it’s important to recognize that general prayer is not limited to a mosque setting, or even confined to a specific format. In that sense, gender segregation in prayer is not as pervasive as many assert. Furthermore, selecting a very limited illustration of a religion and then asserting that this one is representative of the whole is also playing into the cultural/religious stereotyping. Just like hijaabs differ across cultures and regions, so do the specific languages and manners of prayer. And respecting differences, cultural and otherwise, is a foremost tenet of Islam. My own cultural mutt-ness has been with me for many years now. In a way, I’ve turned to Islam as a refuge from the maddening pressure to fit into a cultural category. I’m satisfied with my singular identity as a Muslim, and I don’t care to submit to any culture. Regardless of whose name I rep on the back of my sports jersey, or the brand etched into the pocket of my pants, I guess my tie-dyed hijaab says it best: I only really rep Islam.
Illustration: Matt Bors
http://www.campusprogress.org/features/292/reppin-islam
By Isra Bhatty, University of Chicago
This piece was originally published in Diskord, a Campus Progress sponsored publication.
suppose I look a bit threatening to the conservative eye, which more often than not considers the uncommon as a threat to the prevailing social order. In my oversize football jerseys, eight-year-old cargo pants, and tie-dyed hijaab, I look pretty original – like a misplaced Pakistani girl whose ordinarily white shawl got lost somewhere in the sixties, whose body got stuck in the wardrobe of an impressionable white suburban teen, and whose identity is neither Pakistani nor American, but, instead, a mix of black, white, and brown. I am just some as of yet unidentified type of Muslim. But a Muslim, and a rather obvious one, nonetheless.
My parents immigrated to America in 1983, the year of my birth. Although I wasn’t born here, this is the only country I’ve called my home. That is not to say that I’ve always felt at home here, though, because I haven’t. I don’t feel at home when I’m told to be more Pakistani, and I certainly don’t feel at home when I’m told to be more American. I remember the kids who decided to call my house the day after 9/11 to cuss out my mother and tell us to go back “home.” I suppose they were implying that we’re not American enough for their nation. Perhaps they thought, as many do, that there is an inherent conflict in being both Muslim and American. I haven’t yet found one. I don’t really know how to prove “Americanness.” But I think a lot of Muslims tried to prove just that during the post-9/11 “backlash” by plastering American flags all over their property. My dad made sure to stick a flag in our yard, one on each door, and two on the car. Just in case.
In my opinion, trying to prove a cultural identity is near impossible, especially to people who already think that they know what a Muslim is supposed to look like, or dress like, or talk like. I have never tried to prove that I am American. I just assume that my American social surroundings have been responsible for forming parts of me, the parts that are seen as foreign or “Amrikan” to my fellow immigrants such as my taste for hip-hop and oversize jerseys. That’s not very Pakistani, and to some, it’s not very Muslim either. But as I see it, anyone who believes as such fails to realize that it is impossible to be raised as an un-American, or non-American, in America. I am annoyed when cultural behaviors are confused with an already misconstrued and misunderstood religion, and I’ve made some feeble attempts on various occasions to clarify the tenuous connection. By now, I’m accustomed to conservatives making statements that constantly conflate religion and culture. I’ve almost given up trying to argue with them; it is an exercise in frustration. As I’ve said, the uncommon is threatening.
Well-meaning liberals are the ones that really get to me, however, probably because I’ve set my expectations too high for them. At a women’s history conference a month ago, a speaker referred to Islam’s oppression of women. My initial reaction was one of embarrassment, but that quickly turned into agitation, and I made it a point to announce publicly the fact that she was confusing cultural and political representations of “Islam” for the religion itself. I think I also gave a word of caution about treating religion as a monolithic force, but I limited myself. I know I could’ve gone on ranting, maybe making allusions to the likes of Samuel Huntington and Edward Said and Levi-Strauss so that my educated audience wouldn’t think I was some oppressed little Muslim village girl talking out of the side of her neck. At the time, I wish I had had a Venn diagram with me to make it easier for them to distinguish what is the religion of Islam and what is the cultural or political influences of a particular region. The oh-so-oppressive face-veil: not religion. A lack of women’s rights: not religion. Economic stagnation: not religion. Political corruption: not religion. Terrorism: not religion. Sigh.
Of course, there are certain manifestations of “Islam” that are genuinely religious. My tie-dyed hijaab is religious. I have had many a liberal try to convince me of the oppressiveness of my hijaab. The way I see it, wearing the hijaab is liberating. I want people to look at me and see a woman who doesn’t conform to popular culture, who’d much rather be judged on her voice and her mind than on her body, and who prefers an outward expression of the religious legacy and commitment to justice that she holds at the center of her life. Many of those who assert the hijaab-is-oppressive argument fail to recognize that Islamic guidelines for dress are not just for women, and often confuse cultural or political “limitations” experienced by Muslim women living under certain regimes’ Islamic mandates. In the end, I place dress as secondary to more important manifestations of the freedom of expression. And hijaab has never held me back from pursuing goals that I feel are truly important.
Then there’s that issue of gender segregation in the mosque, also religious. I’ll be blunt: when I’m praying, I really don’t want to be distracted, and frankly, men can be distracting. Of course, it’s important to recognize that general prayer is not limited to a mosque setting, or even confined to a specific format. In that sense, gender segregation in prayer is not as pervasive as many assert. Furthermore, selecting a very limited illustration of a religion and then asserting that this one is representative of the whole is also playing into the cultural/religious stereotyping. Just like hijaabs differ across cultures and regions, so do the specific languages and manners of prayer. And respecting differences, cultural and otherwise, is a foremost tenet of Islam. My own cultural mutt-ness has been with me for many years now. In a way, I’ve turned to Islam as a refuge from the maddening pressure to fit into a cultural category. I’m satisfied with my singular identity as a Muslim, and I don’t care to submit to any culture. Regardless of whose name I rep on the back of my sports jersey, or the brand etched into the pocket of my pants, I guess my tie-dyed hijaab says it best: I only really rep Islam.
Illustration: Matt Bors
http://www.campusprogress.org/features/292/reppin-islam
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