”I don’t wear the niqab because I don’t think it’s necessary,” says the woman behind the counter in the Islamic dress shop in east London. ”We do sell quite a few of them, though.” She shows me how to wear the full veil, I pay my £39 and leave with three pieces of black cloth.
The next morning I put on the black robe, or jilbab, which zips up at the front. Then the long rectangular hijab that wraps around my head and is secured with safety pins. Finally the niqab, which is a square of synthetic material with adjustable straps, a slit of about 15cm for my eyes and a tiny bit of netting, which I assume is to let some air in.
I look at myself in my full-length mirror. I’m horrified. I have disappeared and somebody I don’t recognise is looking back at me. I cannot tell how old she is, how much she weighs, whether she has a kind or a sad face, the length of her hair. She doesn’t look right in a terraced house in west London. I’m so taken aback by how dissociated I feel from my own reflection that it takes me more than an hour to pluck up the courage to leave the house.
I’ve never worn the niqab, the hijab or the jilbab before. Growing up in a Muslim household in Bradford, northern England, in the 1970s and 1980s, my Islamic dress code consisted of a school uniform worn with trousers underneath. At home I wore the salwar kameez, the long tunic and baggy trousers, and a scarf around my shoulders. My parents only instructed me to cover my hair when I was in the presence of the imam, reading the Qur’an, or during the call to prayer.
Today I see young Muslim girls shrouding themselves in fabric, talking about identity, self-assurance and faith. Am I missing out on something? On the street elderly people stop dead in their tracks and glare; women wait until you have passed and then turn round when they think you can’t see; men just look out of the corners of their eyes. And young children — well, they just stare, point and laugh.
I have coffee with a friend on the high street. She greets my new appearance with laughter and then honesty. ”I can tell you’re nervous. I can hear it in your voice and you keep tugging at the veil.”
The reality is, I’m finding it hard to breathe. There is no real inlet for air and with every breath I exhale my face gets hotter. The slit for my eyes keeps slipping, so I can barely see a thing. Throughout the day I trip up more times than I care to remember. As for peripheral vision, it’s as if I’m stuck in a car buried in black snow. I can’t fathom a way to drink my cappuccino and when I become aware that everybody in the coffee shop is wondering the same thing, I give up.
At the supermarket a baby takes one look at me and bursts into tears. I move towards him. ”It’s okay,” I murmur, showing him the only part of me that is visible — my hands — but it is too late. His mother has whisked him away. I don’t blame her. Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored refrigerators, I scare myself. I’m stuck looking aloof and inhospitable.
I’ve arranged to meet a friend at the National Portrait Gallery in central London. In the 15-minute walk from the bus stop to the gallery, two things happen. A man in his 30s stops in front of me and asks: ”Can I see your face?” ”Why do you want to see my face?” ”Because I want to see if you are pretty.”
Before I can reply, he walks away and shouts: ”You fucking tease!” Then I hear the loud and impatient beeping of a horn. A middle-aged man is leering at me from behind the wheel of a white van. ”Watch where you’re going, you stupid Paki!” he screams. This time I’m a bit faster. ”How do you know I’m Pakistani?” I shout. He responds by driving so close that when he yells, ”Terrorist!” I can feel his breath on my veil.
Things don’t get much better at the gallery. I might as well be one of the exhibits. As I float from room to room, like some apparition, I ask myself if wearing orthodox garments forces me to adopt more orthodox views. I look at paintings of Queen Anne and Mary II in extravagant ermines and taffetas, their ample bosoms on display. I look at David Hockney’s famous painting of Celia Birtwell, who is modestly dressed. And all I can think is that if all women wore the niqab how sad and strange this place would be. Vain as it may sound, I miss seeing my own face, my own shape. I miss myself. Yet at the same time I feel completely naked.
The women I have met who have taken to wearing the niqab tell me that it gives them confidence. I find that it saps mine. Nobody has forced me to wear it, but I feel like I have oppressed and isolated myself.
Maybe I will feel more comfortable among women who dress in a similar fashion, so I visit those parts of London where there a large number of Muslims. Not one woman is wearing the niqab. I feel like a minority within a minority. I head to the Central Mosque in Regent’s Park. After three failed attempts to hail a black cab, I decide to walk.
A middle-aged American tourist stops me. ”Do you mind if I take a photograph of you?” I think for a second. I should say no, but she is about the first person who has smiled at me all day, so I oblige. ”You must be very, very religious,” she says. I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I just walk away.
At the mosque, hundreds of women sit on the floor surrounded by samoosas, onion bhajis, dates and Black Forest gateaux, about to break their fast. I can’t believe it — I am the only person wearing the niqab. I ask a Scottish convert next to me why this is.
”It is seen as something quite extreme. Allah gave us faces and we should not hide our faces. We should celebrate our beauty.” I’m reassured. I think deep down my anxiety about having to wear the niqab, even for a day, was based on guilt — that I am not a true Muslim unless I cover myself from head to toe. But the Qur’an says: ”Allah has given you clothes to cover your shameful parts, and garments pleasing to the eye: but the finest of all these is the robe of piety.”
I don’t understand the need to wear something as severe as the niqab, but I respect those who bear this endurance test — the staring, the swearing, the discomfort, the loss of identity.
I wear my robes to a friend’s for dinner. ”It’s not really you, is it?” she asks. No, it’s not. I prefer not to wear my religion on my sleeve, or my face. — Â