Beyond the Doors of the Mosque (Part 2)

Shoulder to shoulder, they stand in prayer. Khadija and Halima, both dressed in long cloaks, hands folded on their chests. Their hijab covered heads are tilted downwards as the words of prayer wash over them. They raise their hands in unison for dua, then turn and share a soft hug and smile, saying “Jummah Mubarak.”

Khadija picks up her shoes and walks home. She stays at the student accommodation near campus. She puts on her waitress uniform and goes to work. Khadija thinks about how little sleep she’s going to get tonight, because she still has an assignment to finish, and she’s working all weekend. All her family’s savings, and hopes, have been invested in her obtaining this degree. But she still has to work to fund it, and self-motivation isn’t cheap. It’s her final year, the final push.

Halima heads home too, to pick up her books, before heading to the library. She’s determined to study hard and finish this degree with excellence. She knows her parents are planning her marriage, but she’s not ready yet. She wants to get her degree and find a good job first. All her parents’ hopes of grandchildren are invested in her, as an only child. But she wants to flourish on her own too, and self-motivation isn’t cheap. It’s her final year, her final push.

On Monday, a yawning Khadija has a meeting with the university’s finance officer. She has defaulted on her fees payments, and even if she passes her exams, she won’t get her degree until she pays up. Khadija’s heart sinks deep into her stomach. How is she going to tell her parents that their life savings weren’t enough?

Halima also has a meeting, with the desk of her faculty. Her marks have slipped, and if she’s careful, she might not graduate at all. Halima’s heart sinks deep into her stomach. Her parents have told her that if she doesn’t finish this year she’ll be married off. Her husband can provide for her. She finds in herself new resolve to achieve her goals. How will she tell her parents that she wants her independence?

Khadija hears whispers of Fees Must Fall and stops to listen. They want to shut down the university until education is equally accessible to everyone, regardless of financial situation. Khadija finds herself agreeing, the years of pent up frustration at having to simultaneousltly work and study exploding into her march as she picks up a placard.

Halima hears whispers of Fees Must Fall and stops to listen. They want to shut down the university, even if it means preventing exams from taking place. Halima panics, knowing that if it happens, her entire life could go down a path she is trying to desperately to escape.

Khadija marches with the crowd through the city. She looks at the fires around her, watches as protesters throw rocks at the police and stun grenades are fired back. This violence, this is not what free education is about. She hangs back with the majority of students, demonstrating their peacefulness by standing still, but still firm in their demand for access to education. Khadija feels that the protest is justified based on the exclusion she experiences the to finances. Protest is her right as a citizen.

Halima watches the fires burn on TV, as the students toy toy through the streets. She feels tears welling up in her eyes as the vice Chancellor of the university makes a press statement declaring that universities will close indefinitely if the protesters don’t stop. Her mother tells her to get ready, stop watching TV, the boy is here to see her! Halima feels that the protest is preventing so many hardworking people from reaping the benefits of the countless hours spent studying. Dissenting is her right.

Friday comes, and the adhaan echoes, calling worshippers to prayer. Khadija and Halima pray side by side, both finding tears slip out as they wonder about their futures. They turn, seeing each other’s tears and comfort each other in an embrace. Out through the mosque doors they walk, and become strangers once more.

Beyond the Doors of the Mosque (Part 1)

Shoulder to shoulder, they stand in prayer. Yusuf and Akim, both in clean white kurtas smelling of itr. Their topi-covered heads are bowed slightly, as the Imam leads the Friday salaah. At the end, each man greets the angels on his shoulders, then turn to one another and embrace with a soft “Jummuah Mubarak.”

Yusuf collects his shoes and walks to his Mercedes Benz. He can’t wait to get home. Friday lunch is his favourite occasion during the week. His family is all together at home, and his wife saves her best culinary talents for today. He reaches out of the window and hands the car guard a R2 coin. He doesn’t look at the man’s face, but acknowledges his gratitude with a small nod. At home in Greenside, his family is waiting around the dining room table, a steaming pot of biryani at the centre of attention. His children, still in their school uniform, are playing with Snapchat filters on their mobile phones. The family sits to eat, together reciting the dua before eating.

