On a holiday from school, Halima came to program without her headscarf. She seemed to be in a bad mood when her mother dropped her off, her eyes shifting around as she gave her a somewhat squirmy and resistant hug. Before going to join the other kids, she flipped up the hood of her baby blue Hannah Montana sweatshirt, consciously tucking her stray hair back away from her face.
As she was sitting with the kids, one of the staff members, Shaun, remarked brightly, “Halima, why don’t you got your hijab on?”
She glowered at him, then looked back down. Shaun is well-meaning, but sometimes has trouble reading the kids.
“Whoa-hoa, don’t talk to me, then.” Throughout the day, he periodically enthused, “Halima, you’ve got such pretty hair!” and was met with a cold reception. Once, as he was walking behind her, he flipped down the hood of her sweatshirt.
“Don’t!” She screeched, yanking the hood back up.
Shaun sat down near the cluster of kids. “I’m not trying to play with you. I’m just wondering how come you here every day with your hijab, but today you don’t gotta wear it.”
“Because she’s little, it’s okay,” some of the other kids piped in.
“She used to come here without a hijab a lot before you started here,” I added.
“Did she?”
“Mmhm,” I turned to Halima and said gently, “But you don’t like not wearing it now, do you?” She shook her head sullenly.
Halima is in first grade, and I remember when she started wearing her hijab. At first it was infrequent, then she started wearing one nearly every day. The day after Eid, she was without her hijab, the hair around her crown braided into cornrows, with the rest was loose, thick dark curls to her back. She was in bright spirits all day, and when I asked her how her Eid was, she excitedly told me, “I got new clothes, and these new shoes, and my hair was out, and we went to the Mall of America, and it was so fun!” When she first started wearing her the hijab regularly, like many little girls, she frequently adjusted it in public. Once she asked me if her hair was showing, and since then helping little girls tuck stray hairs under their scarves became a regular occurrence for me, like fixing uneven buttons or watching for untied shoes.
“Oh, so the hijab is optional until you’re what, fifteen?” Shaun tried.
The kids snorted. “No! Until you’re ten!”
Shaun looked at one of the girls. “How old are you, Farhia?”
“I’m nine.”
“But you’re always wearing your hijab. Couldn’t you just skip it sometimes?”
“Yeah, but I pray a lot,” she replied.
Farhia not only always wore her hijab, but she also wore billowy shirts and long skirts, like all of the other girls in the program but Halima, who was usually dressed to the nines of little-girl fashion, often in nice jeans and tall boots. Their mothers tend to adhere to the standards of modesty to different degrees, some always wearing loose, one-piece, monochromatic garb, others mixing and matching loose tops and skirts. Halima’s mother is my age, and she’s beautiful. I saw her once in jeans and a non-traditional scarf twisted around her head, rather than draping over the shoulders like a hijab, once without her scarf when I was dropping Halima off at her apartment, and once in full, conservative garb. Children are usually dressed less conservatively than their mothers, but I’ve seen some three year olds who are never without their hijab.
There’s so much variation, even among the Somali community. I wonder about the pressure about whether to wear or not wear hijab, because I know it goes both ways. I wonder how religious Muslim women come to a point where they don’t wear hijab anymore, and how secular Muslim women decide to continue to wear theirs.
Gradually throughout the day, Halima let her hood occasionally fall back to her shoulders. When Shaun made some remark about her pretty black hair, she turned to him and smiled, grabbing her ponytail, “My hair’s not black, it’s brown.”
As I saw Halima warming up to Shaun’s constant comments, I thought about myself as a little girl, how I would have been absolutely mortified by some man making comments like that about me. I was scared of men, didn’t want to sit on their laps, didn’t want them to wink at me, didn’t want them to call me “little lady” or pretend to flirt like so many older men think is appropriate to do with little girls. Halima was starting to enjoy the attention, but I couldn’t help but think that Shaun’s behavior was in a way reinforcing the belief in Islam that when a woman exposes her hair, she runs the risk of objectification. When she’s old enough to really understand, I’m curious about what choice Halima will make.
As she was sitting with the kids, one of the staff members, Shaun, remarked brightly, “Halima, why don’t you got your hijab on?”
She glowered at him, then looked back down. Shaun is well-meaning, but sometimes has trouble reading the kids.
“Whoa-hoa, don’t talk to me, then.” Throughout the day, he periodically enthused, “Halima, you’ve got such pretty hair!” and was met with a cold reception. Once, as he was walking behind her, he flipped down the hood of her sweatshirt.
“Don’t!” She screeched, yanking the hood back up.
Shaun sat down near the cluster of kids. “I’m not trying to play with you. I’m just wondering how come you here every day with your hijab, but today you don’t gotta wear it.”
“Because she’s little, it’s okay,” some of the other kids piped in.
“She used to come here without a hijab a lot before you started here,” I added.
“Did she?”
“Mmhm,” I turned to Halima and said gently, “But you don’t like not wearing it now, do you?” She shook her head sullenly.
Halima is in first grade, and I remember when she started wearing her hijab. At first it was infrequent, then she started wearing one nearly every day. The day after Eid, she was without her hijab, the hair around her crown braided into cornrows, with the rest was loose, thick dark curls to her back. She was in bright spirits all day, and when I asked her how her Eid was, she excitedly told me, “I got new clothes, and these new shoes, and my hair was out, and we went to the Mall of America, and it was so fun!” When she first started wearing her the hijab regularly, like many little girls, she frequently adjusted it in public. Once she asked me if her hair was showing, and since then helping little girls tuck stray hairs under their scarves became a regular occurrence for me, like fixing uneven buttons or watching for untied shoes.
“Oh, so the hijab is optional until you’re what, fifteen?” Shaun tried.
The kids snorted. “No! Until you’re ten!”
Shaun looked at one of the girls. “How old are you, Farhia?”
“I’m nine.”
“But you’re always wearing your hijab. Couldn’t you just skip it sometimes?”
“Yeah, but I pray a lot,” she replied.
Farhia not only always wore her hijab, but she also wore billowy shirts and long skirts, like all of the other girls in the program but Halima, who was usually dressed to the nines of little-girl fashion, often in nice jeans and tall boots. Their mothers tend to adhere to the standards of modesty to different degrees, some always wearing loose, one-piece, monochromatic garb, others mixing and matching loose tops and skirts. Halima’s mother is my age, and she’s beautiful. I saw her once in jeans and a non-traditional scarf twisted around her head, rather than draping over the shoulders like a hijab, once without her scarf when I was dropping Halima off at her apartment, and once in full, conservative garb. Children are usually dressed less conservatively than their mothers, but I’ve seen some three year olds who are never without their hijab.
There’s so much variation, even among the Somali community. I wonder about the pressure about whether to wear or not wear hijab, because I know it goes both ways. I wonder how religious Muslim women come to a point where they don’t wear hijab anymore, and how secular Muslim women decide to continue to wear theirs.
Gradually throughout the day, Halima let her hood occasionally fall back to her shoulders. When Shaun made some remark about her pretty black hair, she turned to him and smiled, grabbing her ponytail, “My hair’s not black, it’s brown.”
As I saw Halima warming up to Shaun’s constant comments, I thought about myself as a little girl, how I would have been absolutely mortified by some man making comments like that about me. I was scared of men, didn’t want to sit on their laps, didn’t want them to wink at me, didn’t want them to call me “little lady” or pretend to flirt like so many older men think is appropriate to do with little girls. Halima was starting to enjoy the attention, but I couldn’t help but think that Shaun’s behavior was in a way reinforcing the belief in Islam that when a woman exposes her hair, she runs the risk of objectification. When she’s old enough to really understand, I’m curious about what choice Halima will make.
posted by archipelagic at 1:27 PM
5 Comments:
I really, really enjoy your writing.
This Shaun sounds creepy. He sounds like the men I knew when I was that age that I didn't like.
When I was in preschool or kindergarden my mom worked and my dad was in charge of getting me to school. Since he was usually at the bars late the night before, mornings were rushed to get me to school so he could go back to bed. It was not unusual for me to arrive at school with unbrushed hair and pajamas, I remember the kids all thought I was really poor (which we were). I guess my mom didn't know until the teacher called her and she was mortified.
He's not actually creepy, he's just kind of in-your-face and doesn't necessarily get when he should handle things more sensitively. He grew up in the same area as most of our kids before the area turned predominantly Somali, and he has a way with them that they generally respond to. He's good at relating to the kids in a way that a lot of the staff don't, but I didn't agree with the way he handled this situation.
WELL.
DONE.
long time no comments; i just spent 2009 (after getting back from sadogashima in 2008) in muslim africa. somaliland is an incredible place. there are some huge, huge, huge issues about veiling. it's uncommon to see such intelligent treatment of it.
i loved africa. but missed blog-reading. just now came back to an old favorite of my japan time just for the sake of memory lane, to find that the author has awesomely continued to write (unlike me) after concluding her japan experience. you keep writing, i'll keep reading, deal?
Wow, Marie, hisashiburi! I just read a bunch of your Africa blog, and it's so interesting and overwhelming I was afraid to comment. I think your choice to veil in Muslim Africa was a good one. I've learned a bit since writing this, mainly that (as I'm sure you know) the word hijab literally means veil or curtain, and in the context of the Koran is used to denote modesty. While the Koran mandates modesty, how modesty is interpreted is entirely cultural. Even though there's a religious connotation, I would think of veiling in Somalia as being sort of like how I didn't show cleavage in Japan, or wore long sleeves at the Vatican.
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