Veiled Perspective

It's an issue in current French politics and debated within muslim and non-muslim circles alike. It's an enigma to cultures in which it is not common and a constant in those in which it is required. It's alternately fashion and conformity, a freedom and an oppression.

Veiling - the body, hair, face -for religion and modesty.

Controversial at times but, like many things that spur controversy, it also has a light side.

We were told when we arrived that wearing local dress here (Abbaya - the black dress, Sheila - the black headscarf, Burka - the veil draped across the partial or entire face) was disrespectful, unlike in Iraq or Saudi where it is required that all women be covered. So, we have observed the distinction from a distance.

Last week I got a little dose of the veiled perspective.

An Omani friend of mine, M - a sweet, smart, fun-loving and slightly-rebellious young woman with a searing sense of humor and amazing grasp on both English and its social intricacies and slang (she says she learned most of her language from listening to pop music) decided to take us on an outing.

She brought us to her house and dressed us in the garb...this time with the burka, which she wears when going out. The first time I met her mom, in fact, was just after I'd been dressed up like a true American girl doll, a life size Barbie for her to play with (she'd had to help fix my hair, drape the sheila, arrange the burka and re-drape the sheila over it). I was embarrased to meet her this way, but she just laughed. M then decided that I must be Saudi, not Omani, since I was so light-skinned. I had my identity (though I'm not sure I can live up to that!).

Then we headed out - first to the souk (traditional marketplace) then to the mall.

I continued to feel uncomfortable, even behind all the disguise of my person. No one could see anything more than my toes and my eyes, but I was convinced they could see through me. It started in the tailor shops where we purused new Abbayas. The women who usually never turned an eye to me looked to size me up like I was a new pledge in consideration during rush week. Was the sheila draped well? My hair big enough? My hem long enough? The design stylish enough without being too flashy?

Then, the surprise at the mall. Men, even, men who looked through me - a western woman - while I was dressed in my efforts at respectful costume (long pants, long sleeves, hair up), looked me up and down, sizing and re-sizing me beneath the yards and yards of drapey black fabric, usually not quite making it to the eyes. Some turned to follow us for a moment or whispered into friends' ears or their ubiquitous mobile bluetooth earpieces. They tried to conceal devilish smiles as they glimpsed toes or fingers (some women even wear gloves, making the flesh of a hand quite tantalizing).

When we got to the restaurant, the waiters didn't speak to us directly, but instead only to our other friend, who had declined the offer of local dress for the evening. We were offered menus in Arabic and a slight bow with each departure from the table.

It was exhilirating and curious to be so hidden and afforded the luxury I feel I don't really have here - to observe freely (although not the men. Keep the eyes down when it comes to approaching males otherwise, M says, "It doesn't matter if I'm looking away from them, they think it's an invitation or something." This with an eye roll and in her loathing tone regarding men and marriage).

It was also exhausting - keep the sheila draped so no hair is showing, the burka in place, hold the folds of the fabric so you don't trip but not high enough so that anyone can see anything, look down, sit gracefully - not to mention hot!

I think the most striking instance of the evening was when we'd gotten in the car to head home. My sheila had been nearly blown off in the parking lot and the burka was askew. With the sky darkening, I was less careful about maintaining my decorum and I tore off the scarf and veil and began to rearrange myself in the vanity mirror. Something moved in my peripheral vision and I instinctively glanced over. I found myself staring straight into the disbelieving eyes and gap-mouthed face of a local cabbie. I realized my situation (playing a muslim, middle eastern woman) and grasped for my sheila with a squeal, ducking below the window to toss it carelessly over my hair and face quickly and staying there until the traffic light changed and the scandalized poseur was separated from her shame.

To this man, what he'd seen was something akin to making a quick-change in the car back home and being caught. I let myself slip for a moment and, "bang," I'd just crushed my still-young reputation. I apologized to M, assuming I might have tarnished her as well, but she was just laughing hysterically, which she continued to do until Celine Dion came over the speakers, at which point she started signing along to the brazen lyrics, "If you touch me like this, and I kiss you..."

I succumbed to my own laughter and then joined in.