Akim puts on his sandals, and turns towards home. He walks for half an hour, passing through a side gate, past the main house to the room in the yard at the back. His children come running to greet him. Akim’s eldest is still at school. He hopes that next year he’ll be able to send the other two to school too. They just need legal documentation, but when he goes to home affairs to add them to his refugee application file, he can’t afford the bribes and ends up wasting his whole day there. The family sits to eat, reciting the dua before eating. Akim’s wife has made pap and vegetables for lunch, and today they have some chicken with their meal. Afterwards, Akim hugs his family and goes to his next gardening job. In Rwanda, he worked as a teacher but xenophobia in South Africa has prevented him from pursuing his passion.

On Saturday, Yusuf takes his wife grocery shopping. His wife complains that things have gotten so expensive that they’re spending nearly R800 every week to feed their family of five. The family go out for supper at Spur in Rosebank.

Akim, too, takes his wife grocery shopping. They carefully choose their groceries, unable to exceed the R200 they’ve put aside for this week. This week, the cost of their items comes to R130. That evening, Akim takes his children to McDonald’s, as a special treat.

It’s the end of term and Yusuf’s children bring home stellar report cards, dripping with A’s, and he’s exceptionally proud of them. It seems that the extra tuition has paid off. He will make sure to continue this support throughout their education. He has high hopes for them, to become engineers or doctors. On Thursday evening, Yusuf stops at a red traffic light. He picks his phone up to flick through Whatsapp. Suddenly, his window is smashed. Glass flies in all directions and Yusuf instinctively covers his face. A hand reaches through and grabs his phone. Before he can react, the thief is gone, disappeared into the night. Yusuf’s wife cleans his cuts and complains about the crime in South Africa, that no one is safe from these thieves from the township. Yusuf shakes his head. At least you have your health, she says. He makes the intention to thank God tomorrow, at Friday prayers.

Akim’s eldest child has achieved a B in maths this term, and Akim is exceptionally proud of her. The idea of leaving her home alone to study on Sundays has really paid off. He has high hopes for her; perhaps he can find a better job so he can one day send her to university. On Thursday evening, Akim and his family are held up by robbers. Akim pleads with them not to take everything, they barely have enough as it is. They ransack his little home and find the cash saved under the mattress. After they’ve left, Akim tidies the room while his wife comforts the children. His wife complains about the crime in South Africa, and how they target non-nationals all the time. Akim shakes his head. At least they didn’t hurt us, his wife says. He makes the intention to thank God tomorrow, at Friday Prayers.

Friday comes, and the adhaan can be heard, calling worshippers to the masjid. Yusuf and Akim pray side by side, bow together, and greet each other as brothers. Out through the mosque doors they walk, and become strangers once more.

Understanding modesty – a look at Muslim men

I came across this Blog Post a week ago and thought it was a crucial read in the dialogue of an inclusive, equal and progressive Muslim society

What does modesty mean for Muslim men? How is it similar or different from Muslim women?

In the global dialogue about Muslims, the gender that suffers most is the Muslim men who garner distrust and suspicion from non-Muslims and seemingly lack attention in the Muslim community. Negative media portrayals of Muslim men have depicted them as oppressive forces who brutalize their women and kids and fail to extend equal respect and rights to the citizens around them. At the same time, they are also least defended and protected than the women in the Muslim world.

One of the most common questions raised by the non-Muslims is that ‘if a Muslim woman is mandated to wear hijab, then why is a Muslim man exempt from this obligation in Islam?’

The truth is that Muslim men are equally required to follow hijab.

The term “hijab” does not refer to a headscarf, but Islamically, in the broader sense, it encompasses modesty and chastity of men and women’s garments and guarding one’s gaze. Guarding one’s gaze refers to avoiding “checking out” the opposite gender, to walk humbly as not to attract any undue attention and to remain virtuous throughout life. However, society specifically attached the word “hijab” to a fabric that appropriately covers the head.

When following hijab, men are required not to wear tight and revealing clothes or behave in such a manner where they are sexually objectifying themselves. This is similar to requirements that must be upheld by Muslim women. Men are obligated to cover themselves from navel to below the knee. Though this is quite a loose definition of appropriate dressing, it is only allowed if there are no women present.

