<h5>Hijabi hikers</h5>
#HijabiHikers my friend tweeted when a group of us went on a trek to Ben Nevis a few years ago. “Why hijabi?” I asked, “how is that remotely connected to the fact that we’re hiking?” Apparently multiple hikers had expressed intrigue – we seemed to have been unwittingly defying stereotypes. In their minds, it was surprising that women covering their hair would be spotted walking up a mountain path. We surprised them not because we were doing anything notable or remarkable (after all, they were walking up the same path) but because of their own perception of what a Muslim woman was or perhaps what she was allowed to be.
I’ve seen that look of surprise many times, often barely concealed. When I was 10, it was the doctor who was convinced that my father was forcing me to wear the hijab. When I was 15, it was the old ladies on the bus when they realised I was reading a novel in the English language. At 17, the biology teacher who was surprised that I was applying to Oxford (despite the 6 A grades at AS). At university, it was the friend that was surprised that I had in fact met my fiancé before agreeing to marry him, or the university doctor when she learned that I got married in North West London rather than Pakistan (my family is not even from Pakistan). After having my first daughter at the age of 23, it was the health visitor who nearly fell off my sofa when I told her I had a degree – “your mummy is so clever,” she kept cooing at my baby girl – completely oblivious to how patronising she was being. And now, over and over again, “Ohhh, you’re a barrister?!” A Muslim woman with a voice, who would have thought?
And so it comes to define us in their eyes and, perhaps because of that, we come to believe that it defines us. We become the hijabi hikers, the hijabi professionals, the hijabi mums beaming from the audience at their children’s orchestra recital, #MuslimWomenRepresenting. It becomes the pinnacle of our faith even though it never made it into the five pillars of Islam. And it often sits as a pivotal point in our struggle for a sense of purpose and belonging, a sense of community and of self. All the while, other people continue to project their own narratives at will.
“I felt so free,” a Muslim friend told me while taking a holiday in a “halal” resort in Turkey, where she felt invisible in a sea of burkinis and nobody stared. The simple joy of being able to splash around in a pool with your children without the burden of representation weighing down on your shoulders. My younger self used to love smashing stereotypes; now I’ve grown tired and weary.
<h5>Getting along </h5>
At least once every couple of years, all the bottled-up prejudice bursts out at the seams and explodes all over the headlines: letterbox analogies and alleged security risks and maybe if more Muslim women spoke better English, young men wouldn’t be joining ISIS. Headscarves adorned with poppies and union jacks as reassurances of loyalty. The absurdity of two police officers towering over a middle-aged Muslim woman having a nap on a French beach, demanding that she take off her top in the name of social cohesion. Self-professed liberals making the case for using the coercive force of the state to dictate what women should wear, or worse, the extent to which women must be made to undress. A non-Muslim friend sweetly asks “but if public spaces become free of religious symbols, wouldn’t we all get along better?” I patiently explain that the only thing coming between us is that she may have subconsciously placed me in a jar and stuck a label on it. Rather than forcing me to change, perhaps she could just smash the jar? She pauses thoughtfully but never quite expresses her agreement.
<h5>Speaking truth to bulls*@t</h5>
Busy forging a place for ourselves in mainstream society, we often struggle to find the time or energy to call out the hypocrisy and double standards within our own Muslim communities. We’re told again and again that the headscarf is a panacea for the sexism in western society which exploits women and reduces them to their outer appearance. And yet, our outer expression of faith is treated as more important than our internal spiritual journey. We’re fed the same unrealistic expectations about our bodies, and we often carry the same shame and scars as our non-Muslim sisters.
Every once in a while, a Muslim woman makes advances in a medical field, wins a maths prize, finds her name on a list of top lawyers and the community claims her; she’s celebrated as a Good Representative. It is an honour and a joy and a burden. When a community brow-beaten by racism and islamophobia finally finds a reason to rejoice, it seems like an inappropriate time to share some unpleasant truths. It feels rude to ask: if you thought that a Muslim woman doing well at work was a valuable thing worth celebrating, why have you put every conceivable obstacle in the way of your wife’s career aspirations? Why do you keep judging working mums? And why in God’s name do you behave as if inequality inside the home is the defining feature of your rich cultural heritage?

