Sugar and Spice

As I said, the girls at the school in Sharjah were another kettle of fish entirely. Just for starters, their uniforms made a statement. While the boys wore grey trousers and white shirts that would have fit in anywhere, the girls wore ankle-length grey skirts and long-sleeved white blouses.

The first thing they wanted to know about me was my religion. People in Muslim countries can conceive of many, many things they’ve never seen, but a person without a religious affiliation is inconceivable, probably because, for most, faith is the cornerstone of existence.

Since I’m a person of strong belief but not a follower of any specific Christian religion, I floundered a bit, knowing it was paramount to give an honest answer. Before I’d done more than open and close my mouth a couple of times, they decided I was a Christian, on what basis I’m not sure. It was a label I could live with, though. Raised in the United Church of Canada, I could comfortably fall back on its tenets without feeling like a fraud. I kept my more unconventional beliefs to myself.

Unlike the boys, the girls were eager to talk about themselves. The diversity in Islam became immediately apparent. Some girls wore headscarves (hijab) because their families required it. Others were permitted to choose. Still others, while devoutly Muslim, didn’t wear them at all. I don’t want to – and can’t – generalize but, among the girls I taught, the ones who didn’t wear hijab were mainly from Iran, which they referred to as Persia, and Afghanistan; the lack of head covering was a political statement – a protest against the current regimes and a claiming of their right to go bareheaded, a right they can no longer claim at “home.”

I moderated lively discussions between the girls who didn’t wear hijab, by choice or family tradition, and those who did. The ones who didn’t said prescribed clothing, headscarves in particular, limited their freedom and marked them as different. The insisted behaviour was more important than what a person wears. The girls who chose hijab tended to be passionate about it. You should be proud of your faith! Covering your hair, wearing loose-fitting, unrevealing attire means no one will ever look at you as a simple sex object. You’ll be a person in your own right. Flaunting your body sends the wrong message to the world! Reserving a closer view of your body deepens the special bond that should exist between husband and wife. Failing to be modest means you’re rejecting one of the major aspects of Islam for women and jeopardizing your right to be treated with respect by all men.

The girls from more conservative families and the sheikh’s daughters (who wore black abbayas instead of the school uniform) didn’t often contribute to these discussions. In their writing they indicated that, other than coming to school, they didn’t have any activities because their fathers were “very strict with girls.”

One day – I forget what we were reading – it may have been Wuthering Heights – the subject of suicide came up. I mentioned that, in Christianity, suicide is a mortal sin.

“It is in Islam, too, Miss,” came the immediate response. “The Quran says killing another person can sometimes be okay – maybe in certain wars or special circumstances, but killing yourself is never alright. It’s throwing away Allah’s gift of life.”

I paused for a moment, wondering if I could ask the question that sprang naturally to my mind.

“In the West,” I said carefully, “We’re told – we read – that suicide bombers believe they’re going directly to paradise. Part of the reason for their actions, in fact, is this belief. Is there an exception somewhere in the Quran? A different interpretation?”

A short silence ensued. Complete silence – and this was a giggly, chatty group of 32 girls. At last Basma spoke up. “No, Miss, there’s no exception. Suicide is forbidden. And those bombers are wrong if they think Allah will reward them for killing all those people and themselves.”

No one disagreed. Several heads nodded reluctantly. From this class of articulate and opinionated young women came not one word of dissent. I stored away what I’d learned, along with a lot of new questions.

The girls’ homework paragraphs, too, revealed a world I’d never considered from the safety of my Canadian fastness. Noor’s first memory was of being airlifted out of Kuwait by the UN during Desert Storm. Within the space of a mere four hours, Amna’s grandfather, a prominent Iraqi businessman, was tried and hanged by Saddam Hussein. Sana worried there would be nothing left of Afghanistan for her to go home to when the holidays rolled around. Aisha wrote about going to Jordan and hiring a taxi to take her family through the “back door” to her ancestral village in Iraq. She described cowering in a ditch with her sisters while soldiers passed by. My eyes were being opened wider and wider.

In the senior girls’ class we studied Tess of the D’Urbervilles. I pointed out that, in its day, the book was remarkable for making Tess a sympathetic character despite the fact that she’s a “fallen woman” who engaged in sex outside marriage. It also subtly addresses the 19th century idea that woman who “fell” were doubly bad because of the possibility they might actually like sex. In the Victorian Age, good women most emphatically did NOT like sex. It was an unpleasant duty of marriage.

A silence fell – one of the sort I was beginning to recognize.

“Women have needs, too, Miss.” Rula spoke into the silence.

“We acknowledge that now,” I said, “But not during Tess’s lifetime.”

“In Islam,” Mehak remarked, “Husband and wife have a duty to please each other. This can be found in the Quran.”

“Queen Victoria,” I said, “Famously told married women they should ‘close their eyes and think of England.’”

Howls of laughter erupted. Apparently I’d said the funniest thing ever.

I found the girls’ attitudes and pronouncements about sexuality and their roles as woman both refreshing and revealing. I appreciated the window they opened on mainstream Muslim culture and belief. I’m not trying to say ‘ta DAH – behold Islam in all its wisdom and purity.’ Islam is as varied and complex as Christianity – or Judaism for that matter. I’m aware that the persona a student presents in the classroom is sometimes a facade. I know teenagers can be experts at covering inner despair. I’m not saying that the statements and conclusions expressed during our discussions should be taken at absolute face value or used to make sweeping generalizations about the Muslim world. I know there’s always a dark side.

I do say, however, that they represent a point of view that couldn’t – and wouldn’t – be taken seriously in a Western high school classroom – perhaps in a private Christian school, but certainly not in any school where I ever worked. They demonstrate the importance young people place on Islam and on morality. They show Islam as a living and vibrant faith, a very positive aspect of everyday life.

Then there were my colleagues. Like the students, they came from a wide variety of disadvantaged and war torn countries, adding to the school’s truly international flavour: Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, Iran, Kuwait, Palestine, India, Egypt, Algeria, Greece, Turkey, Nigeria, Bangladesh, Russia – the list of nations rolls on like the pages of a gazetteer riffling in a bitter wind.

I may introduce others later, but I want to round off this post with a portrait of Nadia. I met her one morning while I was crossing the lobby, an atrium-like space full of sunlight and the twitter of caged birds. Lines from the Quran, etched in elegant Arabic script, shimmered golden from the shadowy corners.

We smiled at each other. “Hi, I’m Annie from Canada. Where are you from? How’s the start of your year going?” I asked.

“Iraq.” Her face crumpled, tears spilled over and words poured from her like lava. “I got out last March, just before the war started. I arrived at the border with my children – all we had was the clothes on our backs. Alhamdalillah we made it. You see, I lost a baby during Desert Storm and I just couldn’t go through that again. I couldn’t let my children go through the bombing and the shooting. But I had to leave my husband behind. I don’t know where he is now. I haven’t heard from him for two weeks.”

The only way I could respond to her pain was to meet it and join it. “I know what it’s like to miss your husband,” I said, my own tears rising to thicken my voice. “Mine died very suddenly, in China, on the day the war in Iraq started.”

It was one of those moments of sudden, intense intimacy that are hard to describe. We fell into each others’ arms and shed hot tears that trickled down our necks as I moved deeper into the landscape of loss.

Live on, survive, for the earth gives forth wonders. It may swallow your heart, but the wonders keep on coming. You stand before them bareheaded, shriven. What is expected of you is attention.

Salman Rushdie