While a woman in Islam has a choice to earn money or not, men are required to financially support their families. The belly-button to below the knee dress code is tolerable in particular circumstances such as for a man holding a blue-collar job as he works under extreme dry temperature and heat. However, if a woman is working alongside him in this kind of terrain, he has to observe a strict dress code.

Men are to dress simplistically, so their clothing does not imply vanity and status of their wealth because pride and boastfulness are one of the biggest sins in Islam. Moreover, they are forbidden to dress like a woman. They also cannot wear gold jewelry or silk clothing while women face no such restrictions.

Another requisite is that men should lower their gazes when encountering a woman to avoid disrespecting her by having sensual thoughts of her. Most importantly, he is expected to be respectful to others, not only physically but also verbally, especially with the opposite gender.

Men are also mandated not to shake hands with women whom they do not have immediate familial relationships. For instance, mothers, sisters, wives and daughters are the ones a man can freely intermingle with. This practice is followed by some Muslims but not all. It does not mean that a Muslim man cannot talk to a woman at all. It is permissible as long as it is done in public with a respectful distance between their bodies, and the conversation has to follow the rules of modesty, without any inappropriate intentions on the part of either man or woman.

Many Muslim nations, such as Saudi Arabia, tend to have separate spaces for both the genders in public spheres. Because this idea of separate spaces is unfamiliar in the western world, the perceived reasons for it are often misunderstood. Separating spaces by gender is done to create a culture of modesty that coincides with Islamic belief. Religiously there are no pre-marital relationships or physicality between men and women and maintaining respectful space and distance is a way of maintaining Islamically appropriate interactions.

In regards to growing a beard, the situation is parallel to a woman wearing a niqab (the face covering). Some Muslims hold belief that it is at the discretion of an individual while others sees it as a compulsory form of hijab.

Another significant aspect of hijab is that men and women both have the responsibility to remain chaste before their weddings to maintain a healthy society.

So, although men do not wear headscarves, their hijab is parallel to women’s. Both men and women have equivalent obligations and duties to follow in regards to clothing, when socially encountering the opposite gender and guarding one’s purity until the marital vows. Islam by no means promotes or advocates sexism as it clearly states in the Qur’an that both the men and women are equal with comparable rights.

Source: Understanding modesty – a look at Muslim men

You are what you wear

Women have always been judged by what they wear. In our society, the less clothing a woman wears the more she is considered immodest and indecent. A Muslim woman in shorts is a social pariah. Clusters of women or gatherings of men will stop and stare and whisper about her. She is looked at up and down. People wonder of her upbringing. People think because she is uncovered, she is immodest and has lower standards of morality. People have this odd assumption that women alone must behave modestly.

On Wednesday, the article circulating of three armed men forcing a woman to remove her clothes on a beach in France shocked people into a semblance of humanity (Well, most people anyway). I think what was the most striking was that the woman on the beach could have been us. It could have been me; it could have been you. It could have been my mother or your aunt or our friend. Nobody should have to go through such humiliation and violation for the sake of their beliefs. But before we look at the French government with disdain, we need to understand that the amount of clothing a woman is wearing is not parallel to her morality.

As Sabeehah pointed out in her previous post, women are constantly being judged for lacking morality or in the case of France, having the wrong morals. It’s so easy for us to criticise the French for being intolerant and unjust. They prosecuted this woman for having the wrong morals. But we judge each other’s morals based on the amount of clothing we are wearing every day.

If a girl wears tight jeans and a scarf, she gets that disapproving glare and the “What’s the point?” comment. How idiotic. We can’t judge someone’s morality or virtue based on their clothing. That is quite superficial, if you ask me.

I imagine that the more clothes you wear, the more people label you as “holy” and have higher expectations of your morality. Perhaps they expect a woman in hijab not to have a boyfriend or not to listen to music or to always do what is right and acceptable. We can never win.

I get that in Islam women are supposed to act and dress modestly. But so should men. Why is this expectation emphasised and even imposed on women alone? A man should be covered from his navel to his knees in accordance with Islamic codes of modesty. A woman should cover her hair and conceal her body shape, only revealing her hands, feet and face.

However, a man whose shorts at Friday night indoor reveal his knees is not subjected to the same negativity as a woman in ripped skinnies. And that’s a double standard.

