To Lift Off My Veil (1)

Anyone who has personally met me, or seen a picture of me knows that I wear "hijab", that I cover my hair and dress "juba", an Islamic costume quite popular in Iraq, Syria and Turkey.

I started this fashion choice when I started intermediate school. It was not a voluntary choice, but a family tradition that I started willingly to please my parents (by "willingly", I mean that took the initiation of wearing hijab before I was told to do so, because I wanted to show my parents what a "good daughter" I was.

There were times in the last 23 years (I started wearing hijab when I was 13 and now I am 36) when I felt tired, weary and suffocated because of that piece of fabric covering my head; there were times when I felt that it covered my beauty and turned me to hideous creature that no one would ever admire or fall in love with. But I survived all those times of feminine ego stigmatization and grown used to my appearance that even when I had a chance to free myself from the veil in a country where no one would judge me, I felt discomfort and preferred my usual self which took me almost quarter of a century to know and get used to.

Today, I have no complaints against my appearance or where I want to dress and how I wish to look. I feel quite comfortable, safe and at home with the veil covering my hair. There are even increasing occasions when I feel that I have convenient fashion choice: the veil saves me valuable time when I get ready for work in the morning (no need to comb my hair, or worry if it gets messed up in windy or rainy days), the dress also grows part of me because today Turkish Islamic designers provided me with wonderful choices for my over-weighted body.

But to cover my head is not the only thing a Muslim society demands from me, as Muslim woman. I heard all my life people prescribe to me how women should behave, act and talk in public so that I give the image of a "good girl", to be labelled "well-taught" and be the pride of my family. I need to be timid and obedient and do everything my parents, my brothers (the men of the family), ask me to do. I should be well-trained in house chores: knows how to cook and make the house clean as if it is brand-new place. I should not talk in a loud voice, nor laugh (giggle) in front of guests or they would think of me as too forward. I need to be timid in front of males, in the hope some male think of me as a good future-wife for himself, his brother or recommend me to any other male acquaintance he knows.

My education was the fancy wrapping for the commodity in display. In modern society, an educated woman is in demand, not because she would have the brain to lead a fruitful discussion with her husband, but because her education will help her in her expected role as a mother, helping the kids she will have in their homework; she will be good companion in social gatherings and make her husband proud in front of his friends and acquaintance. An educated woman today is in demand as a "trophy wife" in a society that started to awaken new from its rural backgrounds.

However, as an educated woman, I need not to be too educated: I need to know how to read and write but I should not have an intellectual voice of my own, or an opinion that may go against established institutions in Iraqi society.

If a man speaks some doubts against religion, he would be considered confused, lost and in need of guidance to restore his wandering soul under the turban of religion. But, when a woman poses the same kind of thoughts she is deemed as fallen, immoral, and needs to be beaten, imprisoned to force the demon who possessed her out.  

When I started my paper on Anne Sexton, and read of American women struggle in their "patriarchal society",  I felt like telling these women "are you kidding me"? If their social rules considered "patriarchal", undermining female roles and suppressing their feminine identity, what can they say about Iraqi society with its dominant Arab-Islamic traditions? If women living in the western world are struggling against patriarchy, then I and my peers of Iraqi educated women are dead and shrouded under veils of social convenience and "Islamic identity".

Later, I read her poem "Housewife". Then it hits me: an American woman fifty years ago lived our situation. She had the choice to live on her own, to choose her husband, to travel, and to be model if she wanted, but still she knew what was meant to be a woman in a society where "men enter by force". She knew the curse of being our mothers, and continue the role that we never wanted.

But that was half century ago, I thought. I read poems by her and her contemporaries of feminist and thought in envy that their situation is in the past, that women in the west got rid of their veils, and exposed defiantly their individuality for everyone to see. The more I read of their bold oppositions and rebellion against the limited role assigned by the masculine society, the more I grow convinced of my need to live there, and lift off the veil that shrouded for long the freedom of my mind.

My excitement, however, was shattered away by Anne-Marie Slaughter who told me that "Women Still Can't have it all". When I came across this article, I thought what they still can't get there? They can do anything I can imagine without being stopped or judged. I read her article out of curiosity and heard in the words of this high-profile employee in the State Department the frustration of my sisters and colleagues who sacrificed great career to take care of the family. In her words, I read the regret of every career woman who missed the chance to enjoy family life because she wanted to pursue her career, and sacrificing in the way the years to find a husband or raise a family.

Her situation is not alien to me, nor mine is to her. Our grievances are one and so are our dreams. Although, she did not have to wear veil, she didn't have a father or husband who marked for her the way she would take in life, and she were not buried under the turban of some sexiest man who diminished her to a number of four for her husband, still she  had to sacrifice a dream job to take care of her teen boy. Like all women of all colors and attires, she and I accommodate our dreams and fail our potentials to settle for a reality drawn by someone else.   