Some of us have come to define ourselves by our commendable abilities to crush western stereotypes about Muslim women. Yet, all too often, we find ourselves tolerating treatment in our own homes that fits some of those stereotypes. For those of us with a public image of Strong Muslim Woman Smashing the Patriarchy while Donning a Beautiful Headscarf, our home life feels like a shameful secret eating away at our very sense of worth. We’re so worn out from having to fight for our rightful place in mainstream society that there is no energy left to express the appropriate degree of revolt at the idea that a grown Muslim woman may need her husband’s permission to leave her home (and that he might actually say no at whim). We’re so desensitised to abuse that a Muslim man who leaves his wife in limbo rather than divorcing her when their religious marriage breaks down doesn’t find himself shunned or ostracised from his community. We’re so used to preaching platitudes and empty ideals that we fail to look our daughters straight in their eyes and honestly acknowledge the gap between our religion’s often noble aspirations for them and the extent to which our religious communities fall short.
<h5> The possibility of multiple truths</h5>
I seem to digress. But the hijab conversations have never been about the piece of fabric on our heads. To me, they have always been about what it means to be a woman and our proper place in the world.
Sometimes they are about the master narratives, often forged at the fault lines where centuries of misogyny clash with shifting feminist ideals; where western colonialism and hegemony clash with the struggle for decolonisation and self-determination; where debates about equality clash with narratives about God’s will. The master narratives often feature in the debates devoid of their proper historical context.
Then there are the family histories: the mother who wore the hijab in defiance of a repressive tyrannical regime that could have killed her for this simple act of piety; or the mother who refused to wear the hijab in the face of a regime that threatened to administer lashings for her insubordination; the generations of women who defied their families’ and communities’ expectations in both directions, sometimes with drastic consequences.
And somewhere in the midst of all these overlapping narratives, there is the story that ultimately matters the most: the subjective experience of every woman who has a personal relationship (of whatever form) with the hijab. The personal truth of the woman who felt it freed her from societal expectations about her body, and the personal truth of the woman who tasted freedom the first time she felt the breeze in her hair. The woman who is ambivalent or indifferent, or the woman proudly wearing it as an extension of her rich cultural heritage. The woman wearing it as a sign of independence or defiance, and the woman wearing it to foster a sense of belonging within a homogenous family or community. The woman who feels emboldened and empowered by it, and the woman who feels it renders her invisible. The woman who holds it dear as an expression of her relationship with God, and the woman who rejects it as a product of male narratives about God’s will. The idea of multiple truths can be scary, in particular for religious people who feel that there could only be space for One Truth.  But even within that context, is there really no space for a woman’s personal exploration of what God wanted from her and for her? Is there no margin of error for what we understand God to require from us and what is in fact required?
The reason a satisfactory conclusion to the debate about the hijab eludes us is because it’s really a debate about competing narratives on gender, power, freedom, control, rebellion, community, immigration, representation, assimilation, nationalism, colonialism, self-determination, belonging, autonomy, self-expression, Divine will and much more, all intricately woven into the threads of the piece of silk/jersey/cotton/crepe draped around an individual woman’s head, or (God forbid) tied up in a rather stylish turban.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: Zahra Al-Rikabi</pre>

hijabi hikers

Understanding everyday discourses on Muslim women and the hijab, between projected narratives and self-authorship.

Reflections on Hijab: Creating Space for Multiple Truths

How inaccurate and simplistic reporting risks fuelling the cycle of violence 
&nbsp; 
My name is Zahra and I am Iraqi. I will tell you that my family in Mosul are celebrating their newly found freedom in the self-fashioned Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (aka ISIS). As you may have heard in many reports, they prefer unelected foreign men in balaclavas because they have been marginalised by the central Iraqi government. I will tell you that they support these men only because they seek to be treated as equal citizens. You see, respectable people like the executive director of Human Rights Watch, <a href="https://twitter.com/KenRoth/status/476873438154719232">Kenneth Roth</a>, tweeted, “ISIS reportedly tried not to alienate local population, unlike PM Maliki &amp; his violent, sectarian repression”. And even when the so-called &#8220;rebels&#8221; begin to post harrowing images of cold-blooded murder on their Facebook accounts, I continue to insist that my family requires a political solution granting equal representation within the new government before they can bring themselves to condemn ISIS. 
