I heard someone call out, “Excuse me,” and I thought, “Oh, someone wants to talk to me. No one ever wants to talk to me at the mosque.” So I turned with a smile.
A lady in abayah, a total stranger, comes up to me, grabs my wrist – not gently either, but firmly (YO, PEOPLE, LEARN NOT TO TRIGGER OTHER PEOPLE WITH YOUR BODIES. BACK OFF, AND DON’T GRAB OR I WILL SLAP YOU. No joke.)
Then she grabs my nice three-quarter length sleeve, and tugs it down, snapping irritably, “You must cover!”
In that instant, I responded physically and emotionally. Because how many times has this happened in the past?
Well, listen, girls. I am now almost 50 years old. I am not playing nice anymore. Enough is enough.
Shabana Mir. Source: Supplied
I tugged my arm away from her, and snapped sharply, with my palm out at her in a back-off gesture: “I’M FINE. I am just FINE.” Then I pointed to the heavens and said (she’s not a native English speaker):
“Your heart. It’s about your heart.” I was trying to remind her that we were in a place of worship and prayer, and that she had her focus all wrong.
But then, as I took a step downstairs toward the lobby, I stopped and thought, “No, it’s not just about your heart. It’s about bodies too. And she needs to learn to respect bodies.”
As she walked away, I called out to her – just as she had called out to me. She stopped and turned, just as I had stopped to listen to her, unaware of what was to follow. And I said, nice and audible: “And don’t grab my arm again. OK? Do NOT touch me again.”
Her eyes darted, shame colouring her face, as she realised other people could hear me. I am not embarrassed anymore. But if you grab me, I will embarrass you.
Why can’t people respect each other’s bodies in holy places of prayer and contemplation?
Why don’t women (especially women, who must go through life with their women’s bodies) realize that grabbing and stop someone to tug their clothes is unacceptable?
Mosque communities can preach to Muslims to attend and participate.
But if every aspect of this space triggers women negatively, there is no way women will attend. Teach your congregants better. Respect others’ bodies.
As my husband and I exited, a big man in a nice heavy coat was parked in front. He asked my husband for money. Then he parked himself in front again, in the line of worshippers, confident, begging for cash.
A panhandler who’s probably not even a mosque attendee doesn’t have to shrink and hide. Because he’s a man.
Three weeks in a row I’ve been going for Friday prayers at the mosque. I’ve been trying to be mosqued again.
“Get off your butt and get involved,” I’ve inwardly yelled at myself for years. “How can you complain when you don’t involve yourself?” Everyone who watches the film Unmosqued tells us this, at all those community assemblies, where the imams and directors say, “Dear sisters, how can you change anything if you don’t come?”
It’s a familiar cycle. I go to juma; I end up feeling bad.
I stop going. Then I feel like bad for not going.
My husband went with me these Fridays too. He just goes in, prays, and leaves. He’s not aware of anything but stinky socks near him. “As usual,” he said, with sad empathy, “I blend right in.” He knows how much I need to belong at the mosque for prayer, and I am perpetually denied.
I lug my body around – my woman’s body.
I am conscious of all parts of my body as if they were 500-ton breasts, a 900-ton vagina, 1000-ton buttocks, and 20 tons of hair on my head.
I am conscious of all parts of my body as if they were 500-ton breasts, a 900-ton vagina, 1000-ton buttocks, and 20 tons of hair on my head.
After my encounter with that woman, I’m aware of my wrists and ankles too now. I’m triggered.
Two weeks ago, at a local mosque for European Muslim immigrants (Mosque A) I found there was no space for women. I wasn’t a category. I parked myself in the corridor to pray.
Then I went to another last week, a Turkish-speaking mosque, (Mosque B) and was in a no-sightline balcony. All I saw was a chandelier. I stayed in the hidden balcony for the sermon.
There were no other women. Then I figured, the main prayer space was only about 10 per cent occupied anyway; surely there’s room for me. So I hurried down for the prayer, putting myself carefully in an unobtrusive corner. I’ll be here, guys; I won’t bother you or contaminate you.