Nadia F. Mohammed 

Experimenting with Poetry

Couple of days ago, I was tired, depressed and felt like exploding. Nothing particular was happening, but sometimes when the mind is too tired to play games of distraction, to push away thoughts of frustration, I find myself sinking again in that reality I am trying my best to ignore. I find myself too exhausted to keep myself busy from thinking where I am heading, and how tomorrow is going to be.

At such times, when inner pain becomes unbearable and the scream inside become too intense to mute, I try to take it out in words, and write it down in a poem. This time, this came along:

A scream too loud to be heard

By a noisy world, occupied somewhere else,

Repressed by a tear struggling invisibly to fall,

Unnoticed by surrounding multitudes!

Words fail to evolve, phrases of alien language;

Minutes and hours elapse in futile emptiness.

And thus days, months or even years pass by

Shouting in silence of mysterious pain.

I liked it; I liked the elliptic phrases and the poet in me, who is pushing her way hard to emerge, felt proud. However, when I showed this poem to my friend, she didn't sound to be so happy about. Since she knew what it was all about, as she had good idea what was troubling me, most of it at least, she knew where my pain came from, and why this scream. She reproached me for always writing about the same theme with different words.

With such criticism, the poet in me felt mad, not at my friend as much as at that self-pity which I always let it take the best in me. She was right in her view: I always take this pain, and the ache inside as my theme that it sounds like the only thing I can write about. This is not how I want it to be, for I know that poetry can be created from wide range of feelings and wider range of thoughts. I realized then that if I ever wanted to be a poet, then I had to let my words experiment with different experiences, different images and different worlds. The pain that dominated my writings before will never disappear; it is there in me, eating my happiness away when I am too exhausted to resist, or maneuver. Yet, I need to find different channels for it, and different domains.

The result of this resolution, if it is such, the following poem I just thought of. It is about a strange woman I met in the bus that took me from the gate of the prosperity camp to the US embassy.

Yesterday, in my way toward New World, taking the first stressing steps of paper work

I found it again that I had magnet for weirdoes to jump in-

To my life and fill it maybe with more action that I have already on.

In a crowded bus, a middle-aged woman told me next her to sit

And I complied…

Dragging my large square purse, my books, and my heavy coat…

With excitement clumsy I walked, toward the seat she wanted me to sit on

Heavily dressed, heavily burdened and heavily weighted, I tried the chair to occupy

But mess I made:

Papers fell around, purse loose on the ground; I planted my elbow against the woman's side

She expressed her annoyance but I tried to smile: nothing would ruin this excitement,

Nothing would have me frown.

A Lebanese living in Iraq she was, having all her kids abroad.

A son she had, as she kept on telling me, working engineer in the wealthiest city of the gulf

He was in Dubai and now searching for a bride…

Tired of fooling around with "easy" girls, she went on, time to have a family around…

That was my cue to shut my interest in humanity down

No more weird stories burdening my brain, no more aches for the mind,

It had to stop, I told myself, and with half smile, half bored look

I turned my face to other side.

Nadia F. Mohammed

      

       

 

          

Workshop and Poem: Blue Dairy

Yesterday I attended a poetry workshop with some of my students with the movie maker and poet Roland Legiardi Laura, the director of To Be Heard movie. It was one of these times that I felt alive, and there is nothing in this world could defeat me.

Roland asked the entire attendants to grab a piece of paper and a pen and start writing, just like what he was doing in the movie with the high school students. We all did what he asked us to do; for me such an exercise was the utmost joy. I was simply to grab a paper and pen and start writing; no subjects were wanted, nor there was lack of words. I had many in my mind and all I had to do was to decide on which I would focus at that moment.

I have fascination for books, old books; dairies left on the shelves, and tell a story of forgotten past. When it happens that I re-arrange my desk or bookshelves, and then my hand lies accidently on something I have forgotten it is there, I feel excited to see parts, images or words of what I used to be.

I had a blue notebook that I turned into a diary some years ago. It carried between its leaves some of my old ramblings about life, family, college and other things. When I tried to read some of its pages once, I was scared to know that some of my troubles today have been always troubles to me even back then, when I was in my twenties and a whole lifetime was still ahead of me. I whined about them and still I do. I didn't like that. The realization that struck me then that I was entangled in the same web I was in for many years now; that I was not brave or determined enough to let go, and live the present; that I never nourished hope, nor I thought of better life, as if I was in love with my own sadness, with that self-pity that filled these old pages and still feed on the new ones! I didn't dare to read more, but the realization kept pressing its truth on me: that I had tendency to be sad and I kept myself well in this atmosphere.

In yesterday's workshop, while thinking of what subject I should try, I remembered this small incident, and how deep it influenced me. Thus, words started flowing to portray my wondering at the moment I discovered this diary.