Asides from covering our body parts, both men and women are expected to behave with virtue, in a modest manner. So our modesty is supposed to be two-fold, both external and internal. But we can’t use external modesty to judge internal modesty. And we definitely can’t impose our own standards of modesty on a woman’s autonomy.

If we want France to recognise a woman’s autonomy and right to exercise religious freedom, then we should respect a woman’s autonomy and freedom to discover her religion at her own pace here as well. We must be careful of double standards of modesty. We should respect that every person is on his/her own personal spiritual and life journey. It is both unfair and unethical of us to impose our own ideas of spirituality and morality on other women.

We need to support each other and encourage each other on this crazy journey of life not point fingers and judge each other. Otherwise how can we grow in our faith, as individuals and as a community? Otherwise, what makes us better than the French government?

 A woman cannot still be judged by how much or how little she chooses to cover herself.

Look Out, It’s the Fashion Police

I don’t usually do fashion posts, but women’s clothing has been all over the media recently. And I know how difficult it is to find the perfect outfit, as a Muslim woman. Here’s a basic guide on how to dress, based on trends across the world over the past few years, complete with links to newspaper articles telling you exactly how and how not to perfect the latest looks:

If you want to cover up for comfort at the beach, you might just be forced to undress by armed police.

Maybe you fancy breathing fresh air, instead of being covered up in a burka – sorry, that could be a no-no, put it back on!

So you want to cover your legs at school… GASP, the audacity, you should be sent home!

Perhaps you reject ‘Sharia’ dress code as an arbitrary concept. Careful, you could be next in line for a flogging.

Alright then, you just wanna cover your face because you have an unappealing zit or personal morals. Your zit or morals could cost you up to £8000 in fines.

Okay, but your hair is looking fly today, so let’s have it drift in the wind a bit. Try not to end up in jail, hey?

Whether you’re in the East, West or somewhere between, if you’re a Muslim woman, I’m sorry to say, but you have no say in what you wear.

Your modesty continues to be a subject dictated, controlled, judged, imposed by men, without including you in the design, marginalising you from the discussion, and without your consent.

Apparently, the way you dress can influence people to be immoral, or its a manifestation of how you have the wrong morals.

Apparently your clothing is the voice of an entire religion of 1.6 billion people.

Apparently, if you’re not white, your choice of clothing is not a choice that deserves to be protected by those who fight for women’s rights.

I’m sorry to say, but you will continue to be policed, even by those who say they are liberators of women. Your nakedness is unacceptable. Hiding your body is unacceptable.

What are they really saying? Your choices are unacceptable. As a woman, your choice is invalid and will be corrected – by extremists of terror and by extremists of law.

Woman, if you’re covered, if you’re bare, if you’re loud, if you’re silent, if you’re strong, if you’re weak, you are unacceptable.

You, woman, are unacceptable.

Pockets of Patriarchy

I was people-watching at a function a couple of weeks ago (this is a wonderful cure for boredom) when something quite disturbing occurred to me.

There is a clear separation of men and women at functions. I’m not necessarily talking spatial or physical separation where men and women are divided by a parda (curtain) but rather an idea of separation that we act upon. And we are expected to perform our separation by not interacting with the opposite sex and enacting traditional gender roles.

In the one area, generally the lounge, the men laugh loudly and watch the sport on TV. They smoke cigarettes and speak politics (“This country is going down”, “Zuma is corrupt” blah blah blah) and maybe a few football transfers (because being a man means your opinion that Pogba guarantees Man United the Premiership, the Champions League, and even the Superbowl is completely valid). It is an unspoken rule that a woman is not allowed in the space unless she is serving tea and snacks.

In another area, generally the kitchen, the women speak quietly and giggle coquettishly. They make and drink tea – debating how much elachi (cardamom) should go into the pot. They speak about this-and-that: recipes, the latest scandals, who died/got married and how to perfect winged eyeliner (admittedly a riveting topic). It is an unspoken rule that a man is not allowed here unless he wants a glass of Coke.

Now, hold up.

When did this become the norm?

When I was little, I followed my dad everywhere. I would pretend I belonged wherever he went. This meant that more often than not, I crossed that imaginary boundary and got to hang with the guys. This is how I developed an interest in politics and current affairs and a love for football. Now I’m not saying that other women don’t have these interests, but at functions these conversations are generally dominated by men.