My name is Zahra and I am Iraqi. Contrary to what I said, my family does not really live in Mosul. The fragments of information I have, relating to Mosul, come from friends of friends, Twitter, Facebook and a dozen different news sources. These sources paint conflicting pictures and the self-appointed representatives of Iraqi public opinion say contradictory things. Approximately a quarter of Mosul’s population are now internally displaced persons, which suggests that they were not particularly overjoyed at the arrival of their so-called liberators. This mass exodus was, however, was accompanied by images and media reports showing pockets of support in Mosul, but no indication of their size. I read an article that quotes “Ahmed” who says that ISIS is the lesser of two evils. The article quotes only “Ahmed” who presumably speaks for the people of Mosul. 
ISIS continues its attempts to gain control of more Iraqi territory. Car bombs – a familiar feature of the last decade &#8211; continue to wreak havoc in Iraqi neighbourhoods and the conflicting media coverage continues to stream through. The violence that is threatening to rip through Iraq is accompanied by a propaganda war no less ferocious. The onus on journalists, analysts and commentators not to become unwitting proponents for a particular political agenda is burdensome, especially given the security and language barriers that force them to be one step removed. Many journalists covering the situation in Iraq do not seem to have grasped the magnitude of the challenge they face. Nor the power they hold to sway this conflict. 
The BBC’s coverage of recent events in Iraq has been singled out for criticism by many, including young British Iraqis feeling aggrieved by the sectarian undertones of its reporting. When Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani’s representative, Sheik Abdulmehdi al-Karbalai, called on &#8220;citizens” who are able to bear arms to defend their country, the headlines read “Shia call to arms”. Following a number of complaints, the BBC subsequently <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-27834462">issued a correction</a>, stating that the article has “been amended to make clear that Grand Ayatollah Sistani called on all Iraqis, not just Shias, to defend their country”. 
These seemingly small semantic inaccuracies have significant potential to shape this conflict. Besides the obvious need for the public to form an accurate picture of events in Iraq, there is also the real risk that oversimplifying the conflict in terms of two camps, Sunni versus Shia, heightens tensions and animosity inside the United Kingdom and the Middle East. Rhetoric that unwittingly entrenches sectarian divisions, regardless of how well meaning, risks being used as a recruitment tool by ISIS and similar groups. 
Yet the BBC continues to spurt out what strongly resembles ISIS propaganda. On <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-27883157">17 June</a> it published an article entitled “Iraq’s central government suffers mortal blow”, which goes on to describe ISIS’s alleged advancement as hammering “a deadly nail in the coffin of the post-Saddam Hussein nation-building project.” Its <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-27990478">recent reports</a> quote ISIS sources without any effort to seek comment from the Iraqi government or a note to state that the assertions of &#8220;a rebel spokesman&#8221; have not been verified. And the BBC is by no means the only media outlet that has been sucked into the sectarian narrative. Sistani&#8217;s fatwa was more recently misrepresented beyond recognition in an <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/jun/27/isis-onslaught-iraq-victims-both-sides?CMP=twt_gu">article</a> in the Guardian, which describes Sistani as having &#8220;summoned&#8221; militias accused of committing atrocities &#8220;to defend Shia holy shrines&#8221;. 
Not only are many of those covering the conflict fixated by a single fault line that is perceived to dominate all Iraqi political discourse, but they are more seriously unable or unwilling to  recognise the plurality of voices within each camp. Even <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/jun/15/iraq-sunnis-can-be-equal-citizens-that-is-the-battle">well-meaning articles</a> which state that Sunnis just want equality overlook the fact that there are a number of different cleavages within every community. 