Cleaning the desk of useless papers,

Accumulating in heaps over my desk,

I find a drawer at the bottom,

Stuck, resisting my invading hands

With persistence, I conquered its contents,

To find a book covered with dust.

For how long it has been there? I wondered;

The dust speaks of years of neglect.

Will I dare disturbing its peace?

Will I disturb the silence of its yellow leaves?

Can I share their hidden secrets?

Would they allow me to shake off their isolation?

I wanted to remove the old grains

To let the blue shine again

But my hands stopped at the grey cover

I got scared ...

Nadia F. Mohammed

 

             

              

Upon Reading Poetry Blog

To Stephen Pentz, http://firstknownwhenlost.blogspot.com/

I was searching for a poem by Louis MacNeice, "Selva Oscura" when I come across an amazing blog of poetry in which many poems are posted with few lines in comment on them and their meaning. Being that passionate about anything related to poetry, I kept browsing the blog and its informative posts and it hits me: how come i have never done that before?

The blog is not maintained by poetry professor, nor by some critic; Stephen Pentz, the blogger, is actually a retired attorney who sounds well-read in modern poetry. What actually made me wonder while i browse his blog is that how come in my blog I never thought of doing the same? Why I waste my posts on ramblings over what happens with me, which, let's face it, is not that much or unusual, and I can't even talk about it in clear terms, and had always to hide it!! If i don't want to talk about my life, then I should not rather than confuse whoever reads my posts with obscurities to protect my privacy.

Poetry has been always close to my heart; it never fails to express me, whether it is written by me or by someone else. The words I read in a poem feel like wings carrying me light to another world: crystal clear world where I can see truth, about me and others. However, I failed to pay poetry its due; for I never commit myself to writing the way I should be if I want to evolve as a poet, nor I commit myself to poetry studying if I really want to be expert critic. Even when it comes to the simple activity of reading poetry, which is essential to anyone who dreams of being a poet or a critic, or even a poetry teacher, even this simple activity couldn't find enough attention with me. I lagged behind my reading, writing and study, indulged in self-pity, and remorse over spilled milk, fears of future that hasn't come yet and a tomorrow that no one has a guarantee for.

But this blog enlightened me to what I need to do, to channel my emotions in a favorite river: poetry, and let it speak for me. I have read many poems that touched me with its universality, and depth of meaning that no matter what are the circumstances surrounding its writing in the first place, these poems have evolved into a life of their own, a life that can relate to its readers' perception of their words.

Is this a New Year resolution? Or another task that I try to keep myself distracted with? I really can't tell now, but all I can say that I have found something to fill in a long-time blank hole inside, and it is just about time to be occupied with something fruitful. 

Nadia F. Mohammed     

Seeing Things: Reality of My Own

This is my tenth year teaching undergraduate students in the department of English language. Majored in English literature, I spent the last decade of my life discussing and arguing about novels, poems, plays and literary theories written in English with students who barely know how to read this foreign language. Teachers of conversation, comprehension and grammar suffer with students who hardly manage to pass their classes; however, I get into their classes afterwards demanding from my students to read literature written with such figuratively sophisticated language that dazzle many professional critics.

When I think of my job, and contemplate what I actually do, I realize that I am either a dreamer, who has no grasp of the reality of things, or I have such perverse personality that finds happiness in the misery of others; for I am sure my lectures are pure torture for most of these poor learners!!

With the hope that I am not the second possibility, and that I still retain some symptoms of humanity in me, which I assume still exist regardless of what I have seen in my life, I can myself a dreamer, or an idealist who can't see reality as it is, rather as it should be. I live inside my brain, with my own inventions, expectations, and dreams rather with the actual events around me. I always tell my students that they have to do this, should be that…etc. I never actually accepted the reality of things, never accepted their low level of English, or the fact that not everyone is passionate about literature the way I am.

My escape from reality has been always a trait in me since childhood. I find this reality that surrounds me sterile, dry, and also suffocating; there is always something missing from this reality, and above all, it is something that I can't really control. Thus, whenever an opportunity for imagination, expectation, or invention of events, I go ahead, and grow attach to a reality that I have invented myself. Maybe this is why I am so passionate about literature, for the world created in those novels is a world I can see all its dimensions, nothing is mysterious to me, and if I don't like how things are going on, I can just close the book and move to another world, or another novel.

That wouldn't be a problem if I didn't have so many disappointments in life, but how can I avoid that since I create my own trap and fell into it?!!

My real problem is that I can't help it: I can't hold off my imagination from creating possibilities for tomorrow, I can't stop it from drawing my future with number of seniors, even if all the possibilities I put ahead are far-fetched! In simple words, I can't stop dreaming, nights and days, even most of my dreams will never come true, but still, my mind will continue creating new worlds for me, hoping that one day, maybe, one of them will hit reality at the end.

Nadia F. Mohammed