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Published: March 24th 2007
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I’ve been chatting with a
CouchSurfer in Damascus, a young musician and self-described “tree-hugger” who claims that she’s “all about serving Creator.” Sara offers to hook me up with a friend in Amman, a Palestinian who, she suspects, can tell me a thing or two about life in Jordan. We exchange a few friendly emails then chat one night on Yahoo! Messenger. She wants to know if I have any questions about Islam, eager to clear up any misconceptions. I make plans to meet her at a café in Abdoun, which has grown as cozy as my living room sofa in the past week. She agrees and then adds before signing off, “btw, i’m 17” - the sort of line that makes you wonder just what sort of dirty-old-man vibes you’ve been giving off in an apparently innocuous exchange.
The next night, when she shows up at the café, she’s wearing a boxy coat and a
hijab chastely covering her hair. Close behind is a plump, rosy-cheeked woman and a stern man whose face suggests it’s been registering different degrees of disapproval since the ‘70s. If there’s anything stranger than arranging a coffee date with a 17-year-old girl on the Internet, it’s having her parents show up to chaperone. They soften as we exchange handshakes, their eyes expressing gratitude, I suspect, that I’m neither foaming at the mouth, perusing the Torah, nor rubbing my crotch against the tablecloth. Diana smiles primly, her sweet, round face almost eerily at peace with itself. “Whenever you are ready, we can begin,” she says matter-of-factly, as if we’d arranged this little sit-down to go over my write-offs on last year’s tax return.
She’s a sharp, thoughtful girl, her brow wrinkled with an earnestness that only boundless youth can supply. Her parents listen and nod and confer silently with their eyes, the night undoubtedly providing plenty of dinner-table fodder for the days ahead. “What do you think of Islam?” she asks, slightly crestfallen to find that, as with certain ex-girlfriends, if I think of it at all, it’s with great fondness. There’s a sense that a better answer would’ve revealed unreachable depths of ignorance, certain dark corners of the heart that only the light of faith might illumine. Eager to appease, I observe that many Americans, perhaps, have gotten the wrong impression from the news, and there’s a grumbling around the table about “the media” that seems to redeem the belief that there’s plenty of work to be done.
We tread lightly on the fragile ground of sex and relationships, while Diana’s father - who’s proven to be a mild, good-humored guy - fools absolutely no one with his aloof I’m-just-smoking-
nargileh-and-minding-my-own-business routine. Admittedly, this would make for an awkward talk in most American households. But Diana admirably holds her own. She talks about saving herself for her future husband (approving nods), about the
hijab as a symbol of her faith in God (rapturous nods). “Woman is God’s treasure,” she says, her eyes shining, “and the
hijab protects her and keeps her safe.”
It’s a point I’m not so quick to concede. I allude to certain questions about freedom, and the well-worn argument that the
hijab is just a symbol of sexual suppression in the Arab world. “This is another misconception,” she says. “Woman must wear the
hijab. According to the Koran, she must. But she doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to.” Grasping the rather obvious incongruities here, she tries again. “She can wear the
hijab or not wear the
hijab. No one will force her to wear it if she doesn’t want to. But the Koran says she must. But she doesn’t have to.”
It’s a tough argument to follow, and Diana’s growing flustered as she tries to explain herself. Citing the examples of Erasmus, Luther and other eminent religious skeptics, I offer a cogent rebuttal:
“Huh?”
We start again from the beginning. Diana carefully lays out her argument. “It is not up to us to judge, if a woman does or doesn’t want to wear the
hijab. No one can force her to wear it.” I ask if she considers a woman a bad Muslim if she doesn’t wear the
hijab.
“Of course not. Not at all,” she says. “Many of my friends do not wear it. No one can force a woman to wear it. But she will be punished for it later,” she adds significantly, alluding to the heavens with her eyes.
We’re only dancing around what I see to be the root of the matter here: the tangled web of sexuality in the Islamic world. It’s one thing to argue that the
hijab will help ward off the lustful impulses of the admittedly lustful men around you; it’s another thing entirely to wonder whether the
hijab itself - and the moral code it embodies - doesn’t make for the sort of unhealthy, repressed environment where you might just need to be protected. But how do you broach that subject with a pious 17-year-old? In front of her doting parents, no less?
“Boy, Mr. Nassar, I bet most young guys are ready to hump a table leg if they’re not married at my age. Can you pass the cashews?”
Certain questions, unfortunately, will remain unanswered. We talk a bit more about Diana’s studies, and her prospects for university next year. She’s near the top of her class - a fact both parents note with eyes alight - and hopes to study biology. Unless she changes her mind. She shrugs, smart enough to know that most of the important decisions are years away.
Her father hands me his card as we make our way to the car. He owns his own business, in heavy machinery; there are cartoon drills and circular saws snarling from the front of the card. I wonder if there’s some cryptic message being sent here, an allusion to the fate that might befall a nosy American who pries a bit too much into the sex lives of adolescents. But he pumps my hand warmly when we get to the hotel, and Diana and her mother beam from the backseat, waving with their faces pressed to the window.
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