But then I thought afterward: “If I go back and do the same thing, will they ask me to retreat?”
I don’t know for sure. If they do ask me to go back to the balcony, I’ll be shattered again. So maybe I won’t go back. It’s a calculation.
A sightline-balcony is an effort to do an “at least.” At my third week’s Friday prayer, at a desi/Arab large mosque (Mosque C) when I entered the women’s area, my first thought was, “Oh, hell, no” as I saw women sitting in a closed little room with no visual access to the congregation and imam, listening to audio of the khutbah.
But then I followed the staircase to the balcony.
From this balcony, I could see the imam and the main congregation (because, well, the men’s congregation is the main congregation, right? That, in itself, tells me something about my value as a worshipper). I have a sightline to the imam and the rest of the prayer area, for two structural reasons: a) the balcony isn’t so high as to make visual access to the lower musalla impossible (last week’s mosque balcony was too high, so I could only see the chandelier) and b) the balcony is headed by a glass wall, not concrete/wood.
But wait! Fear not: the glass is one-way. No men may sneak a peek into crowds of abayah-clad grandmas. Phew.
Last week, at Mosque B, I could see the chandelier, and if I really peeked over the wall, I saw the balding heads of men. (Caution: very sexy heads).
So, a recommendation for new masajid: if you really don’t want an inclusive main musalla big enough to accommodate women, – which is what you should have – think about a low balcony with a glass wall. But what you should aspire to is a prayer hall inclusive of women. And late-comers, both men and women, can go to the overflow room, wherever it is. I’m tired of this argument “Well, the male congregants grew in number, so we had to relegate the women to a back room or a balcony.” No. Latecomers of all genders can go to the overflow.
But at least at Mosque C, I could see the imam through a one-way glass.
I am no fan of At Leasts. I don’t want to attend your At Least Mosque. I don’t want my daughter to attend your At Least Islamic Centre. I don’t want her thinking of herself as an At Least. I want her thinking of herself as enough. In charge. and the last thing I want is for her to think: as soon as I enter a mosque, through a process of awful magic, I turn into an At Least person. It’s supposed to be the opposite. A mosque community is where she’s supposed to feel more than, not less than other places.
But at least (see? ) I have a place to occupy in Mosque C, compared to Mosque A. Even if it’s a place that tells me I must be hidden away, I must shrink. An assigned place, right?
But shrinking and hiding are triggering.
Shrinking and hiding in hidey-holes remind me of awful situations.
Like listening to a man beating his wife in a room, as I hammered on the door outside to stop him. Like locking a door and standing outside it with another woman, as a man hammered on it, threatening to hit both of us.
Like standing at a bus stop, shrinking into a corner, hoping the men won’t stare or grope at me. Like being in an alley-way, as a drunk guy yelled misogyny at me. Like shrinking in silence after a shoe salesman groped my 12-year old body.
Shrinking and hiding are not benign things. They are triggering. And calligraphy on the walls doesn’t make them better.
And what’s more triggering is when someone – male or female – confronts you and your body, touching it without permission, with demands to cover it or hide it.
When I entered the mosque (Mosque C), on the bright side (we look for bright sides) we entered together. Small victories and At Leasts, right? We go in through the same entrance – and I realised how much of a difference that made to me, that I can occupy the same spaces as the men.
My husband and I walked in together.
It was a political sort of day, as [US politician] Toni Preckwinkle was in the lobby, introducing herself as contesting the Cook County Board president position again.
So women were present in the lobby at tables and booths.
This made a difference later, as Ms. Preckwinkle was introduced via microphone and she spoke to the entire congregation. Lucky you, I thought to myself.
(But she’s non-Muslim, so she’s free. Like Angelina Jolie was.)
I’m all upset now. My heart is disturbed.
All my struggles through my life, carrying a woman’s body around, have rushed back to me. The threat, the ever-present threat of being grabbed, of being invisible, of being hurt, are back again.
I swear, I have been trying these past few weeks to return to being mosqued.
My efforts are waning and my heart is weeping.
Dr Shabana Mir is an academic and author of Muslim American women on campus. You can follow her on her blog koonj.
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