Distinguishing between the different voices is crucial because there are now growing reports that ISIS did not orchestrate this take over without Iraqi complicity. Some would go as far as to say that ISIS is merely a cover-up for what is essentially a Baathist-led coup. Despite the stark consequences of ISIS dominance, we are told that <a href="http://www.middleeasteye.net/news/iraq-isil-takeover-or-anti-maliki-uprising/2009467381">Baathists only collaborated</a> with ISIS because Maliki has not sought genuine political reconciliation. Absent in such commentaries is any exploration of whether Baathists have ever been amenable to such reconciliation, whether they would ever truly accept no more than proportionate representation within a democratic system. &#8220;Experts&#8221; make completely unproven allegations that the militants seek a &#8220;<a href="http://www.dw.de/who-finances-isis/a-17720149">secular democracy</a>,&#8221; while they state in interviews that they will &#8220;<a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/parallels/2014/06/19/323691052/saddams-ex-officer-weve-played-key-role-in-helping-militants">remove Maliki and take over Iraq&#8221;</a>. 
Growing calls for Maliki to step down have paid little attention to the outcome of Iraq’s recent democratic elections, deemed legitimate by international monitors. Maliki’s coalition won the largest number of seats, but not enough to guarantee him a third term without successfully forming a wider coalition. What is surprising about the calls for him to step down is that they have been accompanied by a number of suggested alternatives with little, if any, consideration of their democratic mandate. Since when did the voices of those who aid and abet a violent take-over by non-state actors get to trump the voices of the millions who risked their lives to vote? Since when did collaborating with a vicious terrorist organisation become a legitimate way of expressing dissent? And will the right to equality of ordinary <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/jun/20/baghdad-sunni-fighters-we-are-ready-for-zero-hour">Sunni civilians</a> really be served by empowering groups that seek to provoke atrocities by unscrupulous militias in order to scare communities into solidarity with their cause? It may well be Maliki&#8217;s time to go, but the outcome of Iraq&#8217;s elections must be the determining factor in who replaces him. 
It is clear that any new Iraqi government must have legitimacy in the eyes of the people. Commentators are now pressing for the separation of ISIS from other Sunni groups fighting alongside them, with suggestions that the latter ‘more moderate’ forces are the <a href="http://www.washingtoninstitute.org/policy-analysis/view/building-a-base-for-iraqs-counteroffensive-the-role-of-u.s.-security-cooper">key to winning</a> the battle against ISIS. It is rare to find a commentator who questions whether the desperate times in which we find ourselves were only possible because the &#8216;more moderate&#8217; forces chose ISIS as their bedfellows. How many commentators ask seriously whether it is wise, indeed rational, to seek equal rights for individuals who set out to unleash atrocities on civilians as a means to their political ends? And when will journalists pause the next time they interview &#8220;Ahmed&#8221; and remind themselves that a handful of individuals cannot speak for the rest. 
I wish that the international community would not engage with Iraq in a reductionist and simplistic way, distorting its complex and multilayered social fabric into a <a href="http://www.onreligion.co.uk/the-myth-of-a-sunni-shia-war/">one-dimensional ancient strife</a>. I wish that the commentators suggesting that Saddam&#8217;s former henchmen might be the key to breaking ISIS would recognise that they are merely replacing bearded terrorists with <a href="http://www.newrepublic.com/article/118356/izzat-ibrahim-al-douri-saddam-husseins-pal-key-stopping-isis">clean-shaven ones</a>. I wish that those seeking the best for the beleaguered people of Mosul refrain from empowering the very people bringing about their suffering as a means to their ends. 
My name is Zahra and I am Iraqi. I have faith that the post-Saddam Hussein nation-building project will survive the current crisis. I have faith that my hopes for a democratic and prosperous Iraq reflect the wishes of the majority of the people of Iraq. I have faith that the voices of the people of Mosul will eventually rise above those who seek to ruthlessly hijack them. But at the end of the day, I can only really speak for myself. 
Featured image shows Umayyah Naji Jabara, an Iraqi politician and daughter of a Sunni tribal leader, who was killed fighting ISIS. 
<pre>Image from: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/middleeast/iraq/10923892/Iraqi-female-politician-killed-fighting-Isis.html</pre>