A recent BBC article claims that 1 in 3 people in the UK support a ban on the face-covering veils worn by traditional Muslim women, while 6 out of 10 support a ban on veils in airports and customs.
Muslims point out that the figures reflect the media’s portrayal of the veil itself. In essence, the article implies that most Westerners are incapable of distinguishing between the hijab, kimor, al-amira, shalya and chador (veils which cover the hair but allow facial exposure) and the niqab or burqua (which conceal not only the hair but the feminine face as well).
Frankly, I live in a world in which a face is a more powerful identity than a name. Our identities are frequently stolen, easily changed, easily fabricated and easily sullied. Our faces? Their power lies not merely in the name that accompanies them, but also the facial gestures in which our personalities reveal themselves, the years that age us, the degree of emotion and openness we are willing — or not so willing — to reveal to unnoticed observers.
I would not wear a veil. My ability to connect to my fellow humans is dependent not on my sex but on the individual who resides within me, regardless of the genitalia God chose with which to adorn my body. I do not have this kind of strength, the power to stifle the voice that lies within me, the power to understand more than I am allowed to express. The part within me that initially reacts is American, and by that I mean it is my automatic, ingrained respone to claim that our identity resides in the face we present to everyone, strangers as well as our intimates.
This is what Americans pride ourselves on: that we hold nothing back of ourselves, not even our most heartfelt opinions, and we expect others to not merely recongize this but reciprocate in kind. Tell an American woman, like me, that we must cover that most unique part of ourselves — our faces — and our American instinct not only rebels but demands liberation for ourselves and all other women.
Even so, my soul does not have a national identity, and by that I mean that I am accountable to my God for every moment I am granted to breathe. My soul does not know whether to support the ban.
But there is so much behind it, so much more tradition than our 200+ year-old country took into account as we wrote the documents upon which our government rests. There is the concept of true intimacy, and boundaries that separate that kind of knowledge from what a passing stranger should know of us. There is the notion of modesty, yes, even of sin. Some things should be held back, some line should be drawn between the selves we present to those licensed to know us truly and deeply and those who have not earned that right.
Most of all, however, I balk at the ban. I cannot help but see this response — particulary from those in the U.S., a country founded upon tolerance for religious diversity — as hypocritical at best. How can we claim to not merely tolerate but welcome differences while retreating to the comfortable, faceless guise of “national security” as a justification for trouncing the religious beliefs of others? How can we insist that others meet our security-centered demands without realizing that we are pressuring them to choose between their own reasoned approach to God and our politics du jour?
Who wears the veil: those who have openly donned it in support of their religious convictions, or those who set aside their religious beliefs at the dictate of their temporal, personal safety?
I am not wise enough to understand this, but one day I hope to be.