Then suddenly, I was about 13 or 14 and relegated to the kitchens. I was baffled. The kitchen was a whole other dimension that I had to learn to navigate. Baking bored me. How to tie a turban-style scarf was lost on me. Talks about impending marriage annoyed me. And I certainly didn’t care about so-and-so’s neighbour who ran away with a Pakistani guy.

I usually end up smiling and saying “Jee, jee” (yes, yes) to everything.

But the worst was learning to balance and carry trays of hot tea to-and-from wherever the men were sitting like some sort of glorified waitress.

“Oh Shaazia, you forgot the biscuits.”

As a woman, I am expected to know the art of small talk. I’m supposed to compliment someone’s shoes. I’m supposed to make and serve the tea. I’m supposed to make as little noise as possible. And I reject that. I can’t be turned into a little mouse in high heels every time I’m at a function because that’s my role as a woman.

And I reject these little pockets of patriarchy. Where a man’s opinion on world politics and football is more valid than my own. Where a man gets to laugh and gesture and generally make noise. Where a man is served food and drink at his leisure.

These pockets of patriarchy (Ha! Guess I coined a term there) create exclusion and separation. They force us to perform traditional gender roles. (They force me to serve the tea! ) They stifle growth and learning from interaction and broader conversation.

And man, I would love to correct some of those uncles’ conceptions of world politics and the South African socio-economic condition.

 

If You’re From Africa, Why Aren’t You Black?

I will never ever forget a conversation I had with a classmate, when I first started university in London. It was at a welcoming event for the first year law students. We were milling around outside the lecture theatre, making conversation in that awkward state between “OMG-I-need-friends” and “Geez-Play-it-cool.”

The population of England includes Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi immigrants as well as their first, second and third generation descendants. Most have kept their language, culture and traditions, even still referring to themselves as Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi, despite the fact that many were not born in those countries.

…it was not surprising to me that it was assumed that I too belonged to the Asian diaspora.

Now if you’ve met me in person, you’ll notice that due to my ancestry, I have brown skin, and features akin to those from the Subcontinent. I also have a strange accent common to third-culture kids (as one girl from my International High School described it, “It’s a mix of American and British, with a bit of wherever your parents are from thrown in”). I could have passed for someone born and bred in London. And so it was not surprising to me that it was assumed that I too belonged to the Asian diaspora.

So this girl I met asked me, “Where do you come from?”
I replied, “I’m from South Africa” and she looked confused.
“But you sound English” she stated, and I told her that I’d spent a significant part of my childhood growing up in London.
“But were you born in South Africa?” she asked, and I said, “yes.”
“So, where are your parents from?” was her next question.
“They’re also from South Africa.”
“And were they born there?”
“Yes, they were,” I replied.
“So… where are your grandparents from?” she asked.
“Well, three of them are South African and my grandfather was born in India, but moved to South Africa when he was 10 years old, and never left.”
“Oh, so you’re Indian,” she concluded.

I had sensed that throughout our exchange, the question she really wanted to ask was similar to what Karen Smith asked Cady Heron in the legendary film, Mean Girls:How could I, someone from Africa, look so much like her, someone born in India and living in England?

The point of this post is not to critique anyone’s innocent ignorance, but more to demonstrate a difficulty I have had with the term “Indian” as it is used in the South African sense. In SA, the use of the racial identifier “Indian” stems from apartheid, as a term used to separate people by their skin colours. Many Indians from India had come to South Africa over time, first as indentured labourers and thereafter as business-people. Fast-forward to today, South African Indians have developed into a social group on their own, with different culture, food and traditions than their Subcontinent ancestors. Many have held on to the languages, but other than that few similarities remain. Except, of course, skin colour and facial features.

I remember, in England, filling in an application form looking like this:
And thinking, I fit in none of these boxes.

Living in Europe, “Indian” meant something completely different to what it meant in South Africa. At university, I came into contact with the term “brown” – and I felt like I finally found a term to describe my physical identity. It’s a term to describe my skin colour, but also I think it allows enough room to encompass my culture, which includes elements of Indian, but cannot be described entirely as such.

But yeah, when I’m overseas, being asked this question of “Where are you from” means that people who’ve just met me get a detailed history of my life story and ancestry. And in South Africa if I don’t refer to myself as Indian, it’s not because I am entirely rejecting that part of my identity, but rather because I feel that “brown” gives me the room to define who I am on my own terms.

Mama knows best

In honour of Women’s Day this past Tuesday I decided to do a tribute to the first woman I have ever known – my mom. I think it’s safe to say that her chastisements and praise, her mistakes and triumphs, have shaped me into the woman I am today.

Even though my mom and I are as different as two people can be, I learned countless  habits, mannerisms and traits from her – that are both conscious and subconscious. Of all that I learned from my mom, here’s what I consider the most important:

1. Diplomacy

My mom is the greatest diplomat in the world.

I’ve seen her solve conflict between my siblings and that’s as close to World War III as it gets. I remember telling my mom about fights I had with my cousins or friends or group members. It would always annoy me that she never took my side. She would painstakingly (and exasperatedly, I might add) help me consider everyone else’s point of view so that I would understand the situation better. This taught me to always see every side to a story. Some people may call this being a fence-sitter or non-committal, I call it being wise and showing diplomacy.

2. Compassion and kindness

My mom always tells me, “Shaazia, you can do anything you want with your life. But whatever you do – remember to serve humanity.” And that, folks, is why I studied Humanities.

My mom is also the first to donate unwanted clothes or items to the less fortunate (Despite my brother’s vehement protests that we can sell them on OLX or Gumtree). My mom is kind to everyone no matter who they are, what they do or where they come from. And kindness is so underrated in today’s world.

3. Religion

Before any Madressah (Islamic School), any Apa and any Moulana (religious scholars/ teachers), before Nouman Ali Khan and Yawar Baig, there was my mom. She taught me my Kalimahs (prayers said before bed), Surahs (verses from the Quran) and how to perform salaah (prayer). She taught me Islamic values and my identity as a Muslim. I watched her wrap a scarf around her head and attend all my awards ceremonies, speech contests and sports matches. She went into predominantly non-Muslim spaces and she was proud to be Muslim. So I was too. I don’t think we give enough credit to Muslim women as scholars and teachers when the most prolific and influential beacons of Islam are our own mothers.

4. Being yourself

Something I admire most about my mom is that she is so utterly herself. In a world where coveting YouTube vloggers and reality TV stars is a thing, in a world where everyone wants to be Beyoncé and anyone who’s anyone has Kylie Jenner’s new lip-kit it is so easy to lose your true essence. I have never seen my mom imitate anyone. Not her sisters who are both blonde and favour brighter shades of lipstick, not her own mom who is the most spontaneous 70-something year old I’ve ever known, and definitely not any superficial celebrity. And as much as I beg my mom not to wear my dad’s over-sized sweaters with her jeans – I kind of admire that she won’t let anyone tell her how to be herself.

5. Knowing right from wrong

My mother is my conscience. I remember the film Pinocchio about the wooden puppet who had a tiny little cricket in a top hat,  Jiminy Cricket, as his conscience.

If I had to have a visual representation of my conscience – it would be mom in her headscarf (probably with her slipper in her right hand). It started with her giving us big eyes when we grabbed too many sweets while out visiting and escalated to her nudging me when she can see I’m going to regret what comes out of my mouth next. I remember her telling me not to do ABC because DEF would happen. Of course, I would go on to do ABC and be shocked that my mom had predicted DEF.

Nowadays, I have just accepted that my mom knows everything.

They say that every woman’s greatest fear is one day she will open her mouth and her mom will come out. I don’t think it would be such a bad thing if that ever happened to me.

From the left: Rezwaana (sister), my beautiful Mom and me (1997).

Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

How many times have you (as a South African Indian Muslim) been at a family function or a braai or just sitting at the supper table, and heard the words “It’s this government, they’re no good.”

That’s a phrase usually heard in relation to some negative aspect of our country, including service delivery, bad infrastructure and, the absolute ultimate favourite, corruption.

It’s no secret that misappropriation, misdirection and misuse of government funds is crippling our nation. From schools to the Presidency money is disappearing, limiting the effectiveness of government’s functions. And so, a favourite topic of discussion amongst South Africans, and particularly SAfrican Indian Muslims (SIMs), is how much of a disappointment our government is.

Oh, the irony.

So…. when SIMs fail to declare cash income thereby avoiding taxes
– it’s okay!

When SIMs slip R2500 under the table for a driver’s license
– it’s okay!

When SIMs have been caught speeding or driving without a seat belt and they choose to quench the thirst of the JMPD officer –
it’s okay!

Now what do all of these actions have in common?
a) They’re all things we often hear SIMs doing
b) They’re all very very illegal
c) If government officials were caught doing these things, I have absolutely no doubt we’d hear the Uncles making a big hoo-haa about it.

It’s funny that Muslims wanna preach honesty, and wanna say “Don’t follow false leaders” and “what has our government ever done for us?” But they kinda do the same things as our corrupt leaders. And above that, corruption is so so so haram!

I guess there’s nothing I can do except keep wearing out people’s ears telling them not to engage in corruption. And I think I need to be braver in pointing out people’s hypocrisy. But in the mean time, when those Uncles wanna talk about Nkandla while handing R500 to the Home Affairs Officer, I’ll be graciously generous with my “unimpressed” face.

Single, not ready to mingle

My cousin is getting married on Sunday and as excited and ecstatic as I am for her, I dread the actual function a little. The old aunties are going to pounce on me like the last cupcake at the tea table. I already know the questions I will be asked: Shaazia, when is your turn? Do you also have a special man?  What about Yusuf with the red bow tie and the beard? (He’s from such a good family Masha Allah.)

Nobody will consider that I choose to be single.

Despite how conservative our society is, it is considered an anomaly to be single. It seems as if by being single, I am in some way admitting that I am not beautiful/smart/ decent enough to attract a nice, handsome boy from a good family.  But what I have found – through conversation and interaction – is that more and more women are unable to find suitable partners (especially from within the Indian Muslim community we are brought up in.) It seems that the more educated or independent women are, the more difficult it is to find a suitable partner. And we are experiencing a drought in suitable men, let me tell you.

Now you might ask why it is that I am confined to my religious and cultural community? I am not necessarily but I’ve always been advised by my elders not to marry outside these boundaries. Apparently differences between two people are so immense as it is that when you add different cultures/customs/traditions to the mix it gets all the more complicated. And you don’t want to end up like Aunty Aisha’s daughter from Laudium who married a Moroccan guy and got divorced in two weeks! Personally, I think all relationships require a degree of compromise and that as long as two people share values, cultural difference doesn’t matter. But what do I know?

I find it near impossible to identify with the Indian Muslim men I have encountered. And maybe I haven’t tried hard enough but I’m not out here trying to find a partner for the sake of not looking desperately single or to appease the swarm of aunties at family functions.

It seems that the Indian Muslim men I encounter are interested in a combination of five things:

1. Cars. Of which I know nothing. And I refuse to watch Top Gear.
2. PlayStation/ Gaming. I have tried to be interested in gaming but I end up pressing all of the buttons at once and getting extremely frustrated.
3. Football (or other sport). Now admittedly I love football but continuously talking transfers and tactics can bore even the most avid Giroud fan.
4. Business/ Money Making Schemes. If you ask me how much turnover I think Krispy Kreme in Rosebank makes, I might puke.
5. Sneakers/ Brand Names/ Things. I could not care less about how your cousin Moe has fake Yeezys. Or how you bought your whole outfit from Diesel. Like, do you want a round of applause or something?

It seems that the art of meaningful conversation is lost. Where are the guys who can speak about ideas ? (ideas on who is winning the Premier League next season do not count)  I’m not asking him to have a Master’s Degree. I’m not asking him to quote Fanon/Proust for me. I’m not even asking him to join me on my quest to dismantle the heteropatriarchy, misogyny, capitalism and racism. Although the above would be nice.

I just want him to take cognisance of himself and his purpose in the world. I want him to have ambition and care about issues. It would be nice if he read a book once in a while and knew what was happening on the news. It sure would be dandy if he could talk about more than the above mentioned five topics. (Not that these men do not exist – I have friends and family who have found them – but they are a rare and endangered species.)

There you have it. My little rant about why I continue to choose singledom. So yes auntie, my turn will come. I don’t know when or how soon but I have faith. And no, I do not have a special man but I know he’s out there somewhere. He’s probably conquering the world as we speak. And really, I don’t care that Yusuf with the red bow tie and the beard also drives a GTI and is looking to settle down. But thanks